Mirela

Stepping out of the sleek black car at the elaborate entrance of the most expensive hotel in Las Vegas, I adjusted my scarf with practiced precision.

The sting of Louis’s slap still lingered on my cheek, the angry red mark now hidden beneath layers of silk.

I couldn’t risk the media spotting me like this; one wrong picture, and I’d be the subject of endless gossip columns.

Louis had mocked me earlier, saying Eric should see it - that Eric deserved to know someone else had claimed me.

I wouldn’t give him that satisfaction.

With my personal assistant trailing behind, arms loaded with my essentials, I walked into the...