Harper POV
The elevator ride to my suite feels different this time—charged with possibility instead of nervous energy. He stands beside me, close enough that I can feel the warmth of his body, but not touching. The silence between us isn't awkward; it's electric, full of unspoken promises and shared anticipation.
"I should probably warn you," I say as the numbers climb higher, "I've never done anything like this before."
"Like what?" His voice is soft, amused.
"This. Any of this." I gesture vaguely between us. "Bringing a stranger to my room. Being... spontaneous."
The elevator dings softly as we reach the penthouse floor. He turns to face me fully, and in the golden light, his eyes are warm and serious.
"We don't have to do anything you don't want to do," he says quietly. "We can just talk. Or I can leave."
But that's the thing—I don't want him to leave. For the first time in months, maybe years, I feel truly alive. The careful, planned version of myself that Marcus loved is nowhere to be found, and in her place is someone braver, someone willing to take risks.
"I don't want you to leave," I admit as I slide my key card into the lock.
The suite looks different with him in it—more intimate somehow, despite its size. The floor-to-ceiling windows that frame the Vegas skyline seem less like a barrier between me and the world and more like a private viewing box for our own personal show.
"Jesus," he breathes, taking in the space. "This is incredible."
"Right?" I kick off my heels, immediately feeling more grounded. "I've never stayed anywhere like this. It feels like I'm playing dress-up in someone else's life."
"Maybe that's exactly what you need."
He moves to the window, hands in his pockets, and I watch the city lights play across his face. There's something about his profile that makes my chest tighten—the strong line of his jaw, the way his hair curls slightly at the nape of his neck, the careful way he holds himself like he's used to being watched.
"What about you?" I ask, moving to stand beside him. "Is this your real life or your dress-up life?"
He's quiet for a long moment, considering. "I think this might be the first real moment I've had in years."
The honesty in his voice makes something flutter in my chest. I turn to study his face, and when he meets my eyes, I see my own longing reflected back at me.
"Would you like a drink?" I ask, suddenly nervous. "There's a full bar, and I have no idea what half the bottles are, but—"
"Harper."
The way he says my name stops me mid-sentence. It's the first time he's used it since I told him at the bar, and it sounds different in his voice—softer, more intimate.
"Yes?"
"Stop planning. Stop thinking ahead. Just... be here. With me."
It's exactly what I need to hear. I take a deep breath and let myself really look at him, at this beautiful stranger who somehow knows exactly what I need.
"Okay," I whisper.
He moves closer, close enough that I have to tilt my head back to meet his eyes. "What do you want to do?"
The question is simple, but it feels revolutionary. When was the last time someone asked me what I wanted without having their own agenda? When was the last time I even knew the answer?
"I want to dance," I say suddenly, surprising myself.
His eyebrows raise. "Dance?"
"I know, I know. There's no music, and I'm not very good at it, but I just... I want to move. I want to feel free."
Instead of laughing at me, he pulls out his phone and scrolls through it until soft jazz begins to play from the suite's hidden speakers. The same kind of music that was playing in the bar downstairs, but somehow more intimate up here.
"Your wish is my command," he says with a smile that makes my knees weak.
He holds out his hand, and I take it without hesitation. His palm is warm and slightly rough, and when he pulls me close, I fit against him perfectly. We sway together slowly, and I close my eyes, letting myself get lost in the moment.
"You're a good dancer," I murmur against his chest.
"My mother insisted on lessons when I was younger. Said it was important for a man to know how to lead."
I can hear the smile in his voice, but there's something else there too—a hint of the weight he mentioned earlier, the expectations that shaped him.
"Are you close to your family?" I ask.
His hand tightens slightly on my waist. "Sometimes I think they love the idea of me more than the actual me."
I know that feeling. I spent three years trying to be the woman Marcus wanted, shaping myself around his preferences until I forgot what my own looked like.
"I'm sorry," I whisper.
"Don't be. Tonight I'm not their son or their heir or their disappointment. Tonight I'm just... me."
He spins me gently, and I laugh as my dress flares out around me. When he pulls me back, I'm breathless and dizzy and more alive than I've felt in years.
"Who are you?" I ask, not meaning his name but something deeper.
"I'm someone who's been waiting his whole life to feel this free," he says simply.
The song changes to something slower, more intimate, and we barely move now, just holding each other as the city glitters below us. I can feel his heartbeat against my cheek, steady and strong, and something inside me settles.
"This is nice," I breathe.
"Just nice?" There's teasing in his voice, but when I look up at him, his expression is serious.
"It's perfect," I correct myself. "It's absolutely perfect."
That's when he kisses me.
It's soft at first, tentative, giving me time to pull away if I want to. But I don't want to. I want to lose myself in this moment, in this man who sees me as I am and wants me anyway.
I kiss him back, and it's like coming home and running away at the same time. His hands thread through my hair, and I press closer, wanting to memorize every detail—the way he tastes like whiskey and possibility, the way his breath catches when I nip at his lower lip, the way he whispers my name like a prayer.
When we finally break apart, we're both breathing hard.
"Harper," he says, and there's a question in his voice.
"Yes," I answer before he can ask it.
Making love with him is nothing like what I expected. It's not the frantic, desperate coupling I thought a one-night stand would be. Instead, it's slow and deliberate, full of wonder and discovery.
He worships my body like it's something precious, tracing every curve with reverent fingers, pressing kisses to scars and stretch marks that Marcus barely seemed to notice. When I try to turn off the lights, embarrassed by my imperfections, he catches my hand.
"I want to see you," he whispers. "All of you."
And for the first time in my life, I let myself be truly seen.
He tells me I'm beautiful in a voice rough with desire, and I believe him. When he moves above me, inside me, his eyes never leave mine, and I feel connected to another person in a way I never knew was possible.
Afterward, we lie tangled together, my head on his chest, his fingers tracing lazy patterns on my bare shoulder. The city lights cast shifting shadows across our skin, and I've never felt more content.
"What are you thinking about?" he asks softly.
"How this doesn't feel real," I admit. "Like I'm going to wake up and be back in my old life, planning other people's parties and pretending everything is fine."
"Maybe that's why it's perfect," he says. "Because it doesn't have to fit into your real life. It can just be what it is."
I lift my head to look at him. "And what is it?"
"Magic," he says simply. "Pure, impossible magic."
I kiss his collarbone, tasting salt and warmth. "I don't want morning to come."
"Then let's pretend it won't."
But morning does come, of course. I wake up in his arms as sunlight streams through the windows, painting everything gold. He's already awake, watching me with an expression I can't quite read.
"Hi," I whisper.
"Hi yourself." He reaches out to tuck a strand of hair behind my ear. "How do you feel?"
"Different," I say honestly. "Good different."
We both know what we're not saying—that this is over, that we have to go back to our real lives, that whatever this was between us exists only in this room, in this moment.
"I should go," he says quietly, but he doesn't move.
"I know."
"I don't want to."
"I know that too."
We lie there for a few more minutes, memorizing each other in the morning light. Finally, he sits up, running his hands through his hair.
"I need to ask you something," he says, and there's something careful in his voice.
"Okay."
"Can we not... can we keep this just ours? No names, no phone numbers, no promises about what happens next?"
Part of me wants to protest, wants to demand more than this perfect night. But a bigger part of me understands. This was beautiful because it was separate from everything else, untainted by the complications of real life.
I agree. "Just this."
He smiles, and it's sad and grateful at the same time. "Just this."
I watch him get dressed, memorizing the way he moves, the way the morning light catches in his hair. When he's fully clothed, he looks like a stranger again—someone who belongs in a different world from mine.
At the door, he turns back to me. I'm wrapped in a sheet, my hair a mess, probably looking nothing like the sophisticated woman he met at the bar.
"Thank you," he says softly. "For last night. For being exactly what I needed."
"Thank you for seeing me," I reply.
He hesitates for a moment, like he wants to say something else, then simply nods. The door closes behind him with a soft click, and I'm alone.
I wait until I hear the elevator ding before I allow myself to cry—not from sadness, but from the overwhelming beauty of what we shared. I get dressed slowly, putting on yesterday's clothes and trying to figure out how to carry this experience back into my real life.
Before I leave, I stand at the window one more time, looking out at the city where I learned how to be brave. My reflection stares back at me, and I look different—more confident, more alive.
I pick up my heels and walk barefoot to the door, carrying them like a talisman.
"Goodbye, whoever you are," I whisper to the empty suite.
The elevator doors close, and I descend back to reality, changed in ways I'm only beginning to understand.