Chapter 1 — The Heiress of the Strip
The night didn't begin with trouble. It began with diamonds.
Arianna Vautrin sat at the vanity in her penthouse suite, scattering necklaces across glass like spilled constellations. Outside, the Las Vegas Strip pulsed in electric colors, a neon ocean stretching past the horizon. It was a view people paid fortunes for; for Aria, it was just another window.
In the mirror she saw what the city always saw: the prettiest problem money could buy.
"Pick one," Sienna said from the sofa, legs crossed, her sequined dress shimmering like she'd been poured into it. She tapped a stiletto against the floor, impatient. "And make it the one that makes people cry."
Aria held up a diamond choker, tilting it under the light. "This one will do. Let them weep."
She fastened the clasp with practiced grace, but her phone buzzed on the table, dragging her eyes to the glowing screen:
RICHARD: We need to talk in the morning. No excuses.
Her father always texted like he built skyscrapers—blunt, immovable, impossible to ignore. Aria swiped the screen dark without replying.
By the time the elevator opened into the private garage, Sienna had mapped out the night: cocktails at Aurelia's rooftop bar, baccarat at the Monarch, then a hush-hush party behind a club that didn't believe in closing hours. Velvet ropes, photo ops disguised as "candids," and the kind of decadence that blurred into dawn.
"Manifest it," Sienna sang as the driver held open the black car's door. "Luck, love, and more luck."
"Luck, love," Aria echoed, sliding into the leather seat, "and a little numbness."
The Strip flared alive outside their windows—billboards promising paradise, fountains leaping like prayers. Aria pressed her hand to the glass, watching the city's pulse beat faster than her own.
The rooftop bar at Aurelia didn't feel like a bar at all. It felt like a magazine ad pretending not to notice its own perfection. A live DJ spun old-school R&B under a glass canopy. The desert stretched endless and black beyond the skyline, as if the city had bargained itself from nothing.
"Two French 75s," Sienna told the bartender, tossing her hair. "And a bottle for the table."
Aria leaned against the railing, the city shimmering below like a jewelry box cracked open. Mini versions of herself moved along the streets—girls in borrowed gowns, painted lips, chasing a high that glittered only until daylight.
Her phone buzzed again. She didn't look. The first sip of champagne prickled through her, loosening the invisible buckle around her ribs.
"Cheers to bad decisions," Sienna declared, raising her glass.
"To not remembering them tomorrow," Aria added, clinking crystal.
It never took long for the men to notice them. It was part of the ritual, like smoke curling in a casino. A man with a hedge fund smile approached, teeth too white, stubble too curated.
"You two look like trouble," he said.
Aria didn't bother turning. "We're a public service announcement," she said, voice smooth as silk. "Use caution around heavy machinery."
Sienna giggled. The man grinned wider, oblivious. The bottle arrived, more toasts followed, and the night tilted on its axis. Someone mentioned a terrace off the terrace where you could watch planes descend, their bellies catching neon.
Aria drifted through it all with practiced detachment. This was the dance: drinks, compliments, blurred promises. She'd long ago learned how to smile without meaning it.
The party behind the party didn't have a sign. Just a steel door painted the color of smoke and a bouncer with a scar like punctuation across his cheek. Sienna whispered a name, pressed a folded bill into his palm, and the door swung open.
Inside, the air dropped ten degrees. A violet glow painted the low ceiling. Black-and-white tiles on the floor made it feel like walking through a funhouse. A saxophone tangled with bass so deep it rattled the ribs.
"Now this," Sienna purred, "is Vegas."
Aria let herself drift into the current. Strangers brushed past, perfume and sweat mixing into something intoxicating. Someone placed a crown of LED lights on her head, crooked and glowing. She didn't fix it. She wanted the halo to stay crooked.
"Princess!" a voice boomed behind her, warm and ridiculous.
She turned to find a man with a jacket two sizes too big, a tie too short, and hair styled like it had lost a bet. His grin stretched ear to ear.
"Who—" Aria began.
"Rat," Sienna supplied, kissing the air beside his cheeks. "Resident lunatic."
"I contain multitudes," Rat declared happily. "Welcome to the kingdom."
"The kingdom?" Aria echoed.
"Where rent is low and the vibe is high," he said with theatrical flourish. "First rule: don't touch the art. Second rule: if you see a raccoon, let it dance. Third rule: if you hear thunder—well, that's just God complaining about his luck."
Sienna laughed, used to his nonsense. Aria couldn't help it—she smiled, too. Rat's eyes, sharp despite the chaos, zeroed in on her.
"You're the princess, aren't you? The runaway headline. Daddy's little skyscraper darling."
Aria stiffened. "I don't know what you're talking about."
"Relax," he said, waving a hand. "I don't sell gossip unless someone pays me a lot. Kidding. Mostly." His grin widened. "You got any gum?"
She blinked. "No."
"Shame." Rat clapped his hands once, loud. "Then dance! Pretend the sky isn't made of concrete."
Music surged. The crowd cheered for no reason, which was the best reason. Aria let herself be tugged forward, her heels catching the light like sparks. For a few minutes, she forgot her father's texts, forgot the casino losses, forgot everything except the pulse of neon and the absurdity of a disco ball hanging from a pipe in a concrete room.
It was stupid. It was holy. It was freedom.
Then the lights flickered.
At first just a hiccup. Then longer. The DJ froze, hand hovering over vinyl. Conversations faltered.
Rat cocked his head, listening. "Hear that?"
Aria frowned. "Hear what?"
The hum. Low, steady, rising from the floor. Like the city itself was breathing under their feet.
Sienna's smile didn't reach her eyes. "Nothing. Just the pipes. Come on, let's get another drink."
But Rat wasn't smiling anymore. His gaze locked on Aria, uncharacteristically serious.
"Princess," he said softly, "you don't know what's waiting down there."
The lights cut out.
Darkness swallowed the violet room. A hundred voices rose at once—laughter, curses, nervous shouts. Phones flicked on like tiny fireflies, scattering beams of light across sweating concrete.
Aria stood still, her pulse racing in her throat. Somewhere in the dark, someone whooped, pretending it was fun. But the hum beneath her feet grew louder, steadier, almost like an engine buried under the city.
Rat's hand landed on her shoulder, warm and startling. "Rule number four," he said, his grin ghostly in the glow of someone's phone. "Don't panic before I do."
Sienna grabbed her other arm. "It's fine. Power cuts happen. Chill."
But Aria's instincts buzzed. This wasn't a club losing electricity. This felt older, deeper. The trickle of water along the wall widened, creeping across the floor to kiss her shoes.
"See?" Rat muttered, crouching down. He dipped his finger into the thin stream and tasted it, absurdly. His smile flickered. "That's not champagne."
"Rat," Sienna hissed, "stop scaring her."
"Scaring?" He laughed, high and quick. "No, darling. I'm preparing." He tapped Aria's LED crown, now the only light on her. "Keep that crooked halo on. You're about to need it."
The DJ's voice cracked through the dark. "Yo, is anyone else hearing that rumble?"
The answer came from the walls themselves: a vibration that shook dust from the pipes, rattled empty glasses, and made the floor feel alive.
Aria's phone buzzed in her clutch. Reflex made her pull it out. Her father's name glared across the screen: RICHARD: COME HOME. NOW.
She almost laughed. Aboveground, he thought he was losing her to parties and champagne. He had no idea she was about to step into something far darker.
Rat leaned close, whispering into her ear like a secret only the city should know.
"Princess," he said, voice no longer joking, "welcome to the part of Vegas nobody sells on postcards."
The lights snapped back on. But nothing looked the same.