Chapter 2 — Luck, Lust, and the Monarch
The Strip shimmered like a promise as the car slid toward the Monarch. Neon arrows blinked, fountains leapt, marquees shouted names worth millions. Aria pressed her forehead against the cool window, letting the city blur into streaks of light.
Her father's last text still burned in her clutch, but she'd shoved it deep, buried beneath lipstick and receipts. Tonight wasn't about Richard Vautrin and his iron hand. Tonight was about proving—if only to herself—that she could run the city instead of being run by it.
The Monarch's high-limit entrance gleamed like a temple: polished marble floors, chandeliers dripping crystal, carpets that swallowed footsteps. A floor manager in a black suit greeted her by name, his smile like a lock clicking into place.
"Welcome back, Ms. Vautrin," he said. "Your usual table is ready."
Aria returned the smile with practiced ease. Behind her, Sienna practically bounced, sparkling from head to heel. "We're here to win big tonight," she announced, as if Vegas needed reminding.
Inside the salon, the atmosphere shifted—quieter, tighter. No chaos of slots here, just the soft shuffle of cards, the muted click of chips, and the kind of silence that felt expensive.
Aria slipped into her corner seat, legs crossing with deliberate grace. The dealer nodded, already recognizing her. His hands were elegant, like silk weaving a story.
"Banker," she said. The single word carried weight, ritual.
The first rounds treated her kindly. Chips stacked in neat columns, onlookers gathering at the rail. Sienna leaned down, brushing her shoulder. "See? Glowing already."
"I'm winning," Aria replied, lips curving.
"You're alive."
But the room had teeth. The second shoe bit back—gentle at first, then cruel. Chips vanished. The dealer's apologies floated like smoke.
Aria pressed harder. "Banker." Lost. "Banker." Lost again.
Her stack trembled. Her pulse throbbed in her temples.
"Babe," Sienna murmured, hand on her elbow, "want to take a break?"
Aria's jaw tightened. "One more."
She pushed her bet forward, reckless.
Player flipped an eight.
Banker revealed a seven.
The cheer was small but sharp. Aria leaned back, breath leaving her like smoke. Victory—thin, fragile, fleeting.
The victory should have been enough to reset her pulse. It wasn't. The win only sharpened the hunger.
She pressed her chips forward again, daring fate. Another loss. Her stack shrank to a sliver. The floor manager's smile didn't waver; it never did. Sienna tugged at her arm, voice sweet but urgent.
"Aria, come on. Reset. Breathe."
Aria pushed back from the table, the felt blurring for a moment. The room tilted, not much, just enough to remind her that champagne still sparkled in her veins. She rose too quickly, her heels clicking sharp against the marble as she left the table.
The hallway outside the salon was noisier, alive with slot machines chiming and strangers shouting at jackpots. Aria braced herself against the wall, inhaling the smell of polish and perfume.
Her phone buzzed again. She looked this time.
RICHARD: Get home. Enough of this circus.
Her thumb hovered. She typed Make me. Deleted it. Typed Leave me alone. Deleted that too. The words never felt strong enough against the weight of him.
"You know," a voice said from her left, smooth and edged, "ignoring a king only makes him roar louder."
Aria turned. The man was tall, shoulders cut sharp under his dark suit. His hair was slicked back with the precision of someone who didn't let chance dictate much of anything. His eyes—cool, assessing—were the color of storm clouds over the desert.
Damian Cross. She recognized him instantly. The Monarch's owner. The man who held half the Strip in his hands and made it look like a card trick.
"Not a king," Aria said, slipping her phone back into her clutch. "Just a father who forgets I'm not a child."
Damian's gaze held hers, unflinching. "And yet you play like one. Reckless. Hungry. Hoping the table will forgive you."
Her cheeks flamed, a mix of fury and something else she didn't name. "I don't need advice from a man who makes his fortune feeding on people like me."
He tilted his head slightly, like a dealer watching a risky bet. "I don't feed. I offer. People choose. That's the difference."
"Semantics."
"Survival," he corrected. His voice was calm, but beneath it was steel. "This city eats girls who think they can dance with it and not bleed."
Aria bristled. "I'm not dancing. I'm winning."
"You're not." He stepped closer, lowering his voice so only she could hear. "Not yet."
Something in his eyes—warning, fascination, danger—made her spine stiffen.
Then, as if summoned by tension itself, a shadow cut into the hallway. A man with whiskey breath and a wrinkled suit staggered toward her, anger crackling off him. "That was my bet, sweetheart. You stole my win!"
Aria blinked. "What?"
He grabbed her wrist, fingers digging hard. "You think you can waltz in here with daddy's money—"
"Let go," Aria snapped, tugging, but his grip held.
Before she could yank free, Damian's hand closed on the man's shoulder. His expression didn't change, but the force in his touch made the drunk pale.
"Apologize," Damian said quietly.
The man's eyes darted between Damian and Aria. His mouth opened, closed. Finally, he muttered, "Sorry," and staggered back into the noise of the casino.
Damian released him like a discarded card. He turned back to Aria, his gaze steady.
"You're welcome," he said.
Aria rubbed her wrist, torn between gratitude and pride. "I could have handled him."
"Perhaps," Damian allowed. "But he wasn't your only problem tonight." His eyes flicked to her phone still buzzing in her clutch. "Kings don't wait forever."
He stepped back, his presence leaving a vacuum in the hall. "Go home, Ms. Vautrin. Or don't. But understand—every choice in this city has teeth."
And then he was gone, swallowed by the Monarch's velvet shadows.
Sienna appeared at her side, glittering and breathless. "What was that? Who was that?"
Aria smoothed her dress, her pulse still jagged. "Damian Cross."
Sienna's jaw dropped. "The Damian Cross? The Monarch's ghost king? Girl, you're insane. Do you know how many women would sell their souls for two words from him?"
"He didn't say two words."
"Exactly! He said more. That's practically foreplay."
Aria rolled her eyes, but her skin still buzzed where his warning had landed. "He was lecturing me, not flirting."
Sienna grinned. "Sometimes those are the same thing."
Before Aria could answer, a promoter in a shiny suit sidled up, whispering into Sienna's ear. She squealed, clutching Aria's arm.
"After-party," she declared. "Real after-party. Off the Strip. You're coming."
Aria hesitated. The night already pressed against her ribs like too-tight stays. Her father's texts, Damian's warning, the drunk's grip—they all crowded her thoughts.
But Sienna's eyes sparkled with reckless fire, and Aria knew the alternative: going home, listening to Richard's lectures, letting the night end in obedience.
"Fine," she said, exhaling. "One more stop."
The car that carried them away smelled like leather and secrecy. The Strip receded in the rearview mirror, neon bleeding into darkness. Streetlights thinned. Buildings sagged lower, meaner.
"Where are we going?" Aria asked.
"Industrial chic," Sienna promised, her voice dipped in mischief. "Where the real Vegas comes out to play."
The car turned down a street with no name. Pallets stacked against chain-link fences, graffiti crawling like fever. Ahead, a single metal door glowed under a naked bulb.
It opened before they knocked.
Inside, the air smelled of concrete and secrets. Music pulsed from somewhere deeper, thudding like a giant's heartbeat.
Aria shivered, gripping her clutch tighter.
"Trust me," Sienna whispered, dragging her forward. "This is the good part."
A man with hair like static and a grin too wide appeared at the base of the ramp. He spread his arms like a ringmaster greeting royalty.
"Ladies!" he shouted. "Welcome to paradise. Watch your step—it bites."
Aria blinked, half amused, half unnerved.
Sienna beamed. "Aria, meet Rat."