I used to believe there was no heartbreak quite like a breakup.That was before I lost my job.
The email landed at eleven-thirty on a Tuesday morning—four dry sentences from Damien Cross, CEO of Cross & Keene Advertising, terminating my contract effective immediately. No explanation, no meeting, not even a "thanks for your hard work."
I'd spent three years at that firm, pulling all-nighters and drinking enough burnt office coffee to pickle my stomach lining. Apparently, none of it mattered.
Now, three days later, I was standing at Gate C19 with my best friend Tasha fanning herself with a glossy travel magazine."Vegas is either going to fix you," she declared, "or kill you. Personally, I'm rooting for the first option."
I adjusted the strap of my overnight bag. "I'm still not sure running away to the land of slot machines and regret counts as therapy."
"It's cheaper than therapy," she said with a grin. "And if you win at blackjack, it might even pay your rent."
I tried to laugh, but it came out sounding like a cough.I hadn't told her the worst part—that the man who'd fired me was also the man I'd spent months trying not to be hopelessly attracted to.
Damien Cross: thirty-one, impeccably dressed, a reputation for devouring rival agencies and spitting out their bones. In the office, he'd been polite but distant—until the day I'd challenged one of his campaign ideas in front of the team. We'd argued, I'd won the pitch, but apparently lost the war.
By the time the plane touched down in Nevada, the desert sunset had already turned the sky molten gold. Tasha's two college friends—Kayla and Brie—met us at the hotel lobby, both dressed like they'd stepped out of a music video: glittery dresses, hair shining under the chandelier lights.
"You need this, Lia," Kayla announced as she hugged me. "One night too wild can cure months of misery."
"Or create new misery," I muttered, but let them drag me toward the elevator.
Our hotel was one of those glass-walled towers that reflected the neon chaos of the Strip. The rooftop bar was supposedly the best in the city, so naturally that's where the girls wanted to start.
I traded my travel jeans for a short black dress that felt two sizes bolder than I was.When I stepped onto the open-air terrace of the rooftop, the wind smelled like citrus cocktails and something electric—like the night itself was daring me to misbehave.
We ordered drinks and tried to yell over the music. For the first hour, I managed to forget about Damien, about the email, about my uncertain future.Then the power went out.
It started with a flicker—lights dimming, music hiccupping—and then everything plunged into darkness. Gasps rippled across the terrace as the skyline beyond us turned into a jagged silhouette against the moon.
Someone dropped a glass; it shattered near my feet. The crowd shifted, people bumping into each other in the confusion. I tried to step back—straight into a wall of a man whose cologne was far too familiar.
A flashlight beam from someone's phone sliced across a sharp jawline, dark suit jacket, and eyes that gleamed like cold steel even in the dim light.
Damien Cross.
For a second I wondered if the power outage had short-circuited my brain. "You've got to be kidding me," I said before I could stop myself.
He turned, recognition flashing across his face. His lips curved—not into a smile, but something halfway between a smirk and a warning."Arden." His voice was smooth, unhurried, exactly as I remembered it from every meeting where he'd demolished my ideas. "What are the odds."
"I thought you didn't believe in luck," I shot back.
"I don't. Which means the universe clearly has a grudge against me tonight."
Someone jostled me from behind, pushing me closer to him. My heel caught on the uneven wooden deck, and for a ridiculous half-second I had to grab his arm to keep from toppling over.His sleeve was warm beneath my fingers; I snatched my hand back like I'd touched fire.
The emergency lights blinked on, low and amber, throwing long shadows across the crowd.Damien's expression didn't soften. "You're blocking the stairs."
"Maybe you should take another route," I said sweetly. "Preferably one that leads you far away from me."
His brow arched, and in that moment I remembered why our arguments had always felt like duels: because he never let me have the last word.
"Still as charming as ever," he murmured, stepping past me—then paused. "Careful, Arden. You're one spilled drink away from becoming tonight's headline."
I glared at his retreating back, wishing I'd had the presence of mind to throw my margarita at it.Tasha appeared at my elbow. "You okay? That looked… intense."
"That was my ex-boss," I muttered. "The one who fired me."
"Yikes." Her eyes widened. "He's… hotter than you described."
I didn't dignify that with a response.
The power returned twenty minutes later, but the mood of the bar had shifted—people either jittery or a little too determined to drink away the memory of the blackout.Tasha and the others decided to hit the dance floor. I, still simmering from the encounter, opted for another drink at the bar.
I'd just settled onto a stool when a familiar voice drawled from the seat beside me."Looks like we're both stuck here."
I didn't have to turn to know it was Damien."Trust me," I said, "if I could teleport, you wouldn't see me again tonight."
He ordered a whiskey, unbothered by my hostility. "Relax, Arden. I'm here for a conference. I didn't fly across the country just to ruin your girls' trip."
"Funny," I said. "That's exactly what you're doing."
His chuckle was low, irritatingly pleasant.For a moment we sat in silence, the tension between us almost tangible.
Finally he said, "You still think I fired you out of spite."
"Isn't that why you did it?" I shot back. "Because I called out your pitch in front of the board?"
He tilted his glass, studying the amber swirl as if it held all the answers. "You always assume the worst about me."
"And you never give me a reason not to."
Maybe it was the alcohol, maybe the neon glow reflected in his eyes, but something reckless sparked between us—an energy that felt too close to attraction and too far from safety.
"Tell you what," he said after a long pause, "let's call a truce for tonight. No work talk, no grudges. Just two people trying not to think about their miserable lives."
I should have refused. I should have walked away.Instead, I heard myself say, "Fine. But I'm not buying the next round."
His half-smile was infuriatingly handsome. "I will."
The truce turned into a drinking contest. Shots lined up like little soldiers on the bar, each one burning away another layer of restraint. We talked about ridiculous things—our worst college jobs, the ugliest office Christmas sweater contest.I laughed more than I'd meant to; he smiled more than I thought he could.
Somewhere between the fourth and fifth round, Tasha texted that she and the others were heading to a late-night show. I waved them off, insisting I was fine.Damien raised a brow at my phone. "Deserted by your friends. Tragic."
"Maybe they sensed the enemy and fled," I said, and he actually laughed.
The rest of the night blurred—neon lights, casino noise, a taxi ride that felt like it belonged to someone else's story.
The next thing I knew, sunlight was stabbing through silk curtains, and my skull felt like a construction site.I groaned, rolling over—and froze.
The sheets were too smooth. The bed too big. The room too… gold.And the arm draped across my waist was definitely not mine.
I bolted upright, heart hammering, to find Damien Cross sprawled beside me, very much asleep and very much shirtless.
Panic surged through the hangover haze. My gaze swept the suite—champagne bottles on the coffee table, a scatter of poker chips on the carpet, and on the nightstand…
A marriage certificate.Beside it, two silver rings.
For a long, breathless moment I could only stare at the papers, my pulse roaring in my ears.I reached out with trembling fingers to flip the document over. My name. His name. The signature of a Vegas officiant.
"Please tell me this is a prank," I whispered.
Damien stirred, blinking awake. His eyes focused on me, then followed my gaze to the certificate. His expression shifted from confusion to something like horrified disbelief.
"Arden," he said slowly, voice rough with sleep. "Why do we have wedding rings?"
I didn't have an answer—only a sinking feeling that last night had been far wilder than I was ready to remember.