ONE

Alex’s POV

I hate Vegas but somehow I am always in the heart of the city for one business meeting or the other.

The thing about Vegas is, it always smells like desperation. Cheap perfume, stale whiskey, and the electric hum of bad decisions waiting to happen. I should be used to it by now, from the relentless noise, the synthetic glitz, the way time folds in on itself when you’re drowning in too many flashing lights down to the hollow promises. But here I am again, standing in a room full of overeager tech bros and recycled sales pitches, nursing a drink I don’t want and counting the hours until I can get the hell out of here. All while keeping a neutral face of course

“Mr. Kincaid, pleasure to finally meet you.” Some kid in an ill-fitting suit shoves a sweaty palm at me. I don’t bother remembering his name. I won’t need it tomorrow or ever. That is if he doesn't make a name for himself at all.

“Likewise,” I lie, offering the kind of practiced smile that never reaches my eyes. He says something about his app revolutionizing supply chain logistics, and I nod like I care. I don’t. This whole mixer is a formality. Just another checkbox on the long, exhausting list of things I endure for the company I built from scratch. Being a founder is a nightmare, the money just makes it a little bearable.

I scan the room, looking for a reason to stay longer than necessary. Maybe a nice song or a new face that wasn't so dull and regular. I just want an excuse to slip out unnoticed. And then I see her.

She’s standing near the open bar, laughing at something one of my mid-level employee is saying. Rick Browning. Forgettable guy. Ambitious, the kind who works late just so people notice him. But it isn’t him I’m looking at.

It’s the woman beside him. Long dark hair, the kind you can already imagine tangled in your hands. Deep red lips that curve in a way that’s dangerously close to sinful. And eyes that are unmistakenly sharp and curious. She doesn’t belong here, in this room of desperate pitches and shallow conversations. She stands out in the way a flame does in a blackout. And like any fool, I’m drawn to it.

I shouldn’t be. Christ, I really shouldn’t especially because she seems to be in some kind of intimate relationship with my employee by the way she leaned on him, hips pushed forward. They were definitely sleeping together if there is no formal relationship.

I watch as she lifts a glass of something amber to her lips in a simple, unhurried movement. She is graceful and so feminine, it alters my brain. She listens to Rick ramble on about God-knows-what and smiles politely, but it’s clear she’s only half there. Her gaze darts around the room, taking everything in from the décor, the people, down to the exits. She was definitely a smart girl, I immediately picked up.

Rick says something that makes her laugh again. It’s light, unforced. It hits me square in the chest in a way I haven’t felt in years. It’s unsettling and I sort of like it and hate it at the same time.

Who the hell is she?

I motion for Mark, my assistant, who’s lingering by the door pretending not to hate his life

“That brunette with Browning,” I say. “Find out who she is.”

Mark hesitates. He knows me well enough by now to recognize the edge in my voice.

“Problem?” he asks quietly.

“No. Just curiosity.”

He stays quiet for a minute, looking at me with a knowing look and when he sees that I'm not backing down, he signs and then disappears into the crowd. He always had questions but whether they are answered or not, he still does what he is instructed to do.

I should be talking mergers, acquisitions, IPO projections. Instead, I find myself watching the way she moves through conversations. The way men who come to talk to Rick, lean in just a little too eagerly when exchanging pleasantries. The way she doesn’t notice. Or pretends not to. Smart. She’s good at reading a room, at being what it needs while holding something back for herself.

I like that. A lot more than I should.

By the time Mark comes back, she’s moved to the other side of the room but my eyes never leave her.

"Yes?" I nod at him

“Her name is Melody Jansen,” Mark says. “Guest of Rick Browning. She's a tech executive from the San Francisco office"

“And how come I don't know her?" I look at Mark, "How do you know her name?” I ask.

“She introduced herself to accounting earlier. Apparently Rick’s fiancée.”

The word hits harder than it should.

Fiancée. Of a loser like Rick? What a waste of potential.

I glance back at her and feel something sour settle in my gut. What a big waste.

I’m not a man who covets what’s taken. It was too messy and too complicated. But watching Browning puff his chest up beside her, I can’t help thinking she deserves better.

And better sure as hell isn’t him.

I drain the rest of my drink, set the glass down with a small clink.

“Get me a file on her,” I say to Mark, aware of the guru in my eyes. “Basic info.”

“You sure about that?” Mark asks, careful.

“Just curious.” I say again but it’s a lie, and we both know it.

The night goes by slowly and I continue the drama of shaking hands, exchanging cards and nods with people that I have no intention of remembering. My eyes is only focused on finding her in the crowd and somehow she seems unaware that she is being studied like a prey by a predator that is until she turns abruptly and our eyes meet.