Total pages in book: 60
Estimated words: 58987 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 295(@200wpm)___ 236(@250wpm)___ 197(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 58987 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 295(@200wpm)___ 236(@250wpm)___ 197(@300wpm)
No slot machines.
No noise.
Just hushed, rarefied air and the faint scent of something expensive I can't identify.
A woman in an immaculate suit approaches with a smile that's professionally warm without being fake. "Ms. Desmond?"
"Yes," I manage.
"Welcome. I'm Claire, your personal concierge. We have you in a suite on the fifty-eighth floor with Strip views. Your appointments begin in thirty minutes. I booked everything you requested."
I nod like this is normal. Like I do this all the time.
She walks me to a private elevator bank—not the main casino elevators, a completely separate set that requires a key card to access. The doors open immediately because apparently tower suite guests don't wait for anything.
The ride up is silent except for the faint whoosh of expensive machinery. When the doors open on my floor, Claire leads me down a hallway that smells like fresh flowers.
My suite.
My suite.
The door opens and I stop breathing for a second because the space is bigger than my entire old apartment. Floor-to-ceiling windows overlook the Strip—all those flashing lights, and crawling traffic, and chaos spread out below like a glittering infection.
Claire goes through the amenities—minibar, espresso machine, bathroom with the soaking tub, something about turndown service—but I'm not listening. I'm standing at the window, palms pressed against the glass, staring down at thousands of people who have no idea I exist.
No one here knows who I am.
Not ScarletSins. Not the girl who got sold at auction. Not the freak who ran a sex maze in the Caribbean.
Just another anonymous body in a city built for forgetting.
Claire's voice pulls me back. "Your first appointment is in twenty-five minutes, Ms. Desmond. Shall I have them send a car, or would you prefer to walk? The salon is just across the property."
I turn from the window. "I'll walk."
Then I remember the tip. I pull a fifty out of my purse and hand it to her. She doesn't look at it, just smiles at me and backs out.
The salon buzzes with excitement as my stylist—a vision with cascading black hair and a constellation of ear piercings—greets me with a champagne flute and a genuine smile.
"Transform me," I tell her, downing the bubbly like I need courage for what's coming. "Make me look… rich. Make me look… sexy. Hell. Fuck it. Make me look like a goddamned trophy wife."
She laughs. "Darling, by the time I'm done with you, you'll shine like the fucking sun. " She tosses her glossy mane, assessing me with the gleaming eyes of someone who creates magic daily.
I'm seated in the VIP room. Mirrors everywhere. Music pulsing like a heartbeat. Two assistants appear with a platter of chocolate-dipped strawberries. I eat them without reservation.
"Platinum will make those gorgeous eyes pop," the stylist declares, fluffing my hair up as I watch in the mirror.
I drink more champagne, my flute never empty, as she paints my head with bleach. Transforming it into a gleaming sculpture of metallic promise.
I'm seated at a nail station while I process. Gel tips coated in a metallic purple. I've never had long nails in my life. I could look at them for hours, watching them change in the shifting light.
I have the sudden urge to tap things.
The rinse and shampoo massage sends waves of pleasure cascading through my scalp and down my spine. My eyes flutter closed involuntarily as I surrender to sensations so delicious, they border on orgasmic.
Then, I watch—utterly, completely, brazenly transfixed at the magic happening with a blow dryer.
The long, frizzy dirty-blonde hair I walked in with is gone. Replaced by a perfect platinum waterfall that catches every light in the room. Subtle layers framing a face I almost don't recognize.
She was right.
I shine like the fucking sun.
Back in my hotel room, I order room service. A steak that's seared to perfection. A baked potato with everything you can imagine on top. And a gelato that tastes like it came straight from Italy.
This is what money buys.
Not happiness.
Contentment.
I sleep propped up against the floor-to-ceiling window, gazing down at the lights on the Strip, feeling like a platinum-tipped angel instead of a good little slut.
The next morning I have an appointment with an image consultant at ten. I get up extra early to try out the styling products I bought at the salon yesterday. My bathroom counter is a battlefield of unfamiliar bottles and tools, but I'm determined.
I watch a quick tutorial on my phone before attempting to recreate what the stylist did, working the product through my damp hair section by section. I even manage to do a half-good blow out, despite my arms aching halfway through.
My hair doesn't look like it did yesterday—that professional shine and bounce is missing—but it's a thousand times better than it was twenty-four hours ago.
The woman in the mirror actually looks like she gives a damn about herself.