Page 9 of Hitched to My Enemy
I nodded, feeling barriers crumble that I'd spent years building. "My father was a cop in a small town owned by one family. They controlled the casino, the banks, half the businesses. When he tried to investigate irregularities, they made his life hell. Transferred him to night shifts, gave him the worst assignments, made sure he never got promoted." The words came easier with each sip. "He never said anything, but I saw what it did to him. Saw what it did to our family."
Easton was quiet for a long moment, his expression unreadable. When he spoke, his voice was softer than I'd ever heard it. "I'm sorry."
"Don't." I held up a hand, not ready for his sympathy. "Your turn. Why hospitality? Why not stay in tech where you were already successful?"
He refilled both our glasses, the silence stretching until I thought he wouldn't answer. "Because tech is about algorithms and code. Predictable. Safe." He moved to the window, staring out at the neon chaos below. "Hospitality is about people. About creating experiences, moments that matter. It's messier, riskier, but..."
"But?"
"But it's real. When someone walks into one of my properties, I want them to feel something they've never felt before. I want to give them a story they'll tell for the rest of their lives." He turned back to me, and for a moment, his mask slipped completely. "The first casino I built—the one you shut down—it wasn't much. Small, local clientele mostly. But there was this regular, Mrs. Patterson. Seventy-something widow who came in every Friday night to play the penny slots. She told me once that it was the only time all week she felt alive."
Something twisted in my chest at the pain in his voice. "Easton—"
"When you shut us down, she had nowhere to go. The other places on the Strip were too expensive, too overwhelming for her." His laugh was self-deprecating. "I used to tell myself I was building something meaningful. Turns out I was just another businessman cutting corners and calling it vision."
The admission hung between us, raw and honest in a way that made my chest ache. Without thinking, I moved closer, drawn by the vulnerability he was showing me.
"That's not true," I said quietly. "What you've built here—it's beautiful. Sophisticated. Nothing like..."
"Like the dive you shut down?" He smiled, but there was no humor in it. "That's the point, Harlow. This time, I did everything right. Every regulation, every guideline, every piece of paperwork filed in triplicate. Because I couldn't afford to give you another reason to destroy me."
The words hit like a physical blow. "You think I wanted to destroy you?"
"Didn't you?" He stepped closer, close enough that I could see the amber flecks in his gray eyes. "Young investigatorlooking to make her mark, taking down the cocky entrepreneur who thought he was untouchable?"
"No." The word came out fiercer than I'd intended. "God, no. Do you have any idea how much I questioned that decision? How many nights I lay awake wondering if I'd been too harsh, too rigid?"
His eyes widened slightly, as if my admission surprised him. "Then why?"
"Because the rules matter," I said, but the conviction in my voice was weaker than usual, blurred by whiskey and proximity and the way he was looking at me. "Because someone has to be willing to make the hard choices, even when..."
"Even when what?"
"Even when it hurts." The confession slipped out before I could stop it. "Even when the person you're investigating is..." I trailed off, realizing where that sentence was heading.
"Is what, Harlow?"
I stared up at him, lost in the intensity of his gaze, feeling like I was standing on the edge of a cliff with no idea how far the fall would be. The whiskey had turned my thoughts fuzzy and my inhibitions paper-thin. Somewhere in the back of my mind, my professional alarm bells were screaming warnings, but they seemed very far away.
"Is someone who makes you question everything you thought you knew about right and wrong," I whispered.
The air between us went electric. I could see the moment his control snapped, the way his pupils dilated and his breathing changed. But instead of moving closer, he stepped back, running a hand through his hair.
"Jesus, Harlow." His voice was rough, strained. "Do you have any idea what you're doing to me?"
The vulnerability in his tone undid something inside me. Here was this powerful, successful man looking at me like I had the ability to destroy him all over again. But not professionally this time—personally.
"The same thing you're doing to me," I admitted, the words tumbling out before I could censure them.
We stared at each other across the space of his living room, the air thick with want and confusion and three years of unresolved tension. The smart thing would be to leave. To call a cab, go back to my condo, and pretend this conversation never happened.
Instead, I found myself moving toward him. "I'm tired of being careful," I said, surprised by the steadiness in my voice. "I'm tired of always doing the right thing, always following the rules, always being the responsible one."
"Harlow." My name sounded like a warning on his lips.
"You want to see reckless?" I challenged, reaching for the whiskey bottle again. "You want to see what happens when the uptight regulator decides to cut loose?"
Before he could answer, I filled both our glasses and raised mine in a toast. "To being thoroughly, spectacularly irresponsible."
