“As part of our marriage, we aren’t seeing anyone else, right?” His jaw tightens as he speaks, “No.”
His reaction surprises me, and I find myself needing clarity. “And this includes… casual partners?”
His face morphs into amusement. “Are you offering?”
He’s teasing me because he knows my brother wouldn’t allow it. Declan’s warned Oliver in front of me. It would risk his friendship, and I don’t want to ruin that.
“No chance. I’m just checking we're on the same page.”
He leans in really close and whispers, “If I want to get off, I have my hands.”
A shiver runs down my spine as his warm breath tickles my skin. A hot image flashes through my mind, but there’s no way I’m letting him know I’m picturing him naked. Instead, I wince and say, “TMI. Let’s get on with this before I lose my nerve.”
Spinning on my heel, I move toward the exit, stepping carefully onto the metal staircase, my hand gripping the warm railing. From halfway down, I take in Las Vegas. Beyond the tarmac, the strip rises in the distance, and mountains frame the background. As I reach the bottom step, I'm hit by the Vegas heat. I immediately regret not wearing shorts and a top instead of my sweats. But they were comfy, which is probably why I fell asleep on the plane.
I spot another black car waiting for us. Oliver opens the door for me, which surprises me because it seems genuine rather than a performance, and we slip inside.
“Where are we staying?” I ask once I’m buckled inside.
“The Bellagio.”
I recall the details from the Google search I did earlier, and it’s luxurious. Travel was never something I allowed myself to dream about when I was younger. When you’re bouncing between foster homes, you don’t waste time imagining far-off places; you’re too busy hoping the next house isn’t worse thanthe last. Dreams felt useless. Even after I found good parents, the habit stuck. It felt safer to keep my hopes small and within reach.
As we drive through the streets, I look out the window, feeling like I’ve stepped into another world. It’s better than the pictures online. In the midday sun, the city feels alive, every building and sign practically glowing. Neon lights and gigantic billboards surround us, there are huge screens showing ads for performers and shows, and even from here, I catch glimpses of fountains shooting up by the hotel doors.
Traffic crawls along, giving me time to scan the sidewalks, which are packed with tourists, street performers, and vendors. My eyes flick from one extravagant hotel to the next, each more surreal than the last, and I try to soak it all up.
“Have you been here before?” I ask, still captivated by the world outside the window.
“Once, for work,” he says. “Why do you ask?”
“Just making conversation.”
He doesn’t ask about my travels, and it doesn’t bother me. I know he’s aware I haven’t been anywhere.
We arrive at the hotel, and I find myself speechless. The Bellagio is grand, with soft beige and cream tones, arched windows, a curved façade, and lush landscaping. But the best feature has to be the lake in front. I remember reading about the shows at the fountain at night and how captivating they are. I didn’t realize last night that this would be where we would be staying, but now I’m hoping our room will have a view of it.
I wait for him to climb out, and before I can do the same, Oliver is there, offering his hand. We walk inside, where I’m struck by the lobby’s extraordinary ceiling made up of a garden of hand-blown glass flowers in vibrant colors. I welcome the air conditioning on my damp skin as I crane my neck, taking in all the details.
As we move to the front reception, I notice the same white and beige colors, glossy beige tiles, and patterned rugs with splashes of green cushions and artwork.
We’re called up, and the attendant, a polished man in his fifties with a perfectly fitted suit, greets us. “Mr. and Mrs. Lincoln.” My mouth opens to correct him, but I quickly shut it. In just a few hours, Lincoln will be my last name. Surprisingly, it doesn’t make me feel uneasy.
I’m in a foggy daze as we follow the attendant to the elevator and head straight to the top floor.
As we exit on the top floor, the attendant opens the room door, and I follow, my jaw dropping. The suite is stunning, with the same color tones as downstairs but on a much bigger scale. I slowly walk around, barely listening as the attendant rattles off instructions. I hope Oliver is paying attention because I’m too distracted. The far wall is all glass, revealing a panoramic view of the Vegas Strip. The fountain below is mid-dance, each burst of water lit from beneath. I walk closer, pressing my hand lightly to the window, awestruck. From up here, the chaos of the city looks almost magical, like something out of a dream.
A rustle behind me draws my gaze back inside, I walk to the closest bedroom and that’s when I see it.
“Congratulations” is spelled out in red rose petals on a massive white duvet king bed that dominates the room.
Everything is so over the top, I’m getting dizzy as I continue walking through the suite. There are multiple bedrooms, TVs, bathrooms, a huge kitchen, and a lounge. But on the positive, we don’t have to share a room. I’m not ready to share a bed with Oliver.
The attendant leaves, and after the most chaotic day of my life, we’re finally alone.
I turn to him, catching him in an unguarded moment as he runs his hand through his hair, saying the first thing that pops into my head. “This seems a bit excessive for one night.”
“You deserve a nice place for our wedding night,” he says, his eyes locked on mine as he steps toward me.
