Ah, Las Vegas! The city where 'what happens here stays here'—except for the poor bastards who actually live here and have to deal with the aftermath of every tourist's drunken mistakes.

But never mind that. We're zooming in on the usual Vegas scenery: a casino. And not just any casino—this is the 'Green Devotion.' A name that could mean anything from money to weed, but at the end of the day, it was the place to be. The hottest casino in town, the crown jewel of sin and success, run by none other than Andres—Andy to those who actually matter. The most insufferably narcissistic, attention-hungry bastard you could ever meet. Living off the high of being wanted, desired, envied. And yeah, he was married, so what the hell was he doing surrounded by pretty young things hanging off his every word?

Nothing, that's what. Not a damn thing. Andy didn't cheat. Never had, never would. But did he flirt a little too much? Maybe. Did he bask in the attention like a lizard on a sun-heated rock? Absolutely. And tonight was just like any other—him, sprawled lazily in a plush round booth, empty and half-full bottles decorating the table, a mix of women and men vying for a chance to feed his ego. He was tipsy, sure, but not wasted, still sharp enough to register that he was the man of the hour.

He let out that signature drunken smirk, leaning back as his entourage melted over the laziest compliment imaginable. 'You lot are stunners,' he said, no seduction in his voice, just mild amusement at how easy they were to impress. It was a game, really. One he always won. But even with all the admiration and endless champagne, something felt off. A weird itch in the back of his mind.

Sitting up, he let his eyes sweep over the casino floor, his alcohol-fogged brain scanning for the source of his unease. Employees doing their jobs, regulars at their usual spots, machines flashing, poker tables humming along—so what the bloody hell was wrong?

And then it hit him. A jolt of pure, ice-cold terror shot through his spine, freezing him in place like some poor bastard caught in the headlights of a road train.

His husband was here. In the casino.

Oh, fuck. Oh, fuck no. No, no, no, no—

Andres had told him he'd be 'busy with work.' That he had meetings. That he was knee-deep in the responsibilities of running a goddamn empire. And now? Now he looked like the textbook definition of a cheating prick—drunk, surrounded by beautiful people, a few too many lipstick stains on his neck and shirt collar for his own damn good.

He could already see it playing out. The confrontation. The accusations. The heartbreak in his husband's eyes, the sharp edge in his voice. And worst of all—the possibility of losing him. Because despite everything, despite Andres' addiction to the thrill, to the attention, to the chaos—it was all meaningless without his husband.

And now, he was about five seconds away from watching it all come crashing down.

Shit.