Page 93 of No Mistakes
Axel grabs a champagne bottle from the table, pops the cork, and raises it. “To our mother,” he says, taking a long drink before passing it to Carter.
I watch as it makes its way around, each one of my brothers tipping it back before handing it on. When it finally reaches me, I stare at the bottle for a moment, the weight of it heavy in my hands. Memories of her—her smile, her voice, the way she tried to shield us even when it broke her—slam through me like a fist.
I lift it to my lips, the burn sliding down my throat, and murmur so low only I can hear, “To you, Mom.”
CHAPTER 39
MANDY
The glitteringlights of Vegas hit like a punch to the eyes the second we roll off the highway. Neon signs smear across the window, each one louder and more desperate for attention than the last. Out here, night isn’t dark; it’s a stage.
It’s six in the evening, but the Strip looks wide awake, alive in a way that feels almost mocking. In five hours, we’ll be walking into that meeting, and everything will change.
Beside me, Eva’s pressed against the glass, her face glowing in neon pinks and electric blues. “God, it’s like Times Square on steroids,” she mutters, equal parts awe and disgust.
I smirk, fingers tightening on my thighs. “Yeah, welcome to hell’s playground. Hope you packed your halo.”
Her head snaps around, eyes narrowing. “Bitch, please. If I had a halo, it would’ve been knocked off years ago.”
I laugh, though it comes out tighter than I intended. That’s what I do. I joke, tease, push the nerves away with sarcasm. But the truth is, my stomach is twisting itself into knots. My palms are damp. And as much as I want Eva to believe I’ve got this, I don’t. Not really.
Because in five hours, I won’t just be standing in a glittering hotel with my best friend. I’ll be standing in a room where menbuy women like poker chips. I’ll be pretending to belong there, pretending I’m not one wrong look away from being dragged up on that stage myself.
I shift in my seat, stretching my fingers against the leather seat just to stop them from shaking.
The Bellagio towers soar above us, massive and gleaming, its gold lights shining against the dark sky. My throat tightens as we approach the entrance, where cars line up, waiting to be taken away.
The car slows down, and Eva catches my glance and lifts a brow. “You nervous?”
“Me?” I flick my hair back, arching a brow. “Nah. Just wondering if they’ll comp us free drinks while we’re pretending to be working girls.”
She snorts, rolling her eyes, but she doesn’t push, letting the subject drop as the driver exits our vehicle. He rounds the car, pulling Eva’s door first. She steps out like she owns the place, head high, heels clicking against the pavement. I force myself to follow, clutching my bag tighter than I should. The night air smells of exhaust and expensive perfume as people surround us, going about their evening, completely unaware of what is happening here tonight.
Our driver places our small suitcases next to us, and I reach into my pocket, placing a twenty-dollar bill in his hand. He nods, slipping it into his pocket before leaving.
I can’t help but admire the building in front of us. Lights hang from the entrance, a glass window covering us. The entrance alone is divine.
Before we walk through the gleaming doors, Eva stops, tugging a folded slip of paper from her jacket pocket. She flicks it open, brows furrowing as the neon lights spill across the page.
“Alright,” she mutters, tilting it so I can see. “New names, new lives.”
I take some pages from her and scan the neat handwriting, thanking Ant secretly for not letting Gunnar write them. Clara Weston. That’s the new me. Age Twenty Nine, Company director. I fold it over, revealing a fake resume on the next piece, to go with my new name.
Eva’s lips twitch as her eyes hit her own. Then she lets out a laugh so sharp it makes a couple of valets glance our way. “No fucking way.Kate? Are you kidding me?” She shakes her head, shoving the paper towards me so I can see. “That asshole did this on purpose.”
“Kate?” I ask, confused while I read her piece of paper, not connecting the dots.
“Yeah,” she snorts, lowering her voice as she steps closer. “That’s what I told Axel my name was when he approached me outside of the gym. Thought I’d be clever. Guess he didn’t forget.” She rolls her eyes, muttering under her breath, “Prick.”
I can’t help but laugh, even though my heart is pounding. “Well, at least he pays attention.”
“Or he just likes torturing me,” she fires back, a smirk on her face.
She peeks over at my paper, seeing my name. “Alright, Clara. You ready to play pretend?”
“Ready as ever,” I say, plastering on a smile. Inside, though, nerves scrape through me while my fake name burns like acid in my head, and my hands tremble just enough that I keep them clenched at my sides.
We walk through the entrance, and the sight alone is enough to stop me in my tracks as I admire the creation in front of us. To our right is a Hermès store, leather bags displayed like art pieces under soft gold light. To the left, Valentino’s mannequins stand frozen in gowns I’ll never wear, before Cartier’s diamonds sparkle in their case like bait, daring us to want them.
