The sound echoed through the penthouse suite—a space that cost more per square foot than most people's annual salaries. Floor-to-ceiling windows overlooked the glittering Vegas Strip, the city sprawling below like a jeweled trap.

Killian Blackwell stood behind his desk, one hand braced against the polished mahogany surface, the other pinching the bridge of his nose. He was still in his tailored black suit, tie loosened, collar open. His jaw was tight.

He looked like a man who had just watched his girlfriend do something spectacularly stupid in front of half the casino floor.

Y/N turned around slowly, already knowing she was about to receive a very passionate lecture from her favourite overprotective billionaire.