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Wilson's POV

At night, Las Vegas is a visual feast of possibilities. The Strip is alive, a swirl of neon that promises adventure and glazes the eyes. Tonight, the Sinclair Grand Casino is the most brilliant lighthouse among them; it hosts an extravagant celebration attracting the elite in the city. Wilson Sinclair, the proprietor of the casino, is the king and host of this shining realm.

I go across the assembly, giving courteous smiles and strong handshakes. The champagne comes freely, and the laughing and clinking glasses produce a harmonic symphony. Though the mood is festive, my mind is elsewhere, consumed with ideas for my next company action and the always hovering presence of my competitor, Henry Carter.

Henry and I are clearly rivals. Owning the second most successful casino in Las Vegas, the Orion Each of us is always striving to outmaneuver the other in the pursuit of supremacy; our rivalry is intense. Still, tonight I am resolved to have fun-if only for a few hours.

Stepping out onto the balcony, I pause to inhale the cold night air away from the commotion and tumult inside. The city is stunning, a reminder of all I have created. But the sound of soft footfall behind me breaks my still moment.

"Mr. Sinclair," a voice says, assuredly and smoothly.

Turning to find a woman silhouetted by ballroom light, I see Her features-long, wavy auburn hair, piercing green eyes, and a quiet strength that quickly enthralls me-show themselves as she approaches. She is beautiful, and I can't quite put her familiar quality.

I say, smiling, "Call me Wilson." and you are?

"Emma." Emma Larkin says, her eyes locking with mine with such intensity it shocks me. "I assist Henry Carter."

When Henry comes up, my smile stumbles a little, but I straighten myself immediately. Emma, what drives you out here tonight? Surely you are not here only to take in the scenery.

She smiles, with a trace of mystery about her. "I had to get away from the celebration. And I found it fascinating to learn about the main rival of my manager.

That is so? Inspired, I slant against the railing. And what do you want to learn?

"Whatever you're ready to share," she replies in a low, seductive voice. "People are often more open in unplanned meetings," I say.

She seems to have a magnetic pull that I cannot resist. We chat for some time, the underlying tension of our different loyalties flowing naturally in the conversation. Unquestionably, we have a spark between us that causes the air to buzz with power.

The celebration disappears from view as the evening progresses. We are in a quiet area of the casino apart from curious onlookers. We are clearly attracted, and before I know it we are locked in a passionate embrace as the surroundings vanish as we submit to the moment.

Then reality starts to leak back in as we lie twisted in the sheets. I understand that what we have just discussed is complex and twisted in the web of our daily work. I brush such ideas aside for now, though, concentrating on Emma's sensation in my arms.

"Wilson," she says, her voice slightly dubious. "what happens now?"

With fingers still on her cheek, I sweep a strand of hair from her face. "We go one step at a time now. There are no expectations or guarantees. Just... observe where this leads.

She nods, but from her eyes I sense concern. Unanswered questions abound, and so too are possible repercussions. Still, tonight none of that counts. Tonight we are only two people caught in something unanticipated and potent.

Emma is gone before I wake in the morning; only a letter on the pillow remains.

"Thank you for last night. I will get back in touch."

I fix my eye on the note, my mind racing with ideas of what this implies for the rivalry with Henry, for us, and for me. I have no idea, though, that a sequence of events will transform everything.

Days stretch into weeks, and Emma eludes me from my consciousness. Though there is nothing, I keep hoping to see her and hear from her. I begin to wonder if that evening was a mistake or if she might have decided to stick to Henry always.

Then one evening I'm looking over some records in my office when my phone rings. Though the number is unknown, something guides me in response.

I say, "Wilson Sinclair."

Wilson, Emma is here. Her voice is unsteady; her tone clearly shows tension. "I should see you." It's vital.

"Emma, what's wrong? My heart thrashes in my chest, a mixture of relief and anxiety.

"I cannot have a phone conversation. See me on Fremont Street in the old chapel. Kindly, haste.

The line falls silent, and I find myself staring at my phone, driven by urgency into action. My mind racing with ideas, I grab my keys and go. Given her need to meet in secret, what could be so crucial?