Page 68 of Chained By Fate (Dark Billionaires: Vegas #1)

Twenty-Eight

ANDY

L ying in that hospital bed, swathed in the finest Egyptian cotton I was sure had been spun by silkworms wearing tiny tuxedos, I couldn’t help but think how ludicrous my life had become.

Seven days. That’s how long I’d been wrapped in more luxury than a sultan in his palace.

The hospital suite, courtesy of Matt’s deep pockets, could have given any five-star hotel a run for its money—hell, I mean, there I was, in a suite that probably cost more per night than my old apartment did for a year.

The view from my window offered a front-row seat to Vegas’ perpetual light show.

During my more lucid moments between pain meds, I’d watch the Stratosphere pierce the desert sky like a gilded needle, while the High Roller turned endless circles, as if counting the hours until my release.

At night, the city bloomed into a garden of neon, and I’d try to guess which colors belonged to Matt’s casino-hotel empire.

Sometimes, in those quiet hours when sleep eluded me, I’d catch him watching me from the plush armchair he’d claimed as his command center, his laptop casting a blue glow across his sharp features.

If you were going to get kidnapped and beaten within an inch of your life, I’d recommend doing it within the vicinity of a billionaire with a penchant for dramatic rescues.

The recovery wasn’t half-bad when you had silk sheets, plush pillows, and a view that could make a hermit reconsider his life choices.

But let’s face it, the best amenity in that place was the remote that controlled everything from the blinds to the bed temperature.

It was like a universal remote for indulgence—though I’m pretty sure Matt had the nurses confiscate it after I spent an entire afternoon making the bed go up and down while high on painkillers.

“It’s not a carnival ride,” he’d said, trying to hide his amusement behind that stern businessman facade of his.

“Everything’s a carnival ride if you’re creative enough,” I’d replied, still floating on a cloud of premium pharmaceuticals. “Besides, your face does this cute little twitch every time I hit the button.”

The first few days had been a blur of pain and pills, but I remembered when Fin and Ethan burst into my room like a hurricane of emotions after Matt told them about my misadventure. Fin, bless his melodramatic heart, had cried enough tears to water the succulents on my windowsill for months.

“What would I do without you, Andy?” he’d wailed, his voice echoing off the sterile walls.

“You can’t leave me. You’re my best friend, my surrogate brother!

” His blue eyes swam with emotion, a stark contrast to Ethan’s quiet torment.

He’d practically draped himself across my bed, nearly disconnecting my IV in the process.

“Fin,” Ethan had warned, pulling his brother back by his collar like a misbehaving puppy. “He’s bruised, not dead.”

“But look at him!” Fin gestured wildly at my face. “He looks like he got into a fight with a meat tenderizer and lost!”

“Thanks for that assessment,” I’d muttered, though it wasn’t far from the truth. “Really helps the self-esteem.”

Ethan had just stood there looking like he’d swallowed a lemon whole, his usually pale features drawn tight with worry.

He didn’t wear his heart on his sleeve like Fin, but I could see it in his eyes, the way they’d flick to the machines beeping beside my bed.

The next day, he’d shown up with a stack of trashy magazines and my favorite coffee from that little shop near the Bellagio—the one that charges more for a cup of coffee than I used to make in an hour.

“The nurses said no coffee,” I’d pointed out.

“The nurses aren’t here,” he’d replied with that angel-faced smirk of his. “And what Matt doesn’t know won’t hurt him.”

“I heard that.” Matt’s voice drifted in from the hallway, followed by his imposing figure. “And I’m choosing to ignore it, just this once.”

The look Ethan gave Matt could have melted steel, but there was something else there too—a grudging respect, maybe even gratitude.

After all, Matt had been the one to find me, to bring me here instead of some standard hospital ward where the sheets probably hadn’t seen Egyptian cotton in their dreams.

Mia had transformed into a full-blown mother hen, treating me like a fragile piece of china—which, considering the circumstances, wasn’t too far off from the truth.

She’d flutter around me, fluff my pillows, and tuck the sheets around me as if I were a child again.

When exhaustion dragged me under into restless slumber, she’d slip away to explore the neon heartbeat of Vegas, never straying too far from my orbit.

She’d even found herself a friend during those brief escapes—Savannah, William’s girlfriend.

Funny how small worlds collided and stitched themselves together in this city of sin.

They’d return from their adventures with stories of high-stakes poker games and whispered secrets from the Strip’s underbelly, Mia’s eyes sparkling with a light I hadn’t seen since we left our dead-end hometown.

The nurses—who I’m convinced were actually trained at some secret luxury resort rather than a medical school—kept a rotation that would have impressed a Swiss watchmaker.

They brought me meals that looked like they belonged in a Michelin-starred restaurant rather than a hospital room.

Even the Jell-O was fancy, probably imported from some artisanal Jell-O craftsman in France.

Now, as I sat on the edge of this ridiculously plush bed for probably the last time—I’d miss you most of all, memory foam—the bruises on my skin had faded to a mottled green, and the aches in my body had simmered down to a low hum.

Matt strode in with that commanding presence that somehow made even these sterile hospital corridors seem like catwalks at Fashion Week.

“Ready to blow this popsicle stand?” he asked with that smirk I wasn’t sure if I wanted to kiss or wipe off his face with a well-aimed slap.

I managed a half smirk, despite the ache. “As long as you promise not to hover over me like a mother hen. One Mia is enough.”

“Mother hen? You wound me.” Matt’s lips curved into that devastating smile. “I’m more of a watchful hawk—much more dignified. Besides, I prefer to think of it as strategic positioning for when you inevitably stumble.”

His hand found mine, warm and steady as he helped me to my feet. I tried to maintain some dignity as we left the hospital suite, but my body had other ideas—apparently, a week in bed turns your legs into overcooked noodles.

“I could carry you,” Matt offered, noticing my less-than-graceful shuffle.

“Touch me and die.”

“Promises, promises.”

As we left behind the suite, I took his arm because pride was overrated and pain was not. Besides, clutching his arm seemed like a better option than face-planting in a corridor that reeked of antiseptic trying desperately to masquerade as luxury perfume.

The elevator ride down was an exercise in restraint—mostly Matt’s, as he pretended not to notice every tiny wince I failed to hide. The lobby was a maze of sympathetic smiles from staff who’d probably been briefed on exactly how to react to the boss’ boyfriend’s discharge.

Boyfriend. The word still felt foreign, like trying to speak French with a mouth full of marbles.

I’d gone from being the troublesome debt-ridden guy Matt was watching for James’ sake to the man he loved—a plot twist worthy of Vegas itself.

Though I had to admit, getting kidnapped wasn’t exactly the romantic gesture I’d had in mind for changing our relationship status.

Matt’s car was exactly like him—sleek, black, and probably worth more than my entire hometown’s yearly budget.

The leather seats embraced me like an old friend as I sank into them, letting out a contented sigh.

After a week of staring at the same hospital walls, even the gaudy excess of Sin City was a feast for my starved senses.

Vegas was showing off today, as if staging a personal welcome back party.

The Bellagio fountains performed their aquatic ballet, casting diamond-bright droplets into the air like nature’s slot machine paying out in liquid gold.

The pirate ship at Treasure Island stood proud against the desert sky, while a group of Elvis impersonators argued on the corner—five sequined kings debating who had the most authentic hip swing.

Only in Vegas could you witness a battle of the Elvises without batting an eye.

“Look at you,” Matt observed, catching my childlike fascination with the city. “Like a kid who’s discovered candy exists.”

“After a week of hospital food? Everything looks like candy.”

“Even the hospital food was gourmet.”

“Gourmet mush is still mush.”

We passed the Welcome to Las Vegas sign, its iconic shape a beacon of promised sin and redemption.

A wedding party posed beneath it, the bride’s white dress a stark contrast against the desert backdrop.

The groom wore Elvis costume number six hundred and forty-three, complete with rhinestone-studded cape.

The Maxwell Hotel and Resort welcomed us home with its familiar scents—Matt’s cologne, aged whiskey, and that subtle leather aroma that whispered you can’t afford this . I made a theatrical beeline for the couch, collapsing onto it with enough drama to make a soap opera star proud.

“Oh, how I’ve missed you,” I told the couch earnestly, stroking its arm. “Not that the hospital suite wasn’t ridiculously luxurious, but there’s something about furniture that doesn’t come with a nurse call button attached.”