Page 31 of Marrying Mr. Wentworth (Austen Hunks #3)

Two seconds later — Christopher

V egas was loud, flashy, and demanding.

But next to Ariana, it was background noise.

We left the restaurant together, our group trailing behind, their laughter bouncing off the brightly lit sidewalks. The security guards were behind us, but it felt like we were in our own orbit. Every step, every glance was dialed in. Focused.

On her.

She walked fast, like speed would save her. Heels clicking, chin high, all sharp edges and stubborn pride. But her fingers twitched at her sides like they missed holding mine.

“You know,” I said casually, falling into step beside her, “you were dangerously close to enjoying yourself tonight.”

“That’s debatable.”

“You laughed, Remington.”

“A reflex.” She kept her eyes forward, but the corner of her mouth betrayed her.

“I’m very funny.”

“Hmm. Questionable.”

“Objectively funny, actually. Award-winningly charming. You should really check the stats.”

“I don’t need to. I’ve seen your fan girls.” She gestured back vaguely toward Courtney. “Some of them are very…hands-on with their support.”

I grinned. Couldn’t help it. “Jealous?”

Her scoff was textbook denial. “Please.”

“Your straw wanted blood.”

“That was situational. Also, justified.”

We crossed the Strip toward the hotel, weaving through tourists and street performers, the pulse of music vibrating up from the pavement. The lights reflected in her eyes, but she wasn’t looking at Vegas.

She was looking at me.

“You were playing with fire back there,” she said.

“I’m good with heat.”

“Be careful, Wentworth. You’ll get burned.”

“Worth it.”

She stopped then, one foot on the curb, one on the street, turning to face me with that look that always meant trouble.

“You think this is a game,” she said quietly.

“No,” I said, stepping in. Close, but not close enough to spook her. “I think this is a reckoning.”

That got her.

For a second, her mask slipped. Her eyes flared.

But then she was moving again. “Thirteen hours left, Wentworth. Try to keep your existential crises contained.”

“Not a crisis,” I said, matching her stride. “More like clarity.”

“Of course it is. Vegas is famous for it. People have epiphanies in strip clubs all the time.”

I laughed, low and easy, because she was fighting and losing, and we both knew it.

The hotel loomed ahead, glass and steel and just a little too much symbolism. We reached the elevators, the group dispersing toward the casino and bars.

But not us.

Because we had unfinished business.

I nodded to the security guard who was following me. Telling him with no words that I wouldn’t need him any longer tonight.

The elevator doors slid closed, and for the first time all night, it was quiet. Too quiet.

Ariana’s reflection stared back at me from the gold-trimmed walls, all defiance and avoidance.

“I can feel you thinking,” I said.

“Good. Maybe it’ll rub off.”

I didn’t push. I didn’t need to.

Because her pulse was thudding at her throat. Because her fingers flexed like she wanted to grab my shirt and shove me against the wall. Because the elevator was a pressure cooker, and we were both about to boil over.

Ding.

Our floor.

She stepped out first, head high, pace brisk.

But her shoulders were tight.

And when we got back into the suite, she slipped off her heels with a sigh. Her hair was a little windblown. Her mascara just starting to smudge. And she looked like everything I’d ever wanted.

“Twelve and a half hours left,” she muttered again, heading to the bathroom.

“Still taking the money then?”

She paused. She didn’t look at me, but her shoulders tensed. “That’s the plan,” she said finally.

I nodded. “Then I’ve got nothing to lose.”

She turned. “What?”

I walked toward her slowly, deliberately. Not threatening. Just steady.

“Twelve and a half hours left,” I repeated. “So here’s what I want. One honest answer.”

She crossed her arms. “To what?”

“To this.” I stopped a foot away. “Do you still love me?”

She blinked. “No.”

Too fast. Too practiced. Too false.

I stepped closer. “Say it like you mean it.”

“I just did.”

“You didn’t hesitate.”

“I didn’t need to.” But her voice was shaking now.

I took another step. “Say it again.”

“Christopher—”

“Look me in the eye and tell me you don’t still feel it. Tell me last night meant nothing. Tell me waking up in my arms didn’t make you think, even for a second, about what it used to be like. About what it could still be.”

Her throat worked. Her jaw tightened. She didn’t say a word.

So I leaned in—slow, careful, a whisper from her lips—and said, “That’s what I thought.”

She didn’t move. She didn’t pull away. But her walls went up hard and fast.

“You don’t get to do this,” she said, backing up a step, her voice jagged. “You don’t get to break me, then come back a decade later with sexy smiles and declarations and think I’ll just forget.”

“I don’t want you to forget,” I said. “I want you to remember. Because what we had? It was worth remembering.”

“And it still hurts.”

“I know,” I said. “I live with that every day.”

We stared at each other across a chasm that hadn’t been there twenty-four hours ago. Or maybe it had always been there. And we were finally facing it.

“I need a minute,” she said.

I nodded. And for the first time since this all started, I walked away. Because the next move?

Was hers.