You didn’t grow up poor. Far from it. Your family vacations were five-star, your closet is full of labels most people dream about—but Rafe Cameron’s world? It’s a whole different universe.

The kind of money he has—his family has—is the type that bends reality. Private jet. Penthouse suites with personal butlers. Custom-tailored everything. You’re used to luxury, sure, but Rafe lives like nothing has ever been out of reach. Like the world was made for his hands.

And somehow, you ended up in the middle of it with him.

The moment you walk into the Vegas suite, you freeze. This isn’t just expensive—it’s ridiculous. Everything is glass and gold, the view spilling in from a wall of floor-to-ceiling windows that make the entire room glow like a dream. The Strip stretches endlessly below you, neon lights pulsing like a heartbeat.

The bed looks like it belongs in a palace—massive, layered in crisp white sheets and velvet throws. At the end of it, a curved cream sofa faces a 90-inch TV, and behind that, the city lights shimmer like they’re winking just for you. To your right, a modern open kitchen with a black marble island, chrome barstools, and a fridge that probably costs more than your car. On the left? A bathroom that’s nearly the size of your bedroom back home. It has a soaking tub sunken into the floor, a glass walk-in shower with rainfall settings, and a vanity stocked with high-end skincare you recognize from beauty editorials.

You blink. “Rafe… this is insane.”

He’s already inside, tossing his bag onto the bed like it’s just another Tuesday. “I told you I’d take care of it.”

“Yeah, I thought you meant, like… a suite. Not the entire top floor.”

He shrugs, his voice lazy and smooth. “Only the best for my girl.”

Your heart skips, just a little. He always says things like that—my girl—without meaning it the way your heart wishes he did. Or maybe he does mean it, but neither of you is brave enough to find out.

You toe off your shoes, stepping slowly into the suite, your fingertips brushing the soft velvet of the couch. You shouldn’t feel this out of place. You’re used to nice things. But with Rafe, it’s different. He buys out whole floors. Tips like money isn’t real. Swipes his card and doesn’t blink.

“Don’t get that look,” he says from behind you.

You turn, raising a brow. “What look?”

He grins. “The ‘I don’t belong here’ look. You do. You’re with me.”

You don’t say anything. You don’t need to. Because even though it is a little overwhelming—Vegas, the penthouse, him—there’s something about being next to Rafe that makes you feel like nothing can touch you. He draws attention wherever he goes, sure, but he keeps you close. Always. Hand at the small of your back when you walk through crowds, arm slung around your shoulders like it’s instinct.

You feel… untouchable with him.

He walks over, pulls two glasses from the bar. Pours tequila like he’s done it a thousand times—which, he probably has—and hands one to you. His fingers brush yours again. You’re almost used to it now, that little buzz of heat.

“You gonna let loose tonight?” he asks, eyes glittering with that signature Cameron mischief.

You smirk, lifting your glass. “You’ll keep me safe?”

He doesn’t even hesitate. “Always.”

The promise in his voice is solid. Real. And it’s not just words—you’ve seen it. The way he steps between you and drunk guys in clubs. The way his hand tightens on your waist if someone looks too long. The way he never lets you feel small.

You toss the shot back and laugh, the burn sweet and sharp on your tongue. He watches you with a proud smile, like you just passed some unspoken test.

“You’re trouble,” you tell him, voice warm.

“And you love it,” he replies.

And maybe you do. Maybe when you’re with Rafe, you let yourself stop thinking so much. You let yourself be. You laugh louder. Move freer. Dance without overthinking it. You let go—just a little—because you know if you fall, he’s already there to catch you.

Vegas is wild, loud, too much.

But with Rafe?

It almost feels like home