The room still smelled faintly sweet and artificial, like fruit left too long under neon light. It was the kind of scent that seemed to cling to Las Vegas itself—a mix of expensive alcohol, recycled air, and promises no one truly intended to keep. Isabella Iero woke slowly, as if surfacing from a dream too heavy to leave behind. Her head throbbed in a steady rhythm, and the light slipping through the half-closed curtains felt sharper than it should have. For a few seconds, she stayed completely still, trying to gather thoughts that refused to line up. Twenty-four. She remembered that much. Remembered raising her glass—again and again—to this new age, surrounded by faces she had only known through screens. Virtual friends, scattered across forums and chatrooms, now real, loud, warm, and startlingly familiar. They had welcomed her like she’d always belonged. The night had been… alive. Fragments returned in flashes: pulsing lights, music too loud to think over, someone shouting her name in a crowd, glasses clinking, voices promising this would be “the best night of her life.” And maybe it had been. Or at least, it felt that way. Then she noticed the weight. An arm. Heavy. Warm. Resting around her waist like it belonged there. Isabella froze. The body beside her breathed slowly, deeply—the kind of peaceful sleep that comes with having nothing to worry about. Unlike her. Carefully, as if any sudden movement might shatter something fragile, she turned her head. Dark blond hair, tousled against the pillow. Features softened by sleep. A man she recognized—not from time, but from the strange intensity of a single night. Damon. His name came before the full memory did. Which was already a problem. Isabella squeezed her eyes shut for a moment, hoping reality might rearrange itself. It didn’t. She shifted slightly—and felt it. Something cool. Solid. On her ring finger. Slowly, almost afraid to confirm it, she lifted her hand in front of her face. A ring. Simple. Gold. Real. The kind of thing that doesn’t just appear. The kind of thing that shouldn’t be there. A heavy silence filled the room, even with the distant hum of the city bleeding through the walls. Isabella stared at the ring as if it might explain itself. Nothing. Then memories surfaced—not complete, not orderly, but enough. A bar. Laughter, closer now. Damon leaning against the counter, looking at her like he already knew her. A conversation that started light and deepened far too quickly. They talked about everything and nothing—travel, loneliness, that strange feeling of not belonging anywhere. There had been something about him. Something familiar. Something quietly dangerous. Then… shots. Too many. A walk along the Strip, lights reflecting in their eyes. Someone joking about getting married. And then— A chapel. Beside her, Damon stirred. His arm tightened slightly around her waist before loosening, and he let out a quiet breath, still caught between sleep and waking. Slowly, he opened his eyes, blinking against the light. For a moment, he just stared at the ceiling like it was any normal morning. Then he turned his head. Their eyes met. Silence. A very specific kind of silence—the kind that happens when two people realize, at the exact same time, that they’ve done something irreversible. Damon blinked again, as if adjusting to reality. “…Hi.” He said, his voice rough but far too calm for the situation.