I have been to the Bellagio more times than I can count with the fingers on my hands.

I've walked along the golden marble tiles that shine with specks of red and have waited by the reception area that's decorated with tufted, navy-blue circular seating and oval-shaped coffee tables.

I've flirted with foreign clients—sat on their laps while they placed their bets on the roulette table—and have had to put up with their higher-than-thou attitudes. I've also watched the seasons change from summer to fall and winter to spring in the conservatory.

Yet, what amazes me most about this resort isn't its pompous guests that saunter the grounds as if they own it. It is the glass flowers that continually draw my attention to the ceiling.

Adorned with over two thousand handblown flowers, the colorful piece stretches across the lobby to the end of the hall. My eyes sketch the delicate and intricate lines of the design, filled with tones of red, yellow, purple, blue, and several shades of green.

If this masterpiece could be turned into fabric, it would make a beautiful collection.

My creative brain begins to sew the large floral print into a cohesive, runway-worthy collection—summer dresses, pencil skirts with matching blazers, a breezy blouse.

If I had brought my sketchbook, I would have started drawing the designs right away. I'd hide under the blown flowers and sketch for hours.

My suitors would never find me, and Andrews would probably have my head, but I'd have the best collection to show... no one. Because no one has taken me seriously, at least none of the boutique owners in Las Vegas.

They look at my pieces and say they are "cute" and that I "should stick to my daytime job." Some have tried to lowball me because the clothes aren't by a well-known designer.

To some extent, the owners are right.

I should probably stick to my current job. Odds are, I'll never make a fifteen-hundred-dollar dress or even make that much selling all the pieces I have in the storage unit.

The wisest thing to do is to sell all of my equipment and stop wasting money at Threads, the fabric store I frequent when I feel like splurging an extra twenty on myself.

But a part of me is determined to show the world I'm not a statistic, and I'll get out of this hole one way or another.

The ugliness of others will never deter me from my hopes and dreams or from the potential I carry deep within me.

I tell my brain to stop somersaulting with its creative ideas because right now, I have a job to do and a part to play. I cannot focus if my mind is filled with prints, pins, and chalk sticks.

I shake the distraction out of my head and focus on my current paying job.

As I follow the expensive flower sculpture to the bar, I sense the interested gaze of strangers.

Every aspect of their demeanor screams what their minds are thinking.

They might as well say it out loud.

Either the women want to be me, or they hate the way their men are looking at me.

The men, they watch me like predators hunting their prey, waiting for the perfect moment to insert themselves.

I love people watching and could spend my days observing the mannerisms of the rich and famous. I enjoy giving each of my subjects an individual story based on how they're dressed and the partner on their side.

Although I enjoy watching like I'm part of an audience, I hate it when people stare at me, especially when I'm working.

The pitiful stares are followed by whispered judgment and disgust as they physically distance themselves from me as if I have a contagious virus.

I'm more than aware of the illegality of prostitution in Vegas. The smallest slip can land me in jail, and everything I have worked for will mean nothing.

I'll lose Ben—my reason for doing this. I cannot afford for anyone to find out, so I learned early on in my career to fake my confidence.

If I pretend I belong, no one will question my intentions, although their minds will remain in wonder.

Before, I would have kept my head down and walked with hurried steps, but now, now my head stays high and my strides long and poised.

I belong here.

Walking toward my destination, I notice the shining lights emitting from the casino. The dings and chimes of slot machines are a devil on the shoulder of a gambler, enticing them to drop their sobriety chip on their way back to the rabbit hole.

The enormous room is filled with the acrid smoke of cigarettes and imported cigars from the Caribbean. The stench fills every inch of air around me, triggering my gag reflex.

The pungent scent reminds me so much of Ralph that I have it written under my hard limits.

Andrews knows not to pair me with a smoker, but because all of the hotels in Vegas have casinos, the smoke comes with me whether I like it or not—much like it does at the trailer.

Entering the bar, I occupy one of the empty stools and wait for the bartender, who signals he'll be right with me. He shuffles around a few more drinks and finally heads my way.

Placing a napkin on the mahogany top, he asks with a dazzling smile, "What can I get for you?"

"A shot of tequila and a glass of Cabernet, please."

Giving me an acknowledging nod, I watch as he grabs a bottle from the massive, black shelf behind him and pours the alcohol into a shot glass. He slides the glass toward me, and I take it back in one full gulp.

At first, the liquid burns, but as it glides down my throat, I'm reminded that this is my medicine, and it'll make me feel better when the effects begin to numb my body.

Finishing my drink, the bartender hands me a glass of red wine and goes on to serve his other customers.

Taking a sip, I notice blonde curls at the end of the bar. Luke gives me a nod, letting me know Mr. Edmond has arrived.

It's showtime.