Jaded, p.1
Jaded, page 1
Copyright © 2026 by Vex Harlow
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For the girls who were forced to grow up too fast.
Who survived the fire,
grew teeth instead of wings,
and still found ways to love.
CONTENTS
Content/Trigger Warnings
1. Locke
2. Arden
3. Locke
4. Arden
5. Locke
6. Locke
7. Arden
8. Locke
9. Arden
10. Locke
11. Arden
12. Locke
13. Arden
14. Locke
15. Arden
16. Locke
17. Arden
18. Locke
19. Arden
20. Arden
21. Locke
22. Locke
23. Arden
24. Locke
25. Arden
26. Locke
27. Arden
28. Locke
29. Arden
30. Locke
31. Arden
32. Locke
33. Arden
34. Locke
35. Arden
36. Locke
37. Arden
38. Locke
39. Arden
40. Locke
Acknowledgments
CONTENT/TRIGGER WARNINGS
This is a dark romance. Not the “I warned you” kind, but the “I’m warning you anyway because I care” kind. Although it won’t occupy the darkest corners of the genre, it does contain dark themes that may not be for everyone. Please review the content warnings below and prioritize your mental health. Books are meant to be enjoyed, not endured.
Mentions of parental neglect
Drug addiction
Death of a parent (on page)
Sexual assault
References to sexual assault of minors (non-graphic)
Sex trafficking themes
Threats and intimidation
Blackmail
Date rape drug use
Manipulation
Violence and physical danger
Murder and death
Criminal activity
Gambling
Frequent alcohol use
Power imbalances
Depictions of exploitation and toxicity in Hollywood
Detailed sex scenes, which include (but are not limited to): Dom/sub dynamics, anal play, praise kink, face-fucking, and edging.
Chapter 1
LOCKE
Another day, another meeting with an overpaid narcissist. This one’s panicking over the possibility of his affair hitting the press.
“Tell me again why you haven’t gotten a divorce?” I ask.
He just stares at me as if I should already know the answer. “I love her. She’s the mother of my children. I just want a little excitement now and then. How realistic is monogamy anyway?”
I arch a brow, shaking my head slightly. “Whatever you say. Although I think she’d be happier with a divorce and half your money.”
“Well, I’m not here for your opinion,” he scoffs. “Can you help me or not?”
People call me a publicist. Press agent. A fixer. Whatever makes them feel better about hiring someone like me. I cover up the messes rich men make when they think they’re untouchable.
I make sure their dirty laundry stays buried… sometimes literally. Some might say that I’m the best Hollywood agent around. Others might say I’m just too far gone. I’m more inclined to agree with the latter.
“Come on, man.” He pleads as a bead of sweat traces a path down his brow. “I need these tabloid reporters off my back. I know you can take care of them.”
“They’re just doing their job,” I reply, indifference clear in my tone. “I have ways of convincing them to keep quiet, but it’ll cost you more.”
He lets out a long sigh, like he’s been holding his breath. Rubbing the back of his neck, he replies, “Whatever, I just need this done soon.”
God forbid the world finds out he’s not the flawless, doting husband he plays on red carpets and social media. I can’t believe I came all the way to Vegas for this.
And while I would love to see this particular asshole’s entire world burn, he’s paying me far too much to let that happen.
I turn to gaze out the floor-to-ceiling windows. I couldn’t care less that this man looks like he’s on the verge of a total mental collapse. All I can think about is that I have more important things to do right now. A good cigar, for instance, is a much higher priority.
I used to care about this business, maybe a little too much. Used to work around the clock, worrying about my clients and the money. But I can’t say that I’ve cared about much of anything in years.
At some point, all the things that used to be exciting or unique about my life just became background noise. When you have the world at your fingertips, everything eventually loses its sparkle.
The kind of boredom I feel now has settled into my bones after ten years of watching the same people ruin their lives in the same ways. A decade of covering up the same messes.
Tonight will be no different. My brothers are dragging me out to another club opening. As if it could be any better than all the others we’ve seen in this city. Nate promised me a cigar.
I turn around and he’s staring at me with his head cocked to the side, like he’s expecting me to say something.
“Hello, did you hear me? Can we get to work?”
“Yeah, yeah. I’ll take it from here. If you’re done with your little pity party, feel free to go. My colleague will send you the invoice.”
Chapter 2
ARDEN
The lights of Fremont Street never get old, at least not for me. The mix of old Vegas nostalgia and new luxury ignites something in me that I can’t quite explain. It’s a unique kind of magic.
Maybe it’s because I grew up a few blocks from here and spent years roaming these streets. When I walk downtown, it feels like I’m back in high school with my best friend, dipping in and out of casinos sixty years older than us, to see if anyone would serve us a drink at the bar. I huff a laugh, shaking my head at teenage me and her terrible fake ID. There were some bartenders who humored us, anyway.
Or the time Lexi and I rode a double-decker bus around town, all day, for no reason other than we could. We got off here, at this exact spot, and walked the rest of the way home.
This part of the city hums with a warmth that feels alive, electric, even in its brokenness. The neon lights flicker against the cracked pavement and illuminate graffiti-covered buildings. The streets reek of spilled beer and cheap liquor, crowded with the faces of wanderers and the forgotten who haunt Fremont Street night after night. They’re hardly noticeable among the raging sea of drunk tourists, but I see them.
Every corner, every flashing sign, every inch of this place seeps into my blood. This isn’t just where I live. It’s who I am. It’s home.
Maybe that’s why I still come here so often.
Maybe that's why I chose this club tonight instead of one on the strip.
That, and it’s inside the newest 21+ playground in Vegas. A mid-century-inspired facade paired with the finest modern luxuries, down to an awe-inspiring rooftop pool. This place is hot right now, making it the perfect spot to find single, good-looking, and most importantly, wealthy men.
As a 25-year-old single woman, what else would I be doing on a Friday night? Knitting? I think not. I wish Lexi were here right now; it’s been far too long since our last girls’ night. But childcare is hard to find, so I’m flying solo.
Inside the casino, the usual assault on my senses begins. The suffocating scent of cigarette smoke, the obnoxious chimes of slot machines, and slow-moving tourists who make me want to scream. I weave around them and manage to catch an elevator right as the doors close.
The club is sixty stories up. I smash the button and take a moment to steal one last glance at myself in the elevator’s mirrored glass.
I quickly comb my fingers through my long, black waves, check that my winged liner hasn’t dared to smudge, and swipe on a fresh coat of wine-red lipstick. Pausing, I examine the freckles scattered over my peachy-beige skin. They always seem to pop more when the wea ther gets warm. I smooth down my black satin minidress, counting the seconds until I have a drink in my hand.
The doors open and — damn. This isn’t the kind of club I expected. It’s a rooftop bar that takes decadence to a whole new level.
Gold accents catch the dim lighting, casting everything in a soft glow. The entire space is sleek and mid-century modern, with plush seating areas, a marble bar, and an open patio lined with fire pits. It’s exclusive, dripping with class, and the gold of my heels mirrors the warm gleam of the bar’s accents. At least I dressed for the occasion.
I’m only here because a friend from high school is a cocktail waitress and snagged a last-minute reservation for me, but the second I step inside, I decide I belong here.
As I make my way toward the bar, I scan the room. Every table is occupied. Couples cuddle together, sharing appetizers and slowly sipping their cocktails; groups of men and women in business suits talk quietly at their tables, and a large group of women gathers in a corner booth.
The woman in the middle of the group is wearing a white minidress with fringe lining the bottom, a sash reading “bride” draped over her shoulder. The rest are in varying shades of pink and red. In front of them, the table is littered with shot glasses all sitting around a large heart-shaped cake. I steal a glance as I pass by. Someone scrawled ‘Same penis forever’ on it in bright red frosting. I snort out a laugh as my eyes wander to the floor-to-ceiling windows revealing a view of the rooftop patio.
A cluster of men sits at the largest fire pit, right in the middle of the space. Three of them, all in dark, expertly tailored suits.
One has sun-kissed tan skin and messy blond curls; his arm drapes lazily around a girl who looks like she just stepped out of a Barbie box: long, sleek blonde hair, a pink, very short dress, and matching stilettos that have to be killing her feet. She looks like she could be my age. She also looks drunk. The man she’s clinging to is wearing a smug smile that tells me exactly what his plans are for the evening. I roll my eyes and shift my gaze to the other two.
They both have the kind of build that makes it look like their suits are hanging on by a thread, muscles straining beneath the fabric. Almost-black hair, slicked back. Strong features. They look like they might be related, but one looks several years older, judging by the strands of grey scattered throughout his hair and beard.
They lean forward, elbows resting on their knees, tilting close to each other as they talk. From an outsider’s perspective, it looks like they could be planning something or maybe talking business.
The bearded one is sipping an amber-colored cocktail, and I can’t help but stare as he leans back to run his fingers through his salt-and-pepper hair. A lock comes loose, hanging in front of his brow. His posture relaxes against the stone bench flanking the fire pit as he takes another sip. Something about him tells me he’s not a man who relaxes often.
Interesting.
I slide onto a barstool and order my usual. “Vodka martini, extra dirty.” When my drink arrives, I steal another glance toward the fire pit. His sleeves are now rolled up to his elbows, revealing permanently inked ones underneath. His eyes scan the patio for a moment before locking on mine through the window.
This is my moment.
I let my gaze hold his for a second before I slip away from the bar and through the door, feeling his eyes on me the whole way.
The entire city stretches beneath me as I stand at the rooftop’s glass-lined edge. The sun has just dipped behind the mountains, leaving streaks of pink and orange blazing across the sky. I watch as the city glows to life below, feeling his presence beside me before I even turn to look.
“Martini?” His voice is deep and smooth. “Bold choice.”
I glance up. His eyes gaze into my own, the same warm brown hue as the whiskey he’s sipping. I catch the scent of expensive cologne — something woodsy with a hint of spice — and cigar smoke. More tattoos peek out from beneath his collar, teasing just enough to make me wonder what else might be hidden beneath that suit.
“Extra dirty,” I say, shooting him a sly grin.
His lips twitch as if he’s amused. “Not many women order it that way.”
I swirl my martini and pop an olive into my mouth, my eyes never leaving his. “What can I say? I like it filthy.”
The smile that follows is almost predatory.
I take a slow sip, letting the tension linger. The way he holds himself and the calm in his posture are almost unsettling, yet I can’t look away. I let my gaze drift down the length of his body. Expensive cufflinks. Designer watch. Italian leather shoes. Making mental notes.
He’s the first to break the silence. “Are you waiting for someone?”
I hesitate, weighing my answer, but decide to keep it simple.
“No,” I say, shrugging. “Just stopped by for a drink. You?”
He lets out a half-hearted laugh and shakes his head. There’s a hint of something beneath it I can’t quite put my finger on, but he just mutters a clipped, “No.”
I nod, taking another sip as I study him over the rim of my glass. “Do you have a name?”
“Lochlan,” he says as he offers his hand. “Most people call me Locke."
I take the offer. His grip is strong and controlled, and it sends a shock straight through me that I wasn’t expecting.
“I’m Arden."
He doesn’t let go right away. His thumb brushes once against the side of my hand before he releases me. That wasn’t accidental. Not subtle either.
“So, Arden, who ‘just stopped by for a drink’…” His mouth curves at one corner. “You usually pick rooftops for that?”
I mirror his smile, easy and unbothered. “I like the view."
“Right,” he says, eyes dropping to my glass, “and very dirty martinis.”
I shrug again. “Everyone has their vices.”
He studies me for a moment, really looking at me. Like he’s trying to figure me out.
Then he tilts his head toward the fire pit where his buddies are failing miserably at pretending not to watch. “Care to join us?”
The stone bench flanking the fire pit is surprisingly comfortable as I sink into the open space Locke directed me toward. The younger dark-haired man sits on the bench directly across the fire, arms folded, eyes fixed on me.
The blond one leans back, smile widening. “Well, well, who is this?”
I raise a brow, giving him a slow once-over that makes it clear I’m unimpressed. “Arden. You?”
His smile doesn’t falter. “Sebastian.”
“And I’m Ashley!” the Barbie slurs.
Yep, very drunk.
“I’ve gotta say, it’s rare that my friend here invites a woman to join us… or anyone, really. He’s not the social type,” Sebastian says as he jerks his head toward Locke, who is now sitting beside me.
“And don’t even get me started on that one.” He gestures to the man on his other side dismissively.
“Don’t even start,” the mysterious man retorts.
“That’s my brother Nate.” Locke leans in close as he says it, his breath grazing my neck. “His bark is worse than his bite,” he adds, leaning in closer so only I can hear it.
Nate gives me one stiff nod, eyes narrowed like he doesn’t fully trust me, though I haven’t given him a reason not to. I meet his stare, hold it for a moment, then give him a quick wink before moving on. His jaw tightens.
I let my eyes roam the group, noting the subtle differences in posture and attention. Sebastian leans forward slightly, still amused. Ashley giggles at nothing in particular, leaning against Seb as if he’s the only thing holding her up. Locke inches closer to me, lighting a fresh cigar.
“Well,” I say, leaning in. “What are we getting up to tonight, boys?”
Hours pass in a haze of warmth and rounds of cocktails. The firelight flickers, casting soft shadows on the sharp features of the group. We talk, but not about anything that matters. Sebastian spends most of the time detailing his latest trip to Mexico on his father’s yacht. Why am I not surprised? He’s the first to leave, with Ashley’s arm draped over his shoulder. I have a feeling that’s out of necessity more than flirtation.
Nate follows soon after, mumbling something about a phone call he needs to make. I catch him shooting me and Locke an uneasy glance before disappearing into the crowd. As if he were trying to telepathically urge his brother not to do anything stupid.
