I make a face, and I guess she’s as good at imagining my face as I am hers, because Lizzy says, “Just kidding. Kind of.”

Love Inc. is the high-end brothel where she auctioned her virginity. It’s owned by this guy named Marchant Radcliffe, who happens to be Hunter’s fratty best bro from Tulane.

I’ve glimpsed the guy at a party or two, and he always seems so…pimpish. Don’t get me wrong: He’s got amazing clothes, and from what little I’ve seen of him, he’s not hard on the eyes—wild, brown-blond-red hair he wears kind of spiky, and a sexy beard—but he’s got a certain swagger I just can’t tolerate. Like he has sex with a different woman every night and he’s just so…proud of himself. Like he owns two huge brothels, filled with women willing to satisfy any man’s sex fantasies.

Oh wait—he does have two huge brothels filled with women willing to satisfy any man’s sex fantasies!

I wrinkle my nose. “No thanks on that part.” I’m sure Lizzy’s new escort friends are nice and all, but…they’re escorts. “But I’d love to come see you at the casino. I finally let the cat out of the bag about Adam to my mom today, so I’m sure the jet will be ready at a moment’s notice. She’ll probably think I need some girl time.”

“Oh my God, you finally told Gretchen…”

And so begins an hour-long conversation, during which I tell Lizzy all about my day and she tells me absolutely nothing about hers. In fact, the longer I talk to her, the more convinced I am that something’s going on. I consider asking her outright, but while we’re on the phone I send my mom an e-mail, which she answers immediately from her iPhone, letting me know the jet can be ready in an hour. She hopes I have a wonderful weekend, where I focus on just me! Smilie face!

Soon I’ll be in Vegas, and I’ll find out what Lizzy is hiding.

* * *

My mood plummets as I pack. My iPhone’s calendar alerts me at exactly four o’clock that it’s time to take an ovulation test. If I were going to ovulate this month, my doctor thinks today would be the day. Actually, I can’t believe I haven’t taken the test already. It’s a testament to how scattered I am lately. For the last six months, since I’ve been working with an expert OB-GYN in Beverly Hills, I haven’t ever forgotten to take the test on O-Day. Of course, there hasn’t ever been an O-Day, so maybe I forgot today because I’ve finally given up.

My reproductive system is a lemon. I’ve got two ovaries, but they don’t release eggs monthly. I got my period for the first time when I was sixteen, and I had it until I turned nineteen, when it disappeared, never to return.

I drop a strapless bra and a blouse into my suitcase and trudge into the bathroom, where a quick test confirms what I already knew: I’m not ovulating today.

Woohoo.

Most months, I spend hours obsessing over what this means for me; what this meant for Adam and I. Today, I just don’t have the energy.

I toss the test in the garbage can, push my purse onto my shoulder, hoist my hang-up bag over my other shoulder, and drag my rolling suitcase to the elevator.

Arnold gives me a ride to my family’s airport, not much more than two hangars in a giant field between Napa and the valley. On the way, I make like Adam and pop the cork on a bottle of Pinot Noir. Stupid Clomid. Stupid all the other drugs I’ve tried. Stupid Dr. Haynes. Stupid ovaries.

I guess it’s a good thing I’m single now. I’m never going to give any man children.

I shut my eyes and take a few deep swigs straight out of the bottle. And when we arrive at the airport, I stuff the bottle into my purse—probably just like Adam, too, if he carried a purse.

I focus on the feeling of my legs moving as they carry me from the limousine to the blue and grey Boeing Dad bought when I was in high school. I pay attention to my arms as they clutch my luggage. I clench my stomach underneath my shirt. I think about my ovaries below my stomach.

What’s wrong with me? So far, nobody knows. Maybe I don’t care, I think as I hike up the plane’s fold-out stairs. Maybe I’ll be an old maid with a hundred cats. Or dogs, because cats are just difficult.

Even the thought of a hundred darling dogs depresses me, and as soon as I see our family’s long-term flight attendant, Esmerelda, I realize that, just like at Julian’s earlier, I must be wearing my mood all over my face. She throws her arms around me and leads me to the most comfy, recliner-style seat on the jet, and starts a movie on the flatscreen right in front of me: Finding Nemo.

“You need something fun today,” she declares.

I just nod, because really, what else can I say? Nemo is perfect. He’s got the little fin; I’ve got the broken ovaries.

“Would you like a drink?”

I must look like shit. I laugh and pull out the bottle of Pinot Noir from my Belkin bag.

She laughs, too. “Oh, so it’s a bad, bad day.”

I nod again, feeling too tired to think of anything to say, and she takes the bottle and brings me a glass filled with the crimson liquid.

For the next two hours, Esmerelda refills my glass…a lot of times. Every time I finish, she refills it. I toss them back just like Adam, and watch the little orange fish swim around the screen with a strange, dull feeling—like I’m living inside an empty aquarium.

When we touch down at the private airport behind the Wynn Casino, in downtown Vegas, Esmerelda laughs at me, and ruffles my newly styled, short hair. “I never seen you drunk, Suri Dalton.”

I blink blearily at her. “I don’t ever get drunk.”

“I didn’t think you did.” She squeezes my arm. “Would you like me or Lonnie—” that’s the pilot— “to walk with you?”

I shake my head, feeling the plane tilt around me. I wonder if we’ve landed yet. “Um, no. I’m fine.”

“If you’re sure,” she says.

Apparently, the plane is landed. I catch a glimpse of lights outside the window, then point weakly to the bags, and Esmerelda nods. “We’ll get them to Mr. West’s room. Don’t worry.”

“Thank you.”

As I float toward the plane’s door, she says, “Go have some fun!”

I tell her I will, and hold on tightly to the railing as I make my way down the stairs in my sexiest jeans, red Lanvin ballet flats, and a flowy white Marc Jacobs blouse I got last time I went shopping on Rodeo Drive.

I wander toward the glossy-looking high-rises with only my purse on my shoulder, and it’s then I realize I have no idea where I’m going. I’ve only been to Hunter’s penthouse once, and in my drunken state, I can’t seem to understand how the trees and grass around me will lead me back there.

I look around. I’m past the airport now and on a…golf course? I giggle. This is not good. I suck at golf. I can’t see Hunter West in a golf shirt. Pretentious Casual—that’s what I’ll call his style. Lizzy sold her clubs when her dad left so she can’t play, either. Golf sucks! I twirl around. There are palm trees strung with lights. So many lights! They make me dizzy!

I ended up sitting on one of the greens, but a rescuer arrives! A golf cart is here. There’s a man in a suit. He’s saying, “Can I help you?”

I blink up at him and grin. “My prince charming!”

We strike a deal, and he says he will take me out of the palm tree forest, to the Wynn.

“And you work here?” I ask him for the first—or second?—time.

“Yes, miss. I’m a ball boy.”

I giggle. Balls.

“Golf balls.”

He chuckles. “Golf balls.”

He presses the pedal, and I get dropped into the rabbit hole. Lots of lights and pools that glow and other lights, and umbrellas and stuff hanging over gardens, and I see some dancers wearing feathers on their butts and I think I saw a waterfall peeking through the brush.

There’s this lighted path, and we drive down it, and then we’re standing in front of this Zen-ish garden place, and there’s a bunch of tropical trees and a stone path and tables with candles where people are eating stuff that smells good, kind of like tuna, and my guide is biding me au revoir. I’m out of the cart, standing along a tree-lined path. My legs feel shaky.

“Wait—but what do I do now?” I turn around. My guide is gone. I’m by myself.

Oh, God.

I’m not sure how I make it to the penthouses. I’m on the 46th floor, and the view from the back of the glass elevator makes me dizzy. I step onto the shiny chocolate marble, under big, round, gold chandelier things, and I have a hazy memory of tipping someone pretty generously and mentioning Hunter’s name.

But uh-oh. There’s a problem. This hallway, where the elevator dropped me off, only has one door, and it’s guarded by a solid gold lion. I blink my bleary eyes and try to see it in a different light, but I know décor, and this does not say ‘Hunter’ or ‘Lizzy’ to me. Not at all.

I sink down against the wall, stick my cold hands into my bag, and give my fine motor skills a challenge by searching for my makeup. I giggle as I pop open a compact and refresh my lipstick—see, I don’t look drunk!—and stumble as I get back to my feet. I drop the makeup back into my purse and fish my iPhone out. I dial Lizzy’s number, still smiling stupidly, but when it goes to voice mail, my stomach starts to feel sick.

I’m lost.

I’m lost in a big casino. Not just a casino. A casino wonderland, with an Alexander McQueen boutique and waterfalls and flashy lights and steam and marble and glittery diamond lamps.

“Where is Lizzy?” I whisper to myself.

I’m back at the big, brass elevator, repeatedly banging the ‘down’ arrow. The doors open a couple seconds later, and I ride to the main floor, where I’m dizzied again by the sights, sounds, and smells of the casino.