Chapter 35
"Catherine," he said slowly, as he slid into the seat opposite mine. "I heard a mother of three girls was haunting my casino tonight."
"Not haunting," I replied, tracing a finger over the rim of my wine glass. "Just collecting something for diapers and milk, you know they are now very expensive.."
Jhing Jhing and Mylene sat behind me, quiet but alert. They knew the stakes were more than just money. This was personal. The kind of battle that only looked polite on the surface. Underneath, it was blood and betrayal.
The dealer shuffled.
Alec leaned forward, eyes narrowed. "One million. Winner takes all. No splits."
"Deal," I said. I forced a grin, even though my insides were anything but steady.
Mick stood nearby, watching. The crowd hushed. Even the slot machines seemed to quiet, like the whole casino held its breath.
First Hand.
I let Alec win it. On purpose.
Let him feel confident.
I didn’t know if I could stand from the soft chair without falling later, without me wanting to stab him with my shoe. Everything felt off—my mouth muscles sore from being smiling for so long, my stomach weak from hunger.
He smirked. His ego inflated like a parade balloon.
Second hand? I crushed him. A straight flush.
Whispers started. Someone gasped. Alec narrowed his eyes. Not used to losing.
Third hand. Bluff. A bluff so good, I almost believed myself. He folded. I took the pot. More gasps.
The high roller floor turned into a theater. We were the stars. But only one of us had read the script. He stared at me across the green felt, jaw tense. I could feel it—the tension rising under his skin. The disbelief.
And then the desire.
Oh, he wanted me.
This body. This mind. This fire.
God, I was so damn hot.
He licked his lips once.
Quick.
Subtle.
But I saw it. His fingers twitched over his chips. He leaned forward. "What do you want from me, Catherine with three kids?"
"To play," I purred. "One last hand. All or nothing."
The room went still.
Mylene grabbed my arm. "Cathy—don't. Please. This is too much. My eye lashes can't handle this."
"I know what I’m doing," I whispered.
Final Hand.
The cards came down.
My pulse slowed. Focus honed. I remembered the code. The flaws I installed. The RFID system. The vibrational alerts under my ring. The dealer was mine. The casino was mine. Alec thought it was his.
Wrong.
He played aggressively. He had to. His empire was crumbling. He had Chinese, Korean and Yakuza troubles, traitors, money bleeding from every wall.
And now, I was stealing his soul in public.
"Showdown," the dealer announced.
He revealed his hand.
Full House.
He smirked.
I revealed mine.
Royal Flush.
Gasps. Screams. A woman fainted in the corner. Someone dropped their martini. Cameras flashed. Security stiffened.
Alec stared.
His eyes didn’t move from my face. His frown deepened as if he’d somehow read my thoughts. Whatever he saw didn’t please him.
Because, boy, my very presence commanded authority. My body was a weapon—powerful, timeless. Every sweet plum muscle, every movement, imbued with delicate feminine strength. I know it was overwhelming for him, as though the very air around me shifted with my power. Ha! That was the power of soft plump, cute overlapping curves, defined waist and fuller hips, asshole.
"Impossible," he whispered.
Imposible my ass.
You’re nothing but a second rate trying hard pathetic copycat.
Of course for added drama, I stood slowly, letting the slit of my dress reveal just enough to make him lose what little logic he had left.
These curves could start a war, dick head.
"Nothing's impossible," I said. "Not when I build the house."
I turned.
He reached for my arm.
"Who are you?"
I looked back and dramatically sighed, shifting my weight against the table.
His eyes—desperate. Hungry. Destroyed.
"You want me," I said softly. "But you can't afford me."
And with that, I walked out. Chips in hand. Dignity intact. A million pounds richer.
Mike drop!
And dayyymn! It felt amazing. I never thought watching those cringe-worthy-teenage-dramas on Netflix was indeed a great help.
But most importantly?
One step closer to revenge.
The next morning was... war.
I woke up with my face half-buried in an empty bag of tortilla chips, the sharp crunch stabbing into my cheekbone like regret and wet-dirty wipes. My head was pounding so hard I thought maybe someone had set off a tiny marching band inside my skull—complete with cymbals and war drums. There were glittery false lashes stuck to the side of the coffee table. One of my high heels was wedged into a potted plant. And the unmistakable scent of regret and expensive perfume clung to the air like bad karma.