"Ethan Reed, 33. Male. American. Heterosexual. Single. Occupation: Professional poker player."
Vera’s thumb hovered over the screen of her tablet as she read her own notes for the third time, her face lit by its soft glow in Victor Cho’s private office. The room was cavernous but carefully curated, all dark wood, leather, and gleaming metal. A single low lamp cast long shadows across the walls, the kind of lighting designed to make anyone seated across from Victor feel smaller.
Victor lounged in his low leather chair, a cigar smoldering lazily between his fingers. Unusually tall and broad-shouldered for a Korean, he didn’t look like a man running a billion-dollar empire. He looked like a gambler bored with winning.
“Anything I don’t already know?” he asked. There was no impatience in his voice, only the lazy curiosity of someone waiting to be entertained.
Vera hated being underprepared, but Victor never seemed to care about her preferences. The dossier on Ethan Reed had arrived barely an hour ago, which meant she’d had just enough time to skim through the highlights. It wasn’t the first time Victor had thrown her into a situation with little preparation, and it wouldn’t be the last. He thrived on unpredictability—not through careful planning, but by embracing chaos, as though uncertainty itself gave him an edge.
She adjusted her posture, sitting straighter in the chair across from him, and began. “Reed started playing poker as a teenager. Underground games in Oakland, then online sit-and-gos. By the time he graduated high school, he’d already won enough to help fund his first year at Berkeley. He was studying mathematics, but dropped out as a sophomore.”
Victor tapped the ash from his cigar on the floor, ignoring the ashtray: “He dropped out to play poker? A bold move. Did he leap—or was he pushed?”
Vera glanced at the dossier. “The timing suggests it was a calculated leap. By his sophomore year, his online earnings were stable enough to cover his expenses. He likely saw the degree as unnecessary—an opportunity cost compared to poker’s immediate returns.”
Victor’s eyebrow arched slightly. “And when the online games dried up? What did he do after the Black Friday?”
Black Friday – April 15, 2011. The day US online poker crashed. Vera hadn’t understood the full gravity of it as a teenager—just the fragments she’d picked up from her uncle’s ranting about frozen accounts and rigged systems. But even then, it felt monumental, like watching a gambler’s tower of chips topple in slow motion. The lesson had stayed with her: fortune favored the prepared. She guessed Reed was lucky that way.
Vera scrolled through her notes: “By the time Black Friday hit, Reed had already relocated to Las Vegas and was playing higher-stakes live cash games. The shift away from online poker was deliberate and aligned with his skills in reading opponents.”
Victor smirked, his gaze cutting through her thoughts. “Not just a survivor, then. A strategist. The real question is whether he’s aiming for survival—or domination.”
Vera glanced up from the screen. “Reed gravitates toward cash games and avoids tournaments. He also doesn’t play on streamed games or publicized events with other top-tier pros.”
Victor shrugged. “A predator who doesn’t bother with other predators. He picks his prey carefully.”
“And patiently,” he added, leaning back in his chair. His voice took on a faint, almost amused edge. “Patient little Ethan, lying in wait for someone to trip. Someone like me, I suppose.”
Vera didn’t respond. Victor’s tone wasn’t mocking—it was stranger, like he was already three moves ahead in a game no one else knew had started.
She returned her attention to the dossier. “Estimated net worth is around one million.This figure is a deduction; cash game winnings aren’t reported. Most of it is likely his bankroll. No debts, no dependents.”
“That’s when it starts getting comfortable,” Victor noticed, “but he’s young. How much would it take to make him sell his soul? Ten million? Twenty?”
“Reed identifies as atheist,” Vera commented after consulting the dossier, not quite sure where Victor is going with this. She could swear she felt sulfur smell from his cigar.
“Oh,” Victor knowingly smiled, “these come in cheap. Vices?”
“No drugs. No alcohol, apart from the occasional drink. He doesn’t gamble outside of poker, either.”
Victor raised an eyebrow, exhaling a thin plume of smoke. “A man in Vegas who doesn’t drink, doesn’t smoke, doesn’t gamble?” His tone carried a faint trace of amusement. “Careful, Vera. If you tell me he’s also celibate, I might just start to feel threatened.”
Vera fought back the instinct to roll her eyes, her expression smoothing into professional indifference.
A case of literary theft: this tale is not rightfully on Amazon; if you see it, report the violation.
“He seems private,” she said, scrolling further. “No social media presence, no public connections beyond a few interviews from years ago. His longest known relationship was with a girl he dated in college—four years. After that, nothing verifiable. If I had to guess, he avoids anything emotionally demanding.”
Victor tilted his head. “No one builds walls that high without a reason. There must be a crack.”
She nodded. “Classic overcompensation. Fear of vulnerability. I could assign it to Maria.”
Victor’s reaction was immediate. “No. No delegating this time.” His voice was sharper now, cutting cleanly through the room’s quiet. “Ethan Reed isn’t just another lonely rich boy with a gambling addiction. He’s a poker shark. And sharks deserve sharks. I want the best on this one. You’re my best.”
He leaned forward slightly, his grin deepening, more intimate now. “Besides, when’s the last time you got your hands dirty, Vera? You love seduction projects.”
She glanced up, her expression even. “Love might be a stretch. Let’s call it competence. But, me seducing a perfectly healthy, single, heterosexual man in his thirties? I didn’t realize we were revisiting the beginner syllabus.”
Victor chuckled, low and quiet, as if he were the only one in on the joke. “Let’s not neglect the fundamentals,” he purred, adding a wink. “If you can’t seduce him, you won’t get far enough to break him.”
Vera exhaled softly and closed the laptop. “Fine. I’ll handle it personally. But next time, I’d appreciate a project with more… scope.”
Victor’s grin widened, playful but edged with something sharper. “Find the cracks, Vera. And when you do…” He waved his hand with the casual elegance of an orchestra conductor, as if setting the stage for a crescendo. The sentence hang in the air, unfinished.
Vera didn’t need him to finish it. She already knew the answer.
***
Vera stood in front of the full-length mirror, her naked body framed by the warm light of the suite. Her skin glowed faintly, smooth and flawless, with golden undertones that made every curve and angle deliberate. To most men, her body would seem a masterpiece. They’d compare it to Greek statues or Renaissance paintings where the artist’s brush lingered over every shadow and highlight, obsessed. But it wasn’t what Vera saw in the mirror. She saw a tool. A weapon.
And a weapon wasn’t effective on its own. It needed to be calibrated, its balance checked, its edge honed to perfection. The strike would come later, but the preparation had to be flawless. Vera reached for her tablet, her finger hovering over the screen. She pulled up the photos of Ethan Reed and the women he had been tied to. Each face was a clue, a pattern to guide the adjustments she needed to make.
The first image filled the screen—a scanned photo of Ethan’s college girlfriend. The report listed her as Grace Tran, 19 at the time of the relationship. Vera studied her intently. Grace was petite, with warm brown eyes, soft features, and a natural, unassuming beauty. Her dark hair fell in loose waves over her shoulders, and she smiled brightly in the photo, one arm looped around Ethan’s waist. She exuded dependability and comfort—the kind of woman a man could trust implicitly, especially in the uncertain years of his early twenties.
Vera swiped to the next image, her lips tightening slightly. The second woman was a stark contrast. Blonde, statuesque, with striking cheekbones and an air of polished sophistication. The file provided no definitive link to Ethan—only a mention of them being seen leaving a nightclub together six months ago. The blonde wasn’t warm or safe. She was calculated, confident, and exacting in her presentation. Her tailored dress clung to her frame like armor, and diamond earrings caught the light in a way that demanded attention. If Emma had been a grounding force, this woman was a status symbol—a signal of Ethan’s ascension.
The third and fourth photos deepened the pattern. One depicted a red-haired model, her Instagram a meticulously curated tableau of opulence: private jets, high-end restaurants, designer handbags. The other, a brunette with an air of artistic detachment, had been photographed laughing at an art gallery opening, her bohemian dress flowing effortlessly as she stood among the city’s cultural elite. Both women were linked to Ethan only through whispers and sightings. No concrete evidence, just rumors. But Vera didn’t need confirmation to understand their purpose.
She leaned back slightly, the tablet balanced on her thigh. The patterns were there—subtle but consistent. Ethan didn’t choose these women accidentally. They reflected him, yes, but not in a way that suggested vulnerability or need. They were mirrors of his current self, affirming the man he’d built himself into. Confident. Driven. Refined.
Vera glanced back at the mirror, her gaze sharpening as she got to work. Her makeup came first: eyeliner drawn in a precise, thin line to emphasize her sharp gaze, paired with soft, mauve lips that balanced warmth and restraint. She twisted her hair into a sleek low bun, leaving a few tendrils to frame her face, and chose a black fitted gown with a high neckline and a subtle slit—elegant, understated, calculated.
“You’re playing it too safe,” came Victor’s voice from behind her.
Her gaze flicked to the mirror, catching his reflection. He was leaning casually against the doorframe, his suit crisp and tailored, his tie perfectly knotted. His eyes swept over her, assessing, the faintest trace of a smile on his lips.
Victor pushed himself off the doorframe with effortless ease, stepping into the room. He crossed to the rack of dresses she’d left untouched, his hand sliding past the hangers until he found what he was looking for. With a soft rustle, he pulled out a deep purple silk gown and held it up, letting the fabric catch the light.
“This,” he said simply.
The dress seemed too flashy, too bold. Too risky.
Victor tilted his head. “You underestimate Reed’s ambition. Want to impress him? Don’t reflect the boy he already sees in the mirror. Show him a man he might never become.”
He draped the silk across his fingers, letting it flow like water. “Your outfit says you’re in control. This dress tells him he’s not. It’s a game he can't resist playing.”
Victor had always known which buttons to press, hadn’t he? It was part of what made him irresistible—and insufferable. Vera slipped the gown over her body. The silk clung to her like it had been poured there, the deep purple shimmering with every subtle movement. She turned back to Victor.
Victor’s piercing gaze swept over her, his smile deepening into something close to satisfaction. He stepped closer and adjusted the strap on her shoulder. His touch left a faint chill in their wake—a sensation that lingered long after he pulled away.
“Good,” Victor said. “Let’s see if Ethan Reed’s worth it.”