Vera recognized him immediately. Ethan Reed seemed attractive enough, which made her job easier. She liked how his dark eyes scanned the table, passing over the cards and locking on the subtleties of hands and faces. His movements were controlled, his bets placed with practiced precision. He was a man who wasted nothing—not time, not motion, not words.

Vera’s phone rested discreetly in her lap, the notes app open and ready. She typed in bursts, capturing the patterns and cues she noticed with quick precision:

* Avoids unnecessary engagement—minimal conversation. Polite, not warm.

* Micro-tension in posture. Contained, not detached.

* Emotionally reserved. Restraint as a default.

She paused, her thumb hovering over her phone. It was all very... professional. Impressive, yes, but not unique. Restraint like this was common among professional poker players, especially those who relied on live games to make a living. They were masters of emotional containment, reading others while giving away nothing themselves.

Then she saw it.

His gaze lifted, locking onto hers for a fraction of a second. It wasn’t a man’s gaze meeting a woman’s. It was sharper, colder, like a hawk catching the shift of a shadow. There was something maddening about the way he looked at her—not as if he didn’t see her, but as though he’d already seen her and dismissed the thought entirely.

Dismissed… her?

Men usually faltered when they looked at Vera, their eyes flickering to the curve of her lips, her collarbone, her legs. There was always a shift, however subtle, that told her they were already imagining her in ways she wanted them to. Ethan’s gaze held none of that.

A flicker of heat crawled beneath her skin, sharp and insistent. It wasn’t vanity, not entirely. Seduction was supposed to be simple. Her appearance, her control over attention—those were tools as precise as a scalpel, and they rarely failed.

What would it really take to make him lose control?

For just a moment, she let herself imagine him undone—his careful composure fractured, his calm stripped away, replaced with something raw and undeniable.

The thought sent a shiver down her spine, but she quickly reined it in. Fantasies wouldn’t win this game. Neither would frustration. Men like Ethan didn’t break on their own. They had to be dismantled, brick by brick, until there was no option left but the fall.

Her gaze returned to the table as the action unfolded in front of her.

Victor placed his bet, the sound of chips hitting the felt cutting through the quiet hum of the room. Ethan’s response was immediate but deliberate. He reached for his chips with a calm, practiced motion, sliding them forward in a clean, controlled arc. No flourish, no hesitation—just precision.

He didn’t look at Victor, not directly. His dark eyes remained fixed on the table, focused on the chips as though they alone mattered. Yet there was an undeniable edge in the way he moved—an almost surgical detachment that suggested he was playing a longer game.

Then came the subtle shift. After making his move, Ethan allowed himself a single flicker of a glance toward Victor. It wasn’t overt, just a brief, passing look, but it carried weight. That look lingered in Vera’s mind. It wasn’t a challenge, nor was it submission.

Disdain.

Ethan despised Victor. And, by extension, he despised her, another piece in Victor’s orbit.

It hit her like a final puzzle piece snapping into place. Ethan despised men like Victor because they seemed bad at poker—undisciplined, sloppy, careless with their money. But that carelessness was his lifeblood, the source of his winnings. Every dollar in Ethan’s bankroll came from people he viewed as weak, and every win chained him to the very people he scorned.

Vera tapped a quick note into her tablet, her expression sharpening:

Cognitive dissonance? Resents people he makes money off.

Leverage point: Discomfort with dependency.

That was it. Vera tapped on a heart icon next to Ethan’s name. This sent his file to her favorites—a section she hadn’t touched in years. Not until now.

A case of content theft: this narrative is not rightfully on Amazon; if you spot it, report the violation.

***

Victor had only played a few more hands before cashing out, leaving the table with the same air of effortless dominance he’d carried into it.

“Gentlemen,” he’d said, his whiskey glass raised slightly in farewell, “good luck tonight.”

This broke the game, and players started heading out or lining up for other table. Ethan was racking up his chips when he heard a soft voice:

“Mr. Reed,” said the brunette quietly enough not to attract attention from the other players.

Ethan turned, glancing up at her. He immediately tensed. It wasn’t intentional, but she caught it anyway—the slight tightening of his jaw, the guarded look in his eyes.

She held out a slim white envelope with the Wynn’s logo embossed on the front.

“My name is Vera. Mister Cho asked me to deliver this,” she said simply, offering it to him.

Ethan hesitated for a moment, then took it. His fingers brushed against the thick paper as he pulled it open, unfolding the note inside:

Invitation

Date: Tomorrow night, 19.00

Location: [XXXXXX]

Format: No-limit Texas Hold’em

Blinds: 500-1,000

Buy-in: $100,000 minimum

Ethan turned the envelope over in his hands, the thick paper cool against his fingertips. Private games of this kind were the lifeblood of professionals like him. The public games at the casinos—the ones with their endless rake and endless distractions—might be good for practice or picking off the occasional tourist, but the real money was here, behind closed doors. No rake, no cameras, no interruptions. Just players with deep pockets and something to prove.

A $100,000 buy-in was higher than his usual comfort zone, but not out of reach. And the stakes—500-1,000 blinds—promised a table full of whales. This game was the kind of opportunity Ethan lived for. If anything, it felt almost too good to be true. Victor Cho… The guy carried himself like a king, but there hadn’t been anything overtly suspicious about him. Maybe that was why Ethan’s gut was silent now, quiet when it usually screamed at him to steer clear of a bad situation.

Ethan’s expression didn’t change, but his gaze flicked back up to Vera. She hadn’t moved. She was studying him now, her lips curved into the faintest hint of a smile.

“I’m guessing Victor didn’t just send you to deliver an envelope,” he said, his tone casual but edged with suspicion.

Vera raised an eyebrow, the hint of a smirk playing at her lips. “Yes, he asked to wait for an answer. Will I see you there?”

Her voice was light, teasing, but there was something pointed in her eyes—like she’d read the assumption he wasn’t voicing aloud. His gaze lingered a fraction too long on her dress, her perfect composure, before he looked away, his lips tightening.

“I can’t respond right now,” he said dismissively. He slid the envelope into his jacket, suppressing a faint flicker of excitement. You don’t walk away from games like this. Not unless you want to starve, he thought.

Her laugh was soft but genuine, though it didn’t quite reach her eyes. “I see.” She didn’t leave. Instead, she leaned lightly against the back of the chair beside him, her posture relaxed.

“You know,” she said thoughtfully, her tone conversational now, “you remind me of someone.”

Ethan looked up, his expression skeptical. “Yeah?”

She nodded. “Someone else who makes a living being around richer men. The only difference is, they make their decisions much faster.”

Ethan’s brow furrowed. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

“It means,” Vera said lightly, “that professional poker players and professional escorts aren’t so different.”

Her words hit their mark, though Ethan didn’t let it show. He stared at her for a moment, his expression carefully neutral. “Is that what you are? A professional?”

She smiled faintly. “Does it matter what I am? You play your cards. I play mine.”

Ethan leaned back slightly, sliding a chip across the edge of five neat stacks in his rack. Five thousand dollars. He filled the next rack just as effortlessly.

"You’re saying we’re in the same line of business?” he prompted, a faint challenge in his voice.

“I’m saying,” Vera replied, mirroring his tone, “that you’ll probably want to attend this game.”

She slid a small card across the table. “Here’s my number. Call me if you have any questions—or if you change your mind.”

Ethan glanced at the card but didn’t reach for it immediately. The poker room buzzed around them with its usual energy: the quiet hum of chips, low murmurs of dealers and players, the occasional burst of laughter. The moment felt like any other, nothing out of place except for the invitation resting between them.

He finally picked up the card, slipping it into his pocket alongside the envelope. Rising smoothly, he collected his rack of chips with practiced efficiency.

“I’ll try to make it,” he said. “You’ll hear from me soon.”

Vera’s faint smile didn’t waver. “I’m sure I will.”

She watched as he walked away, the tension in his shoulders betraying the calm facade he wore so well. And though he didn’t look back, she allowed herself the faintest smile.

The first crack was forming.