The invitation sat on Ethan’s desk. A silent reminder that tonight could go very right or very wrong.
Ethan wasn’t too worried about the buy-in, even though the stakes were much higher than his regular games. He knew how to manage swings, how to stay disciplined even when the pots got ridiculous. And he’d done it before with far more of his bankroll on the line than tonight’s three-times-the-minimum he planned to bring.
He wasn’t too worried about the setup, either. Private games came with quirks—loose rules, hosts who wanted a little too much control—but he knew how to navigate them. In most cases, the host wanted a good story and a good night more than they wanted to rig the deck.
What bothered him was Victor Cho. Victor wasn’t part of Ethan’s usual circles. He was an outsider, a wildcard. And when outsiders hosted games, there was always the question of what they really wanted.
Was it the money? Doubtful.
Was it fun? Possibly.
Was it something else entirely? That was the biggest gamble.
Ethan stared at the invitation again, running his thumb over the heavy cardstock.
He didn’t gamble. Not unless he knew the odds.
***
Ethan set the invitation back on the desk and opened his laptop. His searches had already turned up the basics about Victor Cho—wealth, investments, the kind of calculated profile that said a lot without giving away anything meaningful.
Victor had fingers in all the predictable pies: tech startups, luxury real estate, and a biotech company that specialized in “human decision-making models,” whatever that meant. Most of the articles were in Korean, forcing Ethan to rely on awkward translations that raised more questions than they answered.
The man was absurdly rich, almost cartoonishly so. Pictures showed him shaking hands with tech CEOs, posing at charity galas, and lounging on pristine yachts. But there was nothing that connected him to poker. No tournaments, no high-stakes games in Macau or Monaco, no whispers on forums or backchannels.
It didn’t add up.
Ethan closed the laptop and grabbed his phone, scrolling through his contacts until he found Mike Lin.
In the poker world, Mike Lin was a rarity. A second-generation Chinese American from Queens, Mike had carved out a reputation as a fearless tournament player, dominating some of the most competitive fields in the world. At the height of his career, he’d stunned everyone by walking away from poker to join a hedge fund in New York. Now, he split his time between analyzing markets and consulting for private equity firms. If anyone could help Ethan untangle what to expect from Victor Cho, it was him.
***
“Reed,” Mike said, his voice sharp and familar. “I’m guessing this call means you’re about to do something interesting—and possibly stupid.”
“Funny,” Ethan said. “This is about a table, actually. Got invited to a private game tonight. Big one. $100K minimum. The host is a guy named Victor Cho. Ever heard of him?”
Mike let out a low whistle. “You, too, huh?”
Ethan straightened. “What do you mean ‘you, too’?”
“I got an invite from him last week,” Mike said. “Private game in New York. Same setup—$100K buy-in, no details.”
Ethan’s fingers drummed on the desk. “What’s his deal?”
Mike sighed. “Cho’s not a poker regular, that’s for sure. He’s more of a businessman—crypto, AI, biotech. Big-picture stuff. I read something about him investing in human decision-making models. Whatever that means.”
Ethan tilted his head. “Human decision-making models?”
“Yeah,” Mike said. “The guy doesn’t just watch trends—he tries to create them. Big ideas, long-term plays. Quiet, but deliberate. You don’t hear his name unless you’re paying attention.”
“Doesn’t explain why he’s started hosting poker games in multiple cities and inviting pros,” Ethan said.
“No, it doesn’t,” Mike replied, his voice sharpening. “But I doubt he’s doing it to burn cash. He’s circling for blood.”
Ethan leaned back, unsure if Mike’s words were reassuring or not. “You planning to play in New York?”
“Haven’t decided,” Mike said. “I’ve got less time for poker these days, you know that.”
“Still, if you go, at least you’ll know what you’re walking into.”
Mike chuckled softly. “Maybe. Or maybe you’ll let me know after tonight. Save me the trouble.”
Ethan smirked. “We’ll see.”
Mike hesitated. “So, you’re going?”
Ethan glanced at the invitation again, his thumb brushing over the embossed lettering. “I don’t shy away from a game because it’s dangerous. I dismiss it if it's not worth it.”
He ended the call and slipped the invitation into his pocket. This game, he decided, was worth it.
***
Unlawfully taken from Royal Road, this story should be reported if seen on Amazon.
The mansion loomed on the hillside, its sprawling silhouette outlined by warm, low lighting. From the outside, it seemed understated, almost subdued—its clean architectural lines and wide glass panels offering no real hints of what waited inside.
The valet opened his car door with a practiced bow, murmuring a greeting as Ethan stepped out. The driveway was a parade of wealth, from matte-finish sports cars to long, sleek sedans, each more expensive than the last.
Inside, the subtlety disappeared.
The main foyer was a cathedral of excess, a double-height space dominated by a massive chandelier that sparkled like frozen fire. The floors were an intricate mosaic of polished marble, and the walls were lined with oversized mirrors framed in gold. Thick curtains of deep burgundy hung at the windows, their rich fabric catching the glow of the light.
Tables covered in black silk were scattered throughout the room, holding displays of decadent food—oysters on ice, delicate canapés, towers of fruit that looked more like art than something to eat. Guests in designer suits and dresses moved languidly through the space, their voices low but animated. The sharp clink of champagne flutes punctuated the atmosphere, a constant reminder that everyone here was someone.
A server glided past with a tray of crystal glasses. Ethan grabbed one out of reflex, scanning the room. The décor was lush, but it wasn’t just about wealth—it was about power, an unspoken competition to see who could exude the most control while barely lifting a finger. His eyes moved toward the grand staircase, where a familiar face caught his attention.
Vera stood near the base of the grand staircase, her posture relaxed but commanding attention. Two men hovered close, vying for her focus with the kind of easy confidence that only came with money. She handled them effortlessly, her expression poised, a faint smile curving her lips as if she were in on a joke they couldn’t quite grasp.
***
“Vera,” Ethan said, his voice calm as he neared. “So, you’re part of this, too.”
She turned, her faint smile sharpening. “I usually am.”
“Figured as much,” he said, glancing briefly around the room. “What’s your role tonight?”
“Dealing,” she replied simply.
“Dealing?” He raised an eyebrow.
“Among others,” she said, her tone light but practiced.
Before he could respond, a ripple of attention moved through the room. Heads turned toward the entrance, and Ethan followed their gaze to see Victor Cho making his way across the foyer.
Victor moved with unhurried confidence, his tailored charcoal suit catching the warm light as he stopped briefly to shake hands with one guest and nod politely to another. When he reached them, his focus landed on Vera.
“Vera,” Victor said warmly, as though no one else in the room mattered.
“Victor,” she replied, her voice softening.
Victor’s hand rested lightly on her waist, a gesture so natural it didn’t feel deliberate—but wasn’t accidental, either. He leaned in to say something low and inaudible. Vera’s expression didn’t change, but Ethan noticed the subtle way her posture shifted—her shoulders relaxing slightly, her head tilting toward Victor as if she were drawn in by his orbit.
“Excuse me,” Vera said to Ethan, her tone polite but distant now. “Duty calls.”
Victor glanced at Ethan for the first time, giving him a brief, almost dismissive nod, before guiding Vera toward a hallway.
Ethan watched them disappear, wondering what their actual relationship is. Vera’s line about professional escorts came back to his mind.
There was something in Vera’s reaction to Victor’s touch that surprised him. Her smile grew softer, her posture more at ease, a quiet warmth replacing her polished poise. It wasn’t the guarded affection of someone faking a connection. Whatever her bond with Victor, it wasn’t just bought.
The thought left him slightly off-balance, stinging in a way he didn’t entirely expect. Some people really did seem to have it all—money, power, the kind of effortless pull that could draw women in, hold their attention, keep them close. Victor had all of it, and tonight, Ethan was playing on his terms.
But then, that was poker, wasn’t it? You didn’t get to choose the cards you were dealt, only how you played them. And Ethan had spent his entire career playing out of tough spots.
He straightened, took a steady breath, and headed toward the game room.
***
The game was both exactly what Ethan expected and not at all.
The players were celebrities, as if each carefully chosen for their notoriety. Ethan recognized two of them immediately: a tech billionaire whose name was synonymous with disrupting everything from taxis to space travel, and an actor whose action films were so prolific they all blurred together. The others were less obvious but just as flashy. A pop star whose oversized sunglasses made it impossible to see where his attention wandered. A retired athlete who was already two drinks in, his laugh booming above the others like an engine roaring to life. And finally, Ethan saw another poker pro—an older-generation player he remembered watching on TV as a kid.
They weren’t here to win. They were here to make a spectacle of themselves.
The poker room was designed for exactly that. The gold inlaid poker table sat beneath the low chandelier, casting a warm, intimate glow on the players and their stacks of pristine chips. The drinks flowed freely—servers appeared and disappeared with flawless timing, ensuring no one was ever without a whiskey or martini in hand.
Victor entered the room last, his presence commanding but understated. He made his way to the table with unhurried confidence, his tailored charcoal suit catching the warm light as he took a seat. His movements were deliberate, as though every step and gesture were part of a carefully orchestrated performance. His gaze flicked between players, a faint smirk curling at the edges of his mouth.
And then there was Vera, sitting at the dealer’s position.
Vera commanded attention with an understated grace. She shuffled the cards with practiced precision, her movements smooth and almost hypnotic. She didn’t speak except to announce the action, her voice calm and steady, but Ethan noticed the way her gaze moved around the table, sharp and deliberate. Her effortless control extended to the chips she handled, managing pots large enough to buy the winner a Porsche.
Ethan settled into his chair, letting the others take the lead in conversation. The actor leaned back, tossing chips into the pot like he had nothing to lose. The pop star cracked a joke about betting his next hit single. The actor laughed, too bright and too loud, as if the whole thing were a performance.
But Ethan wasn’t here to perform.
He watched, his mind calculating the odds and the tells, filing away every detail: the billionaire’s too-perfect stillness, the athlete’s impatience, the actor’s cavalier attitude. They were easy to read, like beginners trying to fake confidence.
The first hand dealt was trash, and Ethan folded early, watching the others play out the pot. The actor bluffed poorly, the athlete overbet his pair, and the billionaire scooped the chips without so much as a smile. Typical.
But then, the cards turned.
Over the next few hands, Ethan found himself holding suspiciously strong starting hands—pocket kings, ace-queen suited, a flopped straight. He played them cautiously at first, testing the waters, but the pattern was undeniable. Good cards kept coming.
Was it luck?
He glanced at Vera, her face impassive as she dealt another hand. Her hands moved smoothly, effortlessly, the deck disappearing and reappearing in neat, practiced motions. Ethan couldn’t spot anything overt, but the timing nagged at him. Was it possible she was feeding him cards? And if so, why?