Chapter 3
three
EDEN
The Vantaggio is thronging with people. It’s the middle of the night, but you’d never know it from the amount of bodies, and the dizzy glow of slot machines flashing as people feed them like hungry animals.
The gaming floor reeks of desperation, cigarette smoke, and overpriced cologne, layered with the whir of machines and the occasional whoop from someone who thinks they’ve won big.
But as the kid of a gambling addict I know that high is always followed by a fall. And the memory of it makes my stomach tighten.
West has his hand firmly closed around my wrist, guiding me through the crowd like he owns the place and me.
People glance at us as we pass. Some curious, some disapproving, but mostly they’re judgement is aimed at West. It’s not hard to guess what they’re thinking: him in his tailored suit, jaw like a movie star, and me looking like the world’s worst walk of shame.
But he doesn’t flinch at their stares and he doesn’t let go of me.
And for some stupid reason, my skin tingles where he’s touching me. Not because I like it. Obviously.
It’s just… sensory overload. Casinos aren’t exactly my favorite place. They’re a reminder of how much of a mess I made when I was younger.
He keeps a tight hold of me as we weave our way through roulette and blackjack tables to the far end of the huge, glittering floor. Out here, it’s noisy and neon-lit, peppered with the clatter of chips and the cheers of half-drunk tourists who think spending all their money in Vegas is a good idea.
But then we pass beyond a velvet rope, lifted by the security guard who gives West a nod. And everything changes.
In this part of the casino the air feels cooler. Less frantic. The lights are softer, the tables wider.
There are no slot machines. No shouting filled with glee or annoyance.
This is where the whales swim.
The rich men and women with more money than sense. And the professionals who stake their lives on the next turn of a card.
I swallow hard, because I know these people. I know how they think. My dad had been one of them, after all.
He wasn’t a whale. Not a rich man either. But he wanted to be both.
I remember the way he used to play poker like it was a religion. How he'd mutter under his breath about odds and tells and "reading the room". He believed the cards could save him. That if he played them just right – if he stayed in the game long enough – he’d win it all back.
But of course that’s not how it works.
My back stiffens as West walks us past a table where two men are locked in a stare-off so tense I feel it in my chest. One flicks his chip forward with a single finger, and the dealer doesn’t even blink.
I only have to look at his cards to know he’s going to lose.
He’s holding suited connectors. They’re pretty, but weak, and the guy across from him has stopped tapping his left thumb.
I bet the guy in the suit folds within thirty seconds. Thirty-five, max, if he’s trying to save face.
It’s another weird thing about me.
I don’t just see the cards. I see the patterns. The pulse of the table. The way a player’s eyes flick when the stakes rise. The micro-shifts in posture that tell you everything you need to know.
It’s like a puzzle I already know the answer to.
Dad used to call it my superpower. Said I could read the table like it was lit up with neon lights.
Just thinking about that makes my heart ache. All the things that happened. All the things I don’t want to think about. I push them back down, where they belong, and let West march me forward like we’re on a drill.
We’re walking past a private room – the kind only the richest are allowed in – when his phone starts to ring in his pocket. He pulls it out and mutters a low oath.
“I have to take this,” he tells me. It’s probably one of his Hollywood starlets, wanting a booty call. Or to be saved from a mess.
Whatever. I shrug and rub my wrist where he’d been holding me.
“Do. Not. Move,” he says, his voice low but firm, his eyes piercing mine.
“Yes, sir.”
He rolls his eyes at me.
Still, the moment he walks away, it feels like the air shifts. I pull his jacket tighter around me, and lean against the wall right outside the open doorway, letting my eyes drift over to the high roller’s room.
It’s so serious I can taste it. There are no gawkers, no tourists, just a handful of unsmiling players, silent as statues, their chips stacked in precise, menacing towers.
And then I see her. And she’s so unexpected.
She’s young, maybe my age. Blonde hair down, dressed in a black jersey number she could’ve grabbed off a Banana Republic clearance rack.
She’s not rich. Not yet. But she wants to be, and she’s determined to make it happen. You can see it in the way she sits up straight, like she belongs here. She’s making her own money, not here to snag a rich guy. She wants to be one of them, not with them.
I’m impressed by her. She’s holding her own.
But something tugs at me. A flicker of recognition. Maybe it’s because I know exactly what it’s like to fake your way into a room you were never invited into.
The only other player left in the game is a slick thirty-something with a tie pin and a jawline that screams generational wealth.
He’s lounging back like the win’s already in the bank, twirling a chip like this is all beneath him.
That’s the thing about poker. It’s like watching a Broadway play. There’s a story, a rhythm, sometimes there’s even a happy ending.
Although most end in tears.
Maybe that’s why the dealer’s hands get my attention. The movement is barely perceptible. Just a twitch before he places the next card.
But it’s a tell. A big one. My stomach turns cold.
This is a setup. I can feel it.
The dealer’s in on it. Feeding cards to the smirking rich jackass while the woman slowly bleeds chips in her last season dress.
And she doesn’t even know it’s happening, because she can’t see the other hand. I look around for West, hoping he is seeing it, too. But there’s no sign of him. Of course there isn’t.
My chest tightens at the injustice of it all. She doesn’t know he’s cheating. She’ll just think she lost. That she took a risk that didn’t pay off. And the rich will keep getting richer.
I hate that so much.
My fists clench at my sides. I take one step closer to the open door. Then another. The hairs on the back of my neck are standing up, my heart thumping hard against my ribs.
The dealer slides a card toward her. The smirker leans back, like he’s giving her a sporting chance.
And that’s what tips me over the edge.
“This game is rigged,” I say, my voice sounding braver than I feel. If West comes back now, he’ll be furious.
The woman startles at my sudden intrusion.
And then the man with the tie pin raises a slow eyebrow, his attention fully on me.
I try not to squirm.
“Excuse me?” the dealer says, like I’ve just told him his kids are ugly.
“You heard me,” I say, feeling less scared now, as I step into the room. “You’re cheating. You’ve been palming cards, stacking the deck in his favor. I watched you do it.”
The dealer looks me right in the eye. “You need to leave,” he says tightly, pressing a button under the table. “You’re not authorized to be in here.”
I glance around. I figure I have about a minute before security appears. Or West. I’m not sure which I’m more worried about.
“You’re being scammed,” I say, turning to the woman. “He and the dealer are in on it. You’re not losing because of bad luck. You’re losing because they decided you would. Ask to see the security video. It’s being done in full sight.”
The woman looks between us, confused, uncertain. A breath away from backing down.
And when World War Three breaks out in The Vantaggio’s most exclusive Whale Room, it appears I’m the girl who lit the match.
WEST
Five damn minutes. That’s all the time I was away for. Less, probably. And yet the moment I stride back around the corner, I hear shouting and I know in my gut it involves her.
As soon as I turn the corner I see her. She’s being held back by two security guards, her arms pinned behind her as she loudly tries to make her point.
Some guy with oiled hair and a sharp suit is up in her face, yelling back in a tone that makes my jaw tighten.
“What’s going on?” I snap, annoyed by the way they’re holding her. Even though I was pretty much doing the same thing earlier.
Yeah, but I like her. Kind of. At least when she’s not pissing me off.
One of the security guards turns to me. “Sir?”
“Why are your hands on my fiancée?” It comes out before I can think twice. It’s a sad fact of life that men treat women differently when they know they’re in a relationship, especially one with a high-powered man, and right now I want them to take their damn hands off her.
The guard swallows. “This woman caused a disruption at a high-stakes table. She accused our dealer and a guest of cheating.” He takes a look at her, in her paint splattered clothes covered with a designer jacket, and it’s obvious what he thinks.
That she’s a hooker I’m trying to sneak in. Yeah, well fuck you. She’s my best friend’s kid sister and that means I’m defending her to my death.
“I saw the dealer palm a card.” Eden’s eyes meet mine. There’s a mixture of fury and panic in them. “And that guy was in on it. He—”
“Eden.” I step between her and the guy with the slicked-back hair before he gets brave enough to take another step. “Stop.” Before you end up in more trouble.
She closes her mouth and I send up a prayer of thanks to the gods.
“Sir.” A man who looks like he’s in charge of security walks over to me. “Can I see some I.D.? The young lady says she doesn’t have any.” The way he says ‘lady’ is almost comical. He absolutely doesn’t think she is one.
I go to grab my wallet and realize it’s still in my jacket. The one she’s wearing.
I step toward her, ignoring the way the security guards tense. “Let her go,” I tell him calmly. “Before you make this worse.” Because his hands are still on her body and it’s pissing me off.