14. Liam
LIAM
Sabine messages me. Victor’s and Helena’s invitations are ready for my approval. I’ll make time for that. For now, I’m in Tampa, watching a photoshoot from behind smoked glass on the upper terrace of a beachfront complex.
Below, on the private deck, Helena Mercer crouches, camera in hand. Her linen blouse loosely tucked into chino shorts damp from the pool. A tall hound stretches across a bold-colored dog bed, part of PetBed’s newest waterproof range.
She moves through the frame with quiet authority. She adjusts angles, repositioning bodies and props while the crew tracks her movements.
PetBed belongs to Gareth, the same Gareth who once sat across from me at a kitchen table with a spiral notebook and more ambition than cash. He called it mentorship. Now he’s clearing seven figures.
He thinks I’m here to discuss next steps. He’s right. But that’s not the only reason.
From the terrace, I have a clean vantage point without disturbing the set. I see Helena in her element. No gala dress. No Victor Rochemont’s hand at her waist. I still can’t decide how she fits into the Velvet Game.
“Here’s the rest of the range,” Gareth says as his assistant lays out the sizes, colors, and shapes across the table.
I run my hand over the fabric, testing the stitching, the weight. “These are strong. I’m impressed.”
“You ever think of getting another dog?” he asks. He knows about Bella. My springer spaniel died last year.
“Yes and no, my friend,” I say, lifting a donut-shaped bed that would have fit her. Or Alaska. I allow myself a small smile and set it back down.
Below us, Helena’s voice carries across the deck. “Diego!”
The hound bolts through the setup with the reflector in his mouth, tearing past the lights. Cushions scatter into the infinity pool as he runs. Laughter rolls through the crew. Helena runs after him, camera still slung across her shoulder, restoring order.
“She’s that good,” Gareth says. “Helena Mercer. Everyone relaxes when she’s here.”
I don’t look down again. I pick up another dog bed instead, turning it over in my hands. “It’s time to formalize overseas licensing,” I tell him. “Lock in manufacturing capacity before competitors catch the scent.”
“That’s exactly what I thought.”
Gareth’s phone rings. He checks the screen. “Excuse me.” He steps into the adjoining room.
A second later, my own vibrates against the table.
“Hello, my favorite Hunt.”
“Rochemont. How’s New York treating you now that you’ve been back a couple of months?”
“Too well,” he says. “The city forgives everything if you spend enough. No regrets.”
A burst of movement below draws my eye. One of the assistants lunges for a runaway umbrella before it skims the infinity pool. Helena praises her.
“What was that?” Victor asks.
“Nothing. Someone lost control of an umbrella,” I say. “So, what can I do for you?”
He scoffs. “Relax, Hunt. I’m not here for a loan. When can I submit a request for the Game?”
I glance around before lowering my voice, making sure no one is within earshot. “That was under the old rules. These days the Velvet team decides.”
“I was thinking truth or dare,” he says anyway. “Velvet version, of course.”
My gaze drifts back to the deck below.
Helena is crouched again, rewarding the dog, laughing as he circles her in tight loops of excitement.
She was born into wealth, then lost it, and rebuilt herself without taking a handout. A woman like that doesn’t enter games lightly.
“You think she’s hiding something?” I ask.
“No. I want to know how much space I still take up in her head. And whether she’s different now.”
“She was eighteen when you left, didn’t you say?” I reply. “You expect her not to be?”
“I’m not saying that. I just want to read the temperature.”
“You could ask her.”
“That’s not the point. Subtle questioning isn’t about answers. It’s about creating the right pressure and watching what cracks.”
That one, I taught him.
“I love her, Hunt. I just want to know how much she can love me back.”
I look out over the water. “Let’s see what I can arrange.”
“When do I receive the invitation?” he asks.
“Keep the next couple of weeks open.”
“That long? I’ve already postponed my Europe trip.”
“I’ve convinced the organizer to move you up the list. Two weeks. If you can’t wait, the Game won’t wait.”
A sigh. “Fine. Europe can wait.”
I watch Helena kneel to reset the frame, hair catching the wind off the water.
“Does she know?” I ask.
“Hell yeah.”
I hum to myself. She knows she’s stepping into something. She just doesn’t know how deep it goes.
“They’ll have their best players there, Victor.”
“I won’t expect anything less.”
I remain where I am a moment longer, watching her raise the camera again. She doesn’t look like a woman waiting to be chosen.
She looks like a woman who chooses.
And I like that.
I rein my thoughts back in before they stray beyond the Game. Being in the same complex—even thirty yards away, hidden in the second-floor—feels absurdly too close.
“I don’t think she’ll play,” I say, turning my head to sweep the room for anyone approaching. All clear.
A sharp laugh is his answer. “Hunt, you’re fucking with me.”
“I’m not.”
“She doesn’t seem impulsive,” I continue.
“You don’t know her the way I do,” Victor counters. “You didn’t see her face when I sold it to her.”
“Then give her a choice.”
“Ah, the betting man always leaves room for options,” he says. “Let’s put money on it. Or in it.”
My jaw firms. “Explain.”
“She’s broke to the bone.”
I’m aware.
He continues, “Twenty grand to refuse the invitation. Fifty to play. She collects the rest at the end if it concludes properly.”
He wants to turn it into necessity.
“As you said, she’s broke,” I say. “She’ll take the money upfront. Psychology.”
“No. She’ll play.”
“Is she desperate,” I ask, “or greedy?”
“Neither,” he snaps. “She’ll play because I tell her to.”
I pace the terrace slowly, trying to loosen the effect of that statement because I don’t want to show my hand. If the woman is already under someone’s control, the game means nothing. And I don’t run meaningless games.
“You want to bet, Hunt?” he asks.
I hide my growl under my breath. “Fifty grand upfront,” I say. “A hundred if she plays till the end.”
“You’re on. Will you play, Panther?”
The old name.
I take a seat deeper in the terrace, removing the view below. The door Gareth used opens with a click.
“You’ll get a memorable game, Victor,” I say, then reply to Sabine’s message.
Leave it. I’ll write the invitations myself.