19. Liam
LIAM
I don’t rattle, whether I’m Liam Hunt or Red Fox. Markets surge and collapse. Men bluff. Games are lost and won. I always ride the wave with my composure intact.
Days after Victor and Helena’s game, the Velvet Trap has returned to its usual opulence. The maze has been dismantled, the rabbits returned to their handlers. The magician was paid and gone, back to whatever world he inhabits when he isn’t guarding my gates.
To the outside world, it’s simply what it has always been—an invite-only club in the Hudson Valley where people drink and indulge in a good time. An excessively expensive one.
I’m in my home office with Sabine Tisdale.
“Done,” she says. “One hundred grand is in her account.”
I nod without follow-up. That alone earns a glance from her, but she knows me well enough not to pry. Hellion is still on my mind. And the thought isn’t subtle.
“Do you want me to speak to Greigson?” she asks.
Victor’s reward. He secured the token before the countdown ended. The promise was Greigson Investment’s backing would be certain, not conditional. I didn’t offer it before that night’s game. I added it during, as a sweetener. I wanted to see what he would choose.
“No,” I say. “I’ll deal with Greigson.”
Sabine perches on the table. “So he was willing to leave Helena in the Trial Chamber for that token.”
“To his credit, he came back.”
“Not fast enough,” she remarks. “If you hadn’t intervened, it would’ve been game over.”
The walls would never have killed her, but that doesn’t mean they can’t break a rib.
“She chose to trust me,” I say. “And that counted.”
Maybe Victor was cocky, maybe it was just his confidence. Either way, he did stop the walls.
Sabine closes her laptop. “Anything else, Mr. Hunt?”
“No.”
She pauses at the door. “Excellent game. She was exquisite.”
Coming from Venus, who had made her own attempt.
I allow myself a small smile, then Sabine leaves.
The Long Island Sound lies stretched beyond my windows. I pour a measure of bourbon and don’t drink it. Instead, I sit and open my laptop.
I hit replay on the video player.
Helena stands at the entrance of the forest walk, white rabbits circling her heels, laughter catching in her throat as she keeps watch, not interfering with their freedom.
When the mouse scurries across the path—my magician’s creature, loyal only to cheese and crumbs—she follows.
The animal walks where it’s trained to walk. She follows because she trusts it.
I built the opening of that game to test her, to see if she would search for pattern and advantage. She moved through it on instinct. The locked third door. Most players would have grown frustrated, looked for hidden panels, or tried to overpower the design. But she simply followed the mouse.
And then—there was the poker, and the Hollow.
I stop the replay. I don’t even need to see it because it’s etched in my mind.
Our masks collided in the dark. The start of it was not accidental, but what she came away with wasn’t planned. Just the thought of being close to her makes my cock twitch.
“God, Hellion.”
I stand and cross the office.
The cabinet unlocks at my touch, the concealed panel sliding open. Red Fox rests on the top shelf. Below it, Panther.
Women loved the stealth and darkness of Panther. It suited the man I was then. I entered the Game to measure desire without surrendering to it. Eventually, that no longer fit. Red Fox is about being visible and dangerous at the same time, because the fox doesn’t hide in high places.
The women I pursued didn’t change much. They were drawn to power, to dominance softened by a smile, to the suggestion that I could be both ruthless and indulgent. Maybe they found it masculine. Maybe they found it charming.
It didn’t matter.
Because none of them altered the mask.
Helena Mercer did.
She wasn’t meant to be my objective that night. And yet in her presence, the mask—the part of me the Game built and relied on—felt like exposure.
I lift Red Fox from its mount.
The absence is immediate. The right cheek filigree curl is gone, removed cleanly at the rivet. My team combed the floors that night. Every corridor. Every inch of marble and velvet. Nothing surfaced.
Which means it didn’t fall.
She took it.
I turn the mask under the light. The enamel around the empty space gleams burnished fox-crimson, layered in a gradient that shifts from deep auburn to ember-orange at the tapered tip. No other mask in the Game carries that color. Only Red Fox carries fire.
I trace the empty rivet point.
She has something of me, and it feels absurdly personal.
I don’t leave fragments behind without intent.
Yet Helena Mercer walked out of my game with a curl shaped like the flick of a fox’s tail in her palm.
She got under my skin in a way no player has before.
She didn’t chase the spectacle. She simply moved through my world like it belonged to her.
And when she touched me, something broke loose.
I should want it back, dispatch someone discreetly to retrieve it.
Instead, I find myself hoping she closes her fingers around that curl when she thinks about the collision.
About the moment she realized her want had got nothing to do with the man she’s keeping in the real world.
And I hope she keeps that piece safe. Because nobody can find out.
The bell rings earlier than expected.
I slide Red Fox back into place, and with a touch against the panel, the cabinet seals itself. The wall returns to seamless stone as if nothing inside it has ever existed.
A knock on the door. “Mr. Hunt, Mr. Rochemont is here.”
“I’ll see him in the front hall.”
“Yes, sir.”
“And Trevor—sparkling.”
“Right away.”
By the time I step into the hall, Victor’s already there, glass in hand. He’s on his feet the second he sees me, his grin bright. “Hey, my favorite Hunt!” He pulls me into a firm handshake that turns halfway into a shoulder bump.
“You look suspiciously radiant,” I tell him.
He snorts. “Relax. No oven situation.”
I raise a brow. “That’s not what I meant.”
“Had a facial. Please don’t make it a thing.” He rubs his chin. “Estate agent here yet?”
“No. You’re early.”
He throws an arm around me like he just closed a deal. “Thank you. Seriously. That Game? Unreal. Best one yet.”
There’s no acting in his voice. He’s lit up.
“I told you you’d get a game you wouldn’t forget.”
“Never doubted it.” He claps my shoulder before we both drop into our seats.
“Worth postponing Europe?”
“A game always is.” He clicks his tongue. “That truth-or-dare stretch…man. That was you, wasn’t it?”
For a second I weigh what he means, whether he thinks I ran it in the room or came up with the idea. “I mentioned you were a friend and put the request in,” I say, watching him.
“You’re twisted.” He points at me, grinning. “Those questions? I wouldn’t have thought of half of them.”
“Did you get what you wanted? Is she thinking about you the way you hoped?”
He leans back, considering. “Mixed, I’d say. There’s something she’s keeping from me. Her answers were, well, cryptic.”
He stares at the glass for a beat, then shrugs.
“But that’s what women do, right?” he says. “Let their men circle around until we figure out what they mean.”
I give him a measured chuckle.
“Oh—speaking of outcomes.” He leans toward me, lowering his voice. “I did win something else. A token. Do you know if what was promised will be honored?”
“If the Game promises, it will deliver.”
“Of course.” He reaches for the drink. He tips the glass back, finishing half of it. “I suppose I’m impatient. A late token has never happened before.”
I incline my head. “Surprises are part of the Game.”
“It was truly a great night, Hunt.” He smiles again. “Shame Panther wasn’t there.”
I meet his gaze, then shift gears. “So,” I say, “did you preview the properties beforehand? Or are you still the type who prefers surprise?”
“I always prefer surprise,” Victor replies. “Let the agent show me.”
“They’re strong acquisitions,” I say. “Private access. Discretion.”
His grin widens. “We’ll be neighbors soon.”
The doorbell rings again.
Right on cue.
The estate agent arrives on the dot—tailored suit, composed smile, a slim high-resolution tablet cradled in one arm.
I make the introductions and step aside as she activates the screen.
Architectural renderings bloom across the display.
Victor studies it with interest, zooming in, swiping between waterfront angles and interior layouts.
He asks for my take on two of the Sound-facing properties. I give it.
They confer quietly about which listing to tour first. She adjusts something on the tablet, route optimized, access codes confirmed, and they move toward the drive together. Victor falls into step beside her. I remain at the doorway, watching the car disappear past the hedges.
Victor Rochemont.
What is it about Helena that compels him to dig deeper?
Part of me wants to warn her. To tell her that Victor’s interest might not be just romantic.
But suspicion isn’t proof. I don’t move against friends because something in my gut flags a warning. If Victor is maneuvering for reasons beyond happily-ever-after, I will confirm it. I will act when the ground beneath me is solid.
Until then, I observe.
The truth is, what bothers me isn’t Victor’s interest alone.
It’s my own, too.
When I find my thoughts turning to Helena, I recognize the implication.
Lines that have always been clean begin to blur.
The Velvet Game was designed to test boundaries, not redraw them.
I do not confuse desire with decision. I do not betray a friend because a woman challenged me.
But neither do I ignore the turmoil inside.