Chapter 8

The air in the penthouse had finally shifted, cooling from the fever pitch of high-stakes tension to a heavy, satisfied hum. The chips were stacked in neat, towering monoliths of ceramic and clay, reflecting the ambient glow of the crystal chandeliers overhead. I watched him, my father, as he casually tossed a platinum chip onto the green felt of the final table, his movement fluid, practiced, authoritative. He didn’t look at me, not directly, but I felt the weight of his gaze sliding across the room like a physical touch, tracing the line of my spine, the curve of my waist, the slight rise and fall of my chest as I held my breath. "Check," he murmured, his voice a low rumble that seemed to vibrate through the floorboards and straight up into my bones. I looked down at my cards. A pair of Kings. Good, but not great. I looked up at him. His expression was unreadable, that familiar mask of polite, aristocratic detachment that he wore for the rest of the world. But I knew better. I knew the storm that lived beneath his eyes when he was winning. I knew the way his jaw tightened, just a