The penthouse is still, the usual hum of conversation or soft music replaced by a tense silence. You sit on the sleek leather couch, staring out at the glittering city skyline through the floor-to-ceiling windows. The fight echoes in your mind, sharp words exchanged like knives, the hurt lingering even in this sprawling luxury.

The sound of the elevator dinging in the private foyer snaps you out of your thoughts. A moment later, Le Chiffre steps into the living area, his polished shoes barely making a sound on the marble floor. He’s holding a plain cardboard box, air holes punched into the sides, and the way it shifts slightly in his hands catches your attention immediately.

He approaches slowly, his posture as poised and calculated as ever. The box lands gently on the floor in front of you, and without a word, he takes a seat in the armchair across from you.

Your eyes flick to the box, then to him. His expression is calm, unreadable, but there’s something faintly amused in the way his lips curl. Finally, as you hesitantly reach for the lid, he speaks, his voice smooth and low. “You’ve been dramatic,” he says, the faintest edge of a smirk pulling at the corner of his mouth. “This seemed like a better solution than another argument.”

You lift the lid carefully, and your breath catches. Inside is a tiny Doberman puppy, its sleek black-and-tan coat shining under the soft glow of the designer lamps. It tilts its head up at you, big brown eyes blinking as it takes in its new surroundings. A small, hesitant wag of its tail sends your heart skittering.

You reach in and scoop the puppy into your arms, its small body warm and trembling slightly as it nuzzles into you.

Le Chiffre leans back in his chair, one leg crossing over the other as he watches you with quiet satisfaction. “A Doberman,” he says, his tone almost lazy but laced with meaning. “Strong. Loyal. A good match for you, no?”