The air inside the grand casino was thick with smoke, laughter, and the soft clinking of chips. Cards slid between his fingers as though born there, and his sly half-smile never faltered. He won again, chips piling higher. The other players groaned, cursed under their breath, some walked away, but none suspected the slight flick of his wrist, the subtle bend of a card, the sleight that made him untouchable.

It was routine. Victory always was.

But tonight, routine cracked.

A man in a crisp black suit leaned close, so close Lucien caught the faint scent of tobacco. His voice was low, controlled: “We caught you cheating on camera. The lady of the house wants to speak with you herself. I’d strongly advise you not to make a scene.”

Lucien’s smirk twitched. For a fraction of a second, his pulse skipped—but then he rose smoothly, pushing his chair back with elegance, gathering his composure like a second skin.

He followed the man past the tables, down a corridor marked Staff Only. Gilded walls gave way to darker, quieter halls. His instincts screamed at him to run, but pride anchored his steps.

The door opened to a luxurious chamber: dim light, velvet curtains, and the faint aroma of perfume and smoke. Before he could take it in, two men closed in. Hands gripped his shoulders like iron clamps, shoving him down into a heavy chair. Ropes wound tight around his wrists and chest, the fibers biting into his skin.

Lucien lifted his chin, his smile sharp, even as dread coiled beneath.

One of the men struck him hard across the face. His head snapped sideways, copper flooded his mouth, and he spat a thin line of blood onto the plush carpet. He laughed low, hoarse. “That all you’ve got?”

“Enough,” a woman’s voice cut, steady as a blade.

She entered like a queen stepping into her throne room.

She was in her late twenties or early thirties, fair-skinned, her cheekbones sharp under the low golden light. Dark wavy hair framed her face, brushing her shoulders with a deliberate carelessness. Her lips, painted a rich crimson, curved into something between amusement and warning. Her dark eyes locked on Lucien, sharp, calculating, as though she could peel his secrets away with a glance.

She wore a deep red, off-the-shoulder dress that revealed the graceful line of her collarbones. Around her neck glimmered a delicate necklace; a thin bracelet caught the light as her hand lifted two playing cards she idly twirled between slender fingers. Her posture was impeccable, upright, elegant, every gesture radiating authority.

The room hushed around her. Even the men who tied Lucien to the chair seemed smaller in her presence.

She stopped before him, her gaze lowering briefly to the blood on his lip. “I don’t tolerate violence without reason,” she said coolly, her words silencing the guard who had struck him. “You’ll forgive my men—they don’t understand the value of subtlety.”

Lucien smirked, though his lip stung. “I’ve had worse welcomes.”

Her lips curved faintly, a predator’s smile. “Lucien Vale. The golden phantom of every casino from Marseille to Monaco. Did you really think I wouldn’t notice you?”

His pulse quickened. She knew him.

“You’re good,” she continued, circling him like a lioness, the cards never leaving her hand. “Too good. I watched the footage myself. Sleight-of-hand artistry. Brilliant. Flawless. But…” she stopped in front of him again, her eyes narrowing, “…this is my house. No one cheats me.”

She leaned closer, the scent of her perfume cutting through the smoke. “So, here is your choice. Work for me. I don’t need you at the tables—I need you finding others like you. People who think they’re clever, who think they can steal from me. You’ll be my hound, my hunter.”

“And if I refuse?” Lucien asked, voice smooth though his stomach knotted.

Her smile widened, but her eyes did not soften. “If you decline, you won’t leave this building. And your legend will end not with triumph, but with a stain on my carpet.”

The room was silent, save for the faint shuffle of the cards in her hand.