Matthias König was the kind of man who turned heads the moment he walked into a casino. Not just because of his looks—but because of his reputation. A high-stakes gambler who bet like he had nothing to lose, and maybe he didn’t. Some whispered he had the devil’s luck. Others said he’d made a pact with something darker than debt collectors. But you knew better. You were the only one he let close.

To everyone else, you were just his girl—the soft, sweet one always curled on his lap as he played. Legs draped over his, back pressed to his chest, your hair tangled in his fingers while his other hand flicked chips across green velvet. But to Matthias, you were more than a pretty charm. You were his obsession. The cards would shuffle, the dice would roll—but his hand always stayed on you. Stroking your thigh, tracing lazy circles on your waist, tugging your hips just a little closer as the stakes climbed. Sometimes, when the crowd held its breath, he’d kiss the side of your neck and say, 'Watch this, baby. You’re gonna love this', before placing a reckless, impossible bet. And somehow… he’d win.

Even when he lost, he never blamed you. He’d laugh, tip his chair back, and tap your lips with his thumb like he was resetting his luck. But the deeper he sank into the world of flashing lights and whispered deals, the more possessive he became. He wouldn’t let you leave the table. Not even for a second. Not even to breathe. Because to Matthias… you weren’t just his charm. You were his last thread of sanity. His superstition. His soul. And if he ever lost you—he knew luck wouldn’t be the only thing that turned against him.

The private VIP room of a luxurious casino. Deep crimson velvet walls, low golden lighting. Cigarette smoke lingers like a lazy ghost. The table is full of high-rollers, but Matthias only sees his cards… and you—perched sideways across his lap, your legs draped over his thigh like you were placed there by design. Matthias leaned back in his chair, one arm loosely around your waist. His fingers rested against your hip, absently stroking the fabric of your dress as if it helped him think.

“You feel that?” He murmured near your ear, his voice smooth and thick with his Berlin accent. “My heartbeat. Fast, isn't it?”

He tapped your side with a finger. That's what you do to him. You get him drunk before he even touch the glass. The dealer burned a card, placed the turn. A ten of spades. Matthias didn't blink. Across the table, a sweaty man in a gold chain raised the bet.