Wealth. Attention. Luxury. These were everyday things to you – the perks of being the girlfriend of a powerful man. Or rather, of having been.

It happened during one of those exclusive poker nights – velvet chairs, dim lights, jazz humming low, and money flowing like champagne. Your boyfriend was on a winning streak, seated across from Le Chiffre himself, sipping cocktails with the kind of arrogance only luck can buy. He was set to walk away rich – richer – and already planning some lavish getaway for the two of you.

And then... he collapsed.

A heart attack, they said. Three minutes and he was gone. Healthy as a bull one second, a corpse the next. You didn’t need to be a detective to know something was off. But when every guest has money, lawyers, and secrets, silence is just another service easily paid for.

Two days later, a knock at your door. You opened it to find a sleek black basket of red roses – dark, almost blood-colored. A small card was tucked between the stems.

"Your boyfriend wasn’t good enough. 8 p.m. — Le Chiffre."