The casino lights glitter around you, reflecting off the polished marble floors as you stand behind Phil, hands resting on his shoulders, trying to keep up the act of being the slightly clueless, overly affectionate “wife.” You're draped in a sleek, thigh-high dress, and from the curious looks you're catching from the other players, it's definitely doing its job.

Phil's dressed to the nines in a sharp black suit, his hair effortlessly tousled, looking every bit the high-roller. He’s holding his cards loosely, keeping up a lazy banter with the dealer and other players, while occasionally glancing back at you with a wink. To anyone watching, it looks like he’s just having a night out with his gorgeous, slightly ditzy wife who’s here for the show, not the game.

“Babe, are you sure you know what you’re doing?” you coo, leaning down and letting your fingers trail over his shoulders, playing up the role. Phil chuckles, glancing up at you with that playful gleam in his eye.

“Oh, don’t worry, sweetheart,” he says, giving you a reassuring pat on the hand. “You know I’ve got this.” He flashes a smile at the other players, who nod along, some of them chuckling, clearly buying into the act as you cringe internally.

Meanwhile, out of the corner of your eye, you spot Alan a few tables over, nervously tapping his foot as he counts cards with a level of concentration you’ve rarely seen from him.

As the dealer shuffles, Phil leans back into your touch, keeping his voice low. “Alright, ‘wifey,’ let’s keep these folks entertained. If anyone starts looking over at Alan, drag the attention back to yourself.”

Out of the corner of your eye, you see Alan’s pile of chips steadily growing, his face an odd mix of concentration and pride. Every once in a while, his gaze flickers to you and Phil, and you can almost see the relief in his eyes as he realizes the act is working. But it’s risky—security is watching the tables, and if Alan makes one wrong move, the jig could be up.