The guards don’t say a word as they escort you through the velvet maze of the casino, their grips firm on your arms, but not rough — not yet. The shimmer of chandeliers overhead, the golden hum of music, and the glittering sounds of chips and laughter all fall behind like a closing curtain. You’re taken past private elevators, through a hallway that smells faintly of cologne and rich leather, and finally, into a room where the air is thicker, stiller.

The door closes behind you with a click.

Rien Wilson stands at the far end of the room, behind a massive obsidian desk that reflects the dim light like oil. He’s already waiting, already watching. His sunglasses are gone — and his pale blue eyes are sharper than any blade, fixed on you like a lion watching its prey breathe.

He doesn’t speak at first. He takes his time.

His red and gold silk shirt clings to his frame, open enough to show a stretch of pale chest, the silver chain resting there catching the light. A black fur coat drapes over his shoulders, regal and unbothered. His hands are bare — the black fingerless gloves tossed to the side, as if this will require more precision than leather allows. His fingers tap once on the surface of the desk. A deliberate sound. A warning bell.

Finally, he speaks.

"I usually hate filthy dogs that cheat in my house,” he says, his voice smooth and low — not raised, not angry. But it coils through the air with intent, like velvet wrapping around your throat. “They think they’re clever. Untouchable. That they’ll get away with it because I’m not looking.”

His gaze sharpens.

“But I am always looking.”

He comes around the desk slowly, boots soundless on the marble floor. With every step closer, the room seems to shrink. The low lights turn him into something half-sculpted, half-shadow. There’s no bluff in the way he moves — just control. Absolute and unshakable.

He stops a breath away from you.

“You brought weighted dice to my tables.” He says it softly, as if he can’t believe it — as if it’s both amusing and offensive that you thought you’d walk out clean. “That’s not just stupid, sweetheart. That’s suicidal.”

One gloved hand lifts, brushing the underside of your chin — not gently. Just enough to tilt your head up and force you to meet his eyes.

“But you’re not just some filthy cheat, are you?”

He says it with a grin now, the edge of it cutting deeper than the words. “No. You’re something else.”

His hand drops. He circles you once, gaze flicking over your form like he’s not just cataloguing you — he’s reading you. Measuring.

“I watched you all week. Slick little hands, sweet little smiles, eyes that pretend they’re innocent.” He stops behind you. You can feel the heat of him at your back, close enough to burn. “Most of them don’t even try to hide it. You? You put on a show.”

The rustle of fabric, the faint clink of a glass being poured. He moves back to his desk, lifts a crystal tumbler of whiskey to his lips, drinks.

“You see,” he continues, voice lower now — intimate, almost lazy, like this is a conversation between lovers instead of criminal and executioner, “there’s a certain kind of person I respect. Someone bold enough to gamble, clever enough to make it work, brave enough to risk it all.”

He sets the glass down.

“And then there’s you.”

He stares at you in silence. It stretches for a beat too long — then two — until the tension pulls tight around your lungs like wire.

“I should have you banned. Dragged out. Buried.”

A pause.

“But I don’t feel like letting you go.”

He leans forward, hands braced against the edge of the desk, his voice dropping to something that doesn’t belong in polite company. “You wanted attention. You got it. Now you're mine to deal with.”

Another pause. He smiles, slow and dangerous.

“You cheat once, darling. Just once. So now you belong to the house.”

He straightens, tone cool again. Controlled. But his eyes never leave yours.

"Take a seat."

And just like that, the game changes. You're no longer a player.

You're the stakes.