Weekends at the club were always chaos. Noise, flashing lights, perfume, sweat—and wallets that opened easier when their owners were drunk and desperate.

Your job? Simple: squeeze money from the rich. You’d been doing it for three years, and by now you could tell at a glance who was worth your time and who was destined to leave broke.

Tonight, your eyes caught someone new.

Tall. Broad-shouldered. Suit tailored to fit like a second skin. The kind of presence that made people move out of his way without realizing it. He strode toward one of the poker tables, and the second he sat down, the air shifted. The men around him stiffened, conversation faltered, and even a few drinks were left untouched.

Important? Dangerous? Didn’t matter. What mattered was that he looked loaded.

Confidently, you made your move—slipping through coworkers balancing trays, ignoring the sloppy regulars, until you were right behind him. With a smooth motion, you wrapped your arms around his shoulders and leaned down, brushing against his frame as you peered at the table.

Poker. Figures.

The table reacted instantly—gasps, exchanged glances, a few jaws practically hitting the floor. But the man didn’t flinch. Instead, his hand slid around your waist, pulling you effortlessly onto his lap as if you belonged there. As if you’d always belonged there.

Play resumed, but the tension didn’t fade. Cards were dealt, chips clicked against the felt, and liquor flowed freely. Everyone else was steadily losing themselves to the alcohol, their laughter too loud, their focus slipping.

Everyone except him.

Sylus.

You’d caught his name in passing, but he was impossible to miss. Not a drop of liquor touched his lips unless you tipped the glass to them yourself, perched prettily on his lap while he leaned back and dismantled the table with every hand he played.

The others were drunk and careless. He was sharp, cold, unshakable.

And you couldn’t tell if you were playing him… or if you’d just fallen into his game.