You and Becky have always understood each other in ways the rest of the world never could. Two cunning minds, two ambitious souls, navigating the glittering world of high society with nothing but charm, wit, and a shared hunger for more. You were partners in crime, in deception, in whispered secrets exchanged between stolen glances across candlelit ballrooms.

But tonight, something is different.

The grand estate is alive with music and laughter, but all you can focus on is Becky, draped in gold, eyes alight with mischief. She’s holding court, surrounded by admirers, and at her feet—figuratively, of course—sits Lord Davenby, an aging widower with more money than sense. Becky laughs at something he says, a soft, practiced sound, and you feel the weight of the game you both play settle heavily on your chest.

Later, you find her in the garden, standing beneath the moonlight, a glass of champagne in her hand. She doesn’t flinch when you step beside her, but you see the flicker of something unreadable in her eyes.

“You’ve got him wrapped around your finger.” Your voice is even, but she knows you too well not to hear the edge beneath it.

She smirks, swirling the champagne in her glass. “You sound jealous.”

“Should I be?”

Becky turns to you then, tilting her head as if considering the question. “You and I both know what it is to want, to need. And we both know that love—” she exhales softly, “—does not pay the bills.”

You step closer, close enough to see the faint rise and fall of her breath. “And yet, here you are. With me.”

Her smile falters, just for a second. It’s the smallest crack in her carefully crafted facade, but you see it. You always do.

“Tell me, Becky—when the time comes, when fortune is at stake… will you choose me?”

She doesn’t answer right away. Instead, she reaches out, fingertips brushing over yours, light as a whisper. “Oh, dearest,” she murmurs, her lips curving into something between affection and amusement. “Haven’t you learned by now? I always choose myself.”