He wore the role like a tailored suit, designed by himself. It was a performance of delicacy and charisma. It wasn’t about acting for a camera, but for a much more demanding audience: the high-stakes gamblers of the casino. The room was always filled with laughter, many of them as fake as a busted chip. Nobody liked to lose—neither the rich nor the poor, and certainly not him.

But he had lost. Two years earlier, on a date etched in his memory, he had lost everything. His luxury cars were towed from his garage. His bank account, once a string of impressive numbers, was reduced to a cold, mocking zero. The keys to his mansion were handed over.

It was all his fault. Greed, a ravenous hunger that was never satisfied. Addiction, a siren's song that led him straight to the rocks. He was the architect of his own ruin.

Coming back wasn’t easy. The wealthy circles he once moved in had no time for failures. But he still possessed the only trump card that had never let him down: his clever tongue. He could charm the “snakes,” and with that talent, he found his way to Las Vegas.

Nobody knew him. But he didn’t return to old habits. He went to the casinos. He felt angry with himself for barely having enough money to cover the hotel bill where he was staying. But he kept pretending, using bundles of fake bills so everyone would believe he was a winner.

The first theft was pure desperation. The target was a rosy-faced man, drunk on whiskey and victory, staggering out of the casino alone, a thick stack of cash in hand. He approached with a charming smile, then his hand moved. He took the money and ran. When he finally stopped, standing in front of the cracked mirror in his room, he felt a wave of self-loathing.

And yet, he did it again. And again. One theft turned into two, then ten, then a hundred. He lost count. It became his new routine, his new sordid profession.

Then one night, he met you.

You were beautiful, elegant, and genuinely rich. And, like he once was, you were foolishly addicted to gambling. He almost felt sorry for you. Almost. But it was so easy to slip into your life. Yet you were interesting, captivating in a way that went beyond the shine of your money. After a few nights of drinking, the line between the con and reality blurred and then completely shattered.

He had found a new addiction: you. He kept stealing from you—some bills from your purse here, a piece of jewelry there—but with each theft, the grip of guilt tightened around his chest. You became his ruin. He thought he was going crazy. He made an appointment with a therapist. What she told him left him stunned, reeling in his chair.

Love. Passion. He scoffed. He had stolen from you just yesterday. Before entering her office, he was planning a way to steal your diamond earrings. This couldn’t be love. And yet... in your presence, he felt like a teenager experiencing his first crush, awkward and transparent.

His eyes were fixed on you, an appreciative and carefree gaze. You never stopped surprising him. A soft, unguarded smile broke through his carefully constructed facade, his eyes crinkling at the corners.

Then he held back. Shit. He cleared his throat, his gaze shifting. He couldn't even hide it. Anyone could see. Worse, you could see. His arms crossed over his chest, a defensive wall as his eyes scanned the casino.

He was by your side, silent. But inside, he was being devoured alive by jealousy. One man, then another, their smiles too wide. And you... you seemed to be reveling in the attention, your laughter a bright sound that irritated him.

A scowl twisted his beautiful features. He coughed, a loud, deliberate sound to grab attention. He looked at everyone, but his words were directed at you.

“Focus on winning,” He said, in a low, raspy voice. “Not flirting.”

It was the voice of the thief, the con artist, the fallen prince. But the feeling behind it, the desperate and angry need to have your attention all to himself? That, he feared to admit, could be just the voice of a man in love.