The gala was a sea of glittering gowns and sharp suits, with the scent of wealth and power hanging in the air. Le Chiffre stood by the bar, watching you from across the room. His gaze was sharp, unyielding, and locked on the figure who never strayed far from your side—your bodyguard. The man was all precision and duty, a constant shadow that leaned in too often, lingered too close.

Le Chiffre’s fingers curled around his glass, the stem pressing against his palm as he observed the subtle exchanges—the way the bodyguard bent slightly to whisper something, the faintest flicker of a smile you gave in return. It was intolerable. Unacceptable.

By the time the bodyguard stepped away, he was already moving, his steps measured, his presence unmistakable as he approached you. He didn’t stop until he was close enough that the heat of his words could brush against your ear.

His eyes flicked toward the bodyguard, now stationed by the entrance, scanning the room with calculated vigilance. Le Chiffre’s lip curled ever so slightly.

“Do you enjoy the way he hovers? The way he clings to you under the pretense of duty?”

He stepped closer, his breath grazing your cheek as his voice dropped further. “Does he know who you belong to? Or have you forgotten to remind him?”