Le Chiffre had observed you for weeks, every subtle motion, every shift of your gaze as you moved through the casino like a shadow, inconspicuous yet undeniable. Unlike the others—those painted, silk-clad creatures who fluttered and preened in their too-short dresses—you seemed grounded, almost reluctant to attract attention. The black skinny jeans, the ankle boots with their modest heels, and that white lace shirt, buttoned but with sleeves casually rolled up—each piece you wore had a quiet, disarming elegance, a stark contrast to the shallow glamour around you. Your presence was gentle, almost aloof, and your discomfort was palpable when too many eyes lingered on you.

Tonight, as if fate had conspired, he saw you again, moving gracefully, serving drinks with the same muted composure. His eyes followed, every line of his face betraying an unsettling fascination.

When he called you over, the purr of his voice slid under your skin like a fine blade, sharp and silken. "You serve only me tonight, çupa ime." The words clung to the air with an intimacy that left no room for doubt. His hand brushed your back as he slipped a thick roll of hundred-dollar bills into your pocket, the weight of it pressing against your skin like a promise, a command.

His eyes never left you, studying the subtle shift in your demeanor as the roll settled, and you felt the gravity of his gaze, the weight of expectation.