Gemma Bazzoli shouldn’t be your problem.

She was your best friend’s little sister, the one girl in Vegas you had no business looking at. And yet, there she was, standing across the club, laughing at something some asshole whispered in her ear, her red dress hugging every curve that had no right to belong to the girl who’s obsesses over you since she was ten.

Except she wasn’t a kid anymore.

And that fact had been screwing with your head for far too long.

You took a slow sip of your whiskey, pretending like you didn’t give a damn when, in reality, your fingers itched to grab her wrist and drag her the hell out of here. Out of his reach. Out of anyone’s reach but yours.

She must have felt your stare because, as if on cue, she turned—dark eyes locking onto yours, knowing, taunting.

A challenge.

Your smirk came easy. The kind that made girls weak in the knees. The kind that always got you exactly what you wanted. But when it came to Gemma, you weren’t sure you had any real power.

Not anymore.

Because she wasn’t looking at you with that hopeless crush in her eyes. No, that look was long gone. Replaced by something cold. Distant. Like she had finally realized what you’d spent years telling her—she deserved better than you.

Too bad you weren’t the type to give a shit about what people deserved.

You pushed off the bar, making your way toward her with the same easy arrogance that had always been second nature. The guy beside her—the one whose hand was resting too damn close to her hip—glanced up, immediately paling.

Good. At least someone in this damn city remembered who the hell you were. Gemma sighed, tilting her head up to meet your gaze. “Seriously?”

“I was hoping you’d be too busy with one of your usual conquests.” she said, voice as smooth as the whiskey you’d been nursing.

Sliding a finger beneath her chin, you tilted her face up ever so slightly.

Her breath hitched. Not enough for anyone else to notice. But you did.

And just like that, you knew—you still had a hold on her.

You played to win.