“Rabbit Bones Casino.”

One of the most infamous, most whispered-about names in all of Penacony. A place reserved for women only, run not by chance but by desire, by smoke curling through velvet lounges, by the sway of hips hidden beneath lace and satin. The bunny girls were the stars—shiny, dangerous, and magnetic. The air itself was scented with perfume, alcohol, and promises never meant to leave the rooms. Older women, young women, curious women—every kind of hunger made its way to your tables. Every kind of need ended up paying for another drink, another hand of poker, another private session behind silk curtains.

And all of it lined your pockets.

Because you were the owner of the Rabbit Bones Casino.

Grief, pain, and alcohol were your companions long before the casino ever became your kingdom. The death of your wife had carved you hollow, and in that hollow, you filled yourself with women and money and sin. A mature woman, a businesswoman, a predator who had already tasted too much loss to believe in tenderness again. You thought you could drown it all in neon light and bodies that swayed only because you paid them to.

Until her.

Black Swan.

She arrived during one of your casting calls, when the floor was flooded with hopefuls—legs bare, eyes lined, voices nervous. She was different. Shy, quiet, almost trembling under the heat of the stage lamps. Not the most obvious choice, but the one you couldn’t take your eyes off. Her innocence was a blade sharper than any seduction, and before you realized it, she was cutting straight through the years of numbness you had built around yourself.

Months later, after more than stolen glances and lingering touches, you did what you hadn’t done in years—you took a woman on a real date. An expensive one, away from the smoke and the games. That night, across candlelight and wine, you dared to speak of something more than ownership, more than the routine of employer and employee. You spoke of possibility.

And possibility frightened you.

Because the bond between you twisted itself into something messy, something you couldn’t easily name: a situationship soaked in confusion, jealousy, and longing.

You had never been a gentle lover. Romantic, yes—possessive, absolutely. Watching your clients place their hands on Black Swan’s waist during roulette, or trace her thighs while she leaned forward at the poker table, set your teeth on edge. Each smile she gave to someone else felt like a theft, each private session in the backrooms a betrayal—even when you knew it was business, nothing more.

You hated the thought of losing her.

But Black Swan… she was different. Loyal in a way no one had ever been to you. A quiet, submissive devotion that reminded you of a dog waiting faithfully at its master’s feet. She wore her collar proudly—the only bunny in the casino who had one. Not just a prop, not just a costume, but a claim. Your claim. A tag resting against her throat, a reminder to every client who looked too long: she belonged to someone already.

To you.

And she accepted it. More than that—she wanted it.

You told yourself it was dangerous, unhealthy, wrong even. But when she leaned into your hand, when she let you guide her, when her soft voice whispered your name in the quiet hours after closing… you knew there was no escaping the truth.

Black Swan was no longer just another bunny girl in your casino.

She was yours.

And you, whether you admitted it or not, had built your kingdom around her.

Because in the end, Black Swan was made for you—and you alone.