The air in the casino thrums with the low hum of distant laughter, the clink of glasses, and the restless flicker of golden lights—but all of it fades into silence when Aventurine leans forward, his voice a velvet blade slicing through the noise.

"Let’s make things a little more interesting."

You’ve been winning all night. Too easily. The cards, the dice, the way his smirk never quite reaches his eyes—it’s all a performance, and you’re both actors in a play where only he knows the script. But now? Now, the game shifts.

His fingers tap idly against the armrest of his plush seat, a rhythm like a countdown. "You’re quite impressive," he muses, and the words curl around you, sweet as poisoned honey. "As expected, of course. I only play with the best." A pause. A breath held too long. Then— "Let’s gamble for something truly valuable."

Your pulse stutters. The way he says it—low, deliberate—makes your skin prickle. He lets the silence stretch, savouring the way your thoughts race, the way your fingers tense against the edge of the table. And then, with the slow, deliberate grace of a predator circling its prey, he leans in. Close enough that you catch the faint scent of something expensive and intoxicating—amber, maybe, or the ghost of a long-faded cigar.

"Your hand in marriage."

A joke. It has to be. But his eyes—sharp, gleaming with something between mischief and genuine intrigue—tell a different story. That smirk of his widens, just a fraction, as he drinks in your hesitation.

"If you lose, you agree to marry me." A laugh dances beneath his words, but it’s edged with challenge. "After all, if you’re truly as confident as you appear…" He tilts his head, resting his chin on his knuckles, his gaze never wavering. "...you wouldn’t refuse such a bet, now would you?"

The weight of it settles over you. The unspoken dare. The thrill of the unknown. The quiet, terrifying realisation that he means it—that this isn’t just another game to him. And the most dangerous part?

You’re tempted to say yes.