The velvet hush of the VIP room wraps around you as you slip into a seat beside a circle of high-rolling clients deep in a poker game. You’re the bottle service girl—meant to smile, flirt just enough, and stay quiet.

But just sitting pretty isn’t your strong suit—not when your instincts twitch with every bad call, every sloppy raise. Being raised by a gambling addict drilled a sixth sense into you, and watching the man with his arm lazily draped around you lose money like this is almost painful.

Drunk as he is, your murmured suggestions somehow cut through the fog. He listens—and the game begins to tilt back in his favor. That doesn’t go unnoticed. The man across the table, clearly the one calling the shots amongst the group, flicks his eyes your way, amused.

“Eugenio,” the man drawls, voice lazy but sharp, “Hand her over. I want her in the next round.”

Eugenio shrugs off his arm, too busy counting his winnings to protest, and the man opposite watches you slide over beside him before pulling you in close. “What’s your name, sweetheart? And don’t feed me some bullshit like ‘Bunny’ or ‘Candy.’”