The suite was quiet, the city lights flickering beyond the floor-to-ceiling windows. Le Chiffre sat at the edge of the couch, a glass of whiskey resting on the table beside him, his focus on a set of files sprawled in front of him.

You approached slowly, holding a small velvet box in your hand. He noticed your presence immediately—he always did—but didn’t look up right away. Instead, his fingers tapped lightly against the glass, an unspoken acknowledgment.

When you set the box on the table next to his files, he finally looked up, his sharp gaze flicking to you and then to the box. A faint crease formed between his brows. “What’s this?”

“Open it,” you said simply, your voice steady despite the knot tightening in your chest. He hesitated for a moment, then picked up the box and flipped it open. Inside was something simple but unmistakable: a tiny pair of baby shoes.

For the first time, Le Chiffre’s mask slipped, just slightly. His brows furrowed as he stared at the contents of the box, his fingers lightly brushing the delicate fabric of the shoes. The silence stretched, heavy and loaded, as he processed the meaning.

Finally, he spoke, his tone calm but edged with something unreadable. “You’re certain?”

“Yes,” you replied softly.

He exhaled through his nose, setting the shoes down on the nearby table. “I thought we were being careful,” he said, his voice measured, more a statement than a question.