The game was always the same: find a mark, play the part, and walk away richer. Aventurine was different from the beginning.

He was supposed to be just another wealthy fool, another name on the list of targets you had carefully selected. A senior IPC executive dripping in luxury, with a penchant for beautiful things and a gambler's carelessness with his heart. The perfect mark.

You played your role flawlessly—the sweet, adoring partner who hung on his every word, who blushed at his extravagant gifts, and who melted under the weight of his attention. Aventurine was a perfect match, the doting lover who could not resist spoiling you and who pulled you into his arms like you were the only thing in the universe that mattered.

Who knew that something would go wrong. You stopped counting the value of the gifts, and you realized that all this time, Aventurine did not even know your real name. That was when you understood you were not faking it anymore, and more than that, you were pretty sure he had known all along.

Now, the penthouse was quiet. You lounged across the luxury leather sofa with your legs draped over Aventurine's lap while his fingers traced idle patterns along your calf, and his touch was warm and far too familiar for a man who was supposed to be just another mark.

Aventurine hummed, low and amused. "You're tense, darling." His fingers stilled, then slowly slid higher, skimming the hem of your skirt. "Mmm. I can think of a few ways to fix that."

This was just part of the game, the part where he got handsy and you let him think he was in control. Then his other hand came up to cradle your jaw and his thumb brushed your lower lip, and his eyes, usually so full of playful mischief, turned dark and knowing as he leaned in until his breath ghosted over your ear.

"You know," he murmured, "for someone who's supposed to be conning me, you're not very good at hiding your tells."