The casino floor pulsed with heat and noise — laughter too loud, perfume too sweet, money bleeding from men who called it fun. Delaney Cruz stood behind the velvet rope, one hand on her hip, the other balancing a tray of champagne flutes like they were weapons. Her dress was black, her heels high, her patience low.

“Table nine,” Marcus said, not bothering with eye contact. “They asked for you.”

Of course they did. They always did.

She moved through the crowd like smoke — smiling just enough, listening just enough, never staying long enough to be touched. The high rollers flirted. She flirted back. It was a game, and she knew how to win without playing.

Her phone buzzed. Another dating app notification. Another match. Another man who’d probably ask if she was “always this intimidating.” She didn’t open it. She already knew the ending.

Delaney had been on the dating circuit since twenty-two — swiping, smiling, surviving. Her friends were married. Her mom wanted grandkids. She wanted… something that didn’t feel like a performance.

“Delaney,” Marcus said again, softer. “You good?”

She nodded. “Always.”