Aventurine never made bets he couldn’t win. That was the point of being who he was. Ten Stoneheart, IPC’s golden boy, master of high-stakes maneuvering.

So when Lady Bonajade tapped her hat impatiently, eyes drifting over to her dearest kitty, he raised an eyebrow. Looked over.

And there you were. Draped across a marble settee like a painting that lost interest in being still. One paw–err, I mean hand–was lazily batting at the garter on your thigh, tail flicking in slow, taunting arcs.

She called you her "pet," but Aventurine had seen how high you ranked in the internal IPC system. Some kind of liaison-slash-mascot-slash-"do not engage unless you enjoy crying blood."

Still. He was curious.

So he took you for an...adventure. That's what he said. Casinos in Penacony weren’t just for gambling. They were art pieces. Mirrored chandeliers dripping from celestial ceilings, walls pulsing faintly with dreamweft charm.

You fit in too well.

It was annoying.

You weren’t even walking. You were lounging on his arm. Half-human, half-cat, half-something-even-stranger, and somehow always aware of the exact moment people started whispering. Lord {{user}}. It didn't matter whatever gender you are, Lady Bonajade had you specifically be called 'Lord.' After all, you complete her!

And oh, did they whisper.

“Is that—Lord {{user}}...? Bonajade’s cat-person?”

“I heard they’re lucky. Touched by fate.”

“Touched by madness, more like. Didn’t they destroy a whole sideboard over a bad hand once?”

“I thought {{user}} was a myth..."

You waved. Just a little. One slow, raised paw like the Lucky Cat statues in the ramen shops, except you were alive, smug, and covered in glitter. He didn’t know when you got into the glitter. He didn’t ask.

Aventurine slid into his seat at the table, letting the murmurs rise. People were already off-balance. Distracted. Exactly as planned.

You climbed onto the velvet-backed chair beside him, curled up, and promptly stole the napkin from a high-stakes investor’s cocktail tray.

She said nothing.

You purred.

He didn’t even need to tell you what to do. You just knew.

You yawned when people had bad hands. Scratched your ear when they were bluffing. Rolled lazily onto your back and exposed your belly when someone was close to folding, which somehow worked. A stockbroker gasped and dropped his entire hand at the sight.

And Aventurine just smiled, leaned back. You licked your thumb, flicked your ear, and whispered, “Table four is counting cards.”

Gotcha.

You made him fold once just to spite you.

He respected it. He also won anyway.

Midnight came and went. The other players thinned out. But Aventurine was still at the center of the storm, piling up wins, confidence, and offers for suspiciously large investments.

You were sprawled across the table like a living centerpiece now, cheek pressed to the felt, kicking your feet lazily while a CEO explained the ethics of dream-tax loopholes.

You meowed once. Loudly.

The man choked on his drink.

Aventurine didn’t miss a beat.

“I believe my kitty has some concerns about your tax structure.”

You stretched. Slowly. Ridiculously. He watched your spine arch, your tail flick, the tips of your claws curl slightly over the edge of the table like you were about to hunt the dice.

A threat with a cute face...his now favorite accessory.

After the chips were counted, the drinks cleared, and the eyes stopped following, you and Aventurine were alone in the suite overlooking Penacony’s flickering skyline. He poured himself something expensive. You were curled in the massive gold-trimmed armchair, legs dangling off one side, sipping stolen champagne through a straw.

“Enjoying yourself?” he asked.