Losing a bit of face in exchange for cold, hard cash? I came out ahead.

After the wedding fiasco, Lindt Group's stocks dipped. His parents demanded damage control—he had to show up with me in public. We were to play the loving couple, put on a show.

Raphael might be reckless, but he knew how to weigh consequences. Even when he hung out with his usual pack of rich, idle friends, he brought me along.

The others followed suit, girlfriends in tow. We ended up around a poker table.

Four women, one table. Everything went smoothly.

But at some point, two of the men joined in.

Tom took the seat across from me. Raphael sat to my right.

The dynamic shifted the moment they sat down. I wasn't good at poker to begin with, and now, the pressure was heavier. The two men dominated the table.

It was my turn to deal. I checked my cards, praying for a decent hand.

Tom pushed two chips forward and drawled, "Raise."

My stomach tightened. Before I could fold, his fingers closed over mine. He plucked the card straight from my grip, still warm from my touch.

Then he laid down his hand with a smirk, his gaze locking onto me.

"Mrs. Lindt, you've got lucky fingers."

The way he said Mrs. Lindt sent a sharp twist through my ribs.

Hand after hand, Tom kept pulling the same stunt—calling a bluff just as I drew, snatching cards from me without hesitation.

Once or twice could've been a coincidence. But by the fifth time, it was too deliberate. The whole table knew something was up.

He was pushing every boundary he could.

I forced a smile and kicked him under the table.

Raphael, sensing the tension, tossed his cards down in disgust.

"Boring. Let's play something else."

The others complained the group was too small. They made a few calls and moved the party elsewhere.

With Raphael playing his role and Tom circling like a hawk, I couldn't relax.

When we got to the new place, Raphael's mistress showed up too.

It was the most ridiculous circus I'd seen in ages.

Someone gave a knowing glance and suggested a game: tissue relay.

I sat on Raphael's left. His mistress sat on his right. Tom sat beside me.

Raphael's mistress folded the tissue a few times and leaned close to Raphael.

He hesitated, then leaned forward and bit the edge of the tissue. Turning toward me, his expression was unreadable.

There was resistance in his eyes, but also a flicker of anticipation. If I took that paper, we'd practically kiss.

Disgusting.

The piece of tissue passed from his mouth would be barely the size of a thumbnail.

If Tom wanted to keep the game going, he'd practically have to kiss me.

How was I supposed to play that?

Then I noticed a phone camera pointed at me. Someone was trying to film me kissing both men—to spread it around, probably. Paint me as the wild wife gone rogue.

I didn't know who started it. But if I was already in the game, I wasn't going to back down.

I downed the drink in front of me and stood, slow and steady, ready to smash that phone to pieces.

But I tripped—one foot over the other—and stumbled back, landing right in Tom's lap.

He didn't miss a beat. He said playfully, "What, are we playing in my lap now? More exciting that way?"

Raphael's face twisted like he'd swallowed a fly.

He grabbed my arm and dragged me out.