On my eighteenth birthday, the boy I'd secretly loved for years kissed me first.

After a night of passion, I traced the marks on my skin and thought it was all a dream.

I was ready to make it official. But the next day, my nude photos were plastered across the entire school.

When I confronted him, Damien Ashford laughed with bloodshot eyes:

"Blame your mother. If she hadn't turned a blind eye while those girls destroyed Rosalie, Rosalie would never have killed herself."

"Now let's see — when her own daughter becomes the school whore, will she still just sit back and watch?"

That was the moment I understood. Every tender word from the night before had been a weapon.

In the end, my mother slapped me hard across the face and dragged me away.

Years later, we met again. He had become the Don — the most powerful man in the underworld.

And I was a dealer in his brand-new casino.

He offered me up like a chip for other men's amusement, then claimed me himself after the game — the winner taking his prize.

I didn't resist. Didn't struggle. Obedient as a puppet.

But he froze. His eyes locked onto the stretch mark across my stomach.

Marco called me in for coverage while I was crouched outside the break room, on the phone with my son.

"Luca, did you finish your homework? Go to bed early, okay? Don't wait up for me."

A small, sleepy voice came through the phone: "Are you gonna be late again tonight, Mommy?"

My throat tightened, but I kept my voice light. "Yeah, the casino's busy tonight. I'll make a little extra, and tomorrow I'll bring you a cake."

I hung up, took a deep breath, and pushed open the door to the VIP lounge.

Dim lights. The steady clatter of chips.

Every seat at the table was already taken.

Marco shoved me toward the table and hissed, "The Don himself is here tonight. You screw anything up, you won't walk out of this casino in one piece."

He leaned closer, his hand sliding around my waist. "And tone it down — the Don's fiancée is here."

I swallowed the disgust and took my seat at the dealer's position.

The moment my fingers touched the cards, I felt a gaze land on me.

Burning.

I looked up.

And went rigid.

Marco pulled out a chair with exaggerated deference. Damien Ashford lowered himself into the seat — unhurried, effortlessly composed.

He leaned back, expression unreadable, and studied me without the slightest pretense of subtlety.

I never imagined we'd meet again like this.

Seven years had ground the recklessness out of him. He was controlled now, dangerously calm, radiating the kind of authority that made the air feel thin.

Beside him sat a young woman in a stunning evening gown.

Then one of the VIP guests at the table let his hand drift to mine, fingers brushing over my knuckles as if by accident.

"The Don certainly knows how to stock a casino — hiding a beauty like this behind a card table. Makes every actress in town look plain."

Marco jumped in immediately. "Mr. Bianchi, if she catches your eye, I'll personally deliver her to your room after the game."

"She's very... accommodating."

I said nothing. Just kept dealing cards to each guest.

I'd heard it all before.

Then Damien spoke. "Is this a casino, or a brothel?"

His gaze swept slowly over me, every word razor-edged:

"Am I employing dealers... or whores?"

The air went dead.

The grin froze on Marco's face. No one at the table dared make a sound.

Damien's eyes darkened, his tone ice-cold and final:

"Save that talk for after hours."

"Watch your mouth — my fiancée's right here."

I stiffened, and couldn't help glancing at the woman beside him.

She was tugging shyly at his sleeve, murmuring, "It's fine... honestly, I've always been curious what a real casino looks like."

Damien let out a quiet laugh.

"Since my fiancée doesn't mind — carry on, gentlemen."

"Tonight, everyone leaves satisfied."

No sooner had the words left his mouth than Mr. Bianchi patted his thigh and grinned at me.

"Standing all the way over there to deal — come sit."

The other guests egged him on.

Marco's eyes burned into me — a silent command.

My heart sank, but I walked over.

Before I was even close, Bianchi yanked me into his lap. His rough hands roamed over me without the slightest shame.

The men around the table smirked.

Including Damien.

If anything, his eyes carried something worse — disgust.

I thought I'd long since grown numb to those looks. But tonight, without warning, nausea surged through me.

"Hey — you zoning out?"

"Too cozy up there to do your job?"

I lowered my head and did as I was told.

The game began.

But it didn't take long for the guests to lose interest.

Damien was winning every hand.

Someone glanced at me and laughed. "Hey Bianchi — down a fortune, but you've got the better prize in your lap."

"The rest of us? We're losing money and we've got nothing to show for it."

Bianchi roared with laughter. "Then let's make the girl the stakes. Whoever wins, keeps her."

The table lit up. They started hammering out the rules.

"If you win a hand, the dealer sits in your lap for the next round."

"Whoever racks up the most wins by the end takes her home."

Then someone hesitated. "But that means the Don can't play, right? He's already got someone far more precious beside him."

Every eye turned to Damien.

He was swirling the wine in his glass, as if considering.

Then —

Thud.

The glass hit the table.

The entire room went silent.

He looked up. The corner of his mouth curved.

"I'm in."

Serena Langford stared at him in disbelief, but he squeezed her hand gently and smiled.

"Even if I win, I won't touch her."

He turned to Serena, each word deliberate: "If I win, you decide whose lap she ends up in."

The game began in earnest.

This time, everyone played to win.

First hand — Damien won.

Serena raised her hand and pointed to the left. "Him."

I was pushed onto the man's lap to deal. His hand rested on my shoulder, lips grazing my cheek between hands.

The stench of alcohol against my ear made my stomach turn.

Second hand — Damien won again.

Serena picked someone else.

"That one looks like he'd enjoy it more."

I barely stood up before another pair of hands pulled me over.

Third hand.

"Switch."

Fourth hand.

"He hasn't had a turn yet."

Men's laughter filled the room.

One told me to lean closer while dealing. Another held his card between his teeth and made me bend down to retrieve it. Someone deliberately scattered chips across the table so I'd have to lean over to collect them.

After every hand, I was reassigned to a new lap — like a chip being passed around the table.

I lost count of how many men I'd been pushed onto. All I remember is the alcohol, the laughter, and the hands.

And Damien, sitting in the same seat the entire time, winning hand after hand, watching it all like it was live entertainment.

Finally, when I was shoved back to the edge of the table, he spoke.

"A natural-born plaything."

The table erupted in laughter.

I pretended I hadn't heard. I fixed my professional smile and dealt the next round.

"Next hand — begin."

Damien's gaze lingered on my face. Something flickered.

Then Serena sighed softly. "Darling, I'm bored."

She swept her eyes around the table. "I've pointed to every single one of them. I'm running out of options."

She looked at me and smiled — gentle, sweet. "Dealer, this time, why don't you pick? Whose lap do you want?"

The table went quiet. All eyes on me.

My grip tightened around the cards. My voice came out barely above a whisper.

"Anyone is fine."

The moment the words left my mouth, Damien's expression went dark.

He stood slowly, straightening his collar.

"Boring."

Like a man who'd grown tired of the show, he turned and offered his arm to Serena. "Let's go. Time to call it a night."

But Serena didn't move. She scanned the room. "Remember, gentlemen — the Don won. None of you touch her after we leave."

Then she pulled me close, reached into her clutch, and pressed a card into my hand.

"I had such a good time tonight. This is your compensation."

Her smile was bright and innocent.

As if she hadn't been the one feeding me to those men.

Damien walked away with her on his arm. She murmured as they left, "Being a dealer must be so hard. Lucky I was born into a good family."

I stared down at the card in my hand, something lodged in my throat.

Yes.

Being a dealer is hard.

But even this job — I'd gotten on my knees and begged for it.

Because the money here came fast.

Fast enough to buy my son a new heart in three months, so his life wouldn't end at seven.

I clenched the card tight and exhaled.

At least, thanks to Serena's parting words, the men at the table left me alone after that.

Except Bianchi, who slipped a business card into my blouse on his way out.

The other dealers saw everything.

So before I even made it backstage, I was cornered in the hallway.

The woman in front had murder in her eyes. She kicked me hard in the stomach.

"You conniving bitch — you've been here five minutes and you're already stealing my client?"

She grabbed my hair and slammed my head into the wall.

"Does your son know what his mommy does for a living?"

"Oh wait." She sneered. "He probably doesn't even know which man's bastard he is."

They closed in. A bottle shattered against my skull before I could dodge.

Blood and liquor ran down my face.

When they'd had enough, they finally scattered.

I braced myself against the wall and stood. Limped out of the casino.

It was pouring outside. I used the rain to wash the filth off my face.

Couldn't let Luca see me like this.

But somewhere along the way, the rain washed out tears instead.

I looked up with burning eyes — and met a gaze cold enough to stop my heart.

Damien stood by his car, umbrella in hand. His eyes were locked on the wound on my face, his voice dangerously low:

"Who did this to you?"

I dropped my gaze. "None of your business." I turned to leave.

The car door was wrenched open. I was thrown inside.

Damien pulled the first-aid kit from the back seat and pressed a compress against my wound.

Rough. Like he was taking his anger out on the gauze.

"Ow..."

I hissed through my teeth.

His hand paused for a fraction of a second, then he said flatly, "Fine. Don't tell me. The casino's covered in cameras."

A beat. "I'd like to see who had the nerve to ignore my fiancée's orders."

So that was all he cared about.

I couldn't help the bitter laugh.

Of course. The man who'd personally circulated my nude photos to the entire school seven years ago was never going to actually care about me.

The car tore through the rainy streets. We sat in silence.

Until I realized we were going the wrong way.

This road led to where I used to live.

Damien wasn't using GPS. He was driving from memory.

Something complicated stirred inside me. Then Damien broke the silence, voice cold: "Apparently the casino pays well."

He glanced at me, toneless. "Even Helen Colter's daughter is willing to do this kind of work."

"Damien."

I watched the rain streaking down the window and sighed.

"Since when does the Don talk this much?"

The car slammed to a halt.

Next second, I was pinned against the seat.

Damien braced himself over me, breathing hard.

"What."

His voice was barely above a whisper.

"Not happy to be in my car?"

His gaze dropped to the bruises on my neck — finger marks left by one of tonight's guests — and something in his eyes went black.

"Or maybe —"

"My fiancée ruined your business tonight. Wasted your whole evening."

I looked into those eyes — so unbearably like my son's — and gave a quiet hum.

"That's right."

"If it weren't for her little announcement, I'd have made good money tonight."

I held his gaze, perfectly calm. "Does that answer satisfy you, Don Ashford?"

His face twisted.

I was done. I shoved him off. "Let me out here. I'll walk the rest."

Damien stared straight ahead and let out a cold laugh. "Walk? By the time you get there, your clients will have gotten tired of waiting."

My hand froze on the door handle.

In his mind, that's all I'd ever be.

But if not for him, I wouldn't be here in the first place.

I reached for the handle — and he seized my wrist.

He pulled me against him.

"Vivienne." His voice was ice. "Don't forget — I won tonight's game."

Before I could react, I was pressed back into the seat.

One hand gripped my chin, forcing my face up. His eyes were black, his breathing harsh.

"One night."

"You're good at this, aren't you?"

And just like that, my mind split open.

Seven years ago.

He'd pinned me to the bed exactly like this.

The lights were low. He pressed his lips to my ear and whispered "I love you" over and over, so gently it felt like a prayer.

I melted into it, arched into him, believed it was love.

Then the image shattered.

My mother's hysterical screaming. The blinding hospital lights. Doctors barking orders. And inside an incubator, a baby threaded with tubes — all of it crashing back at once.

"Get off me!" I shoved him with everything I had, nearly screaming. "Don't touch me!"

Damien slammed back against the steering wheel. The horn blared.

He seemed to come to his senses in that instant. He stopped. Went rigid.

The car fell silent.

Nothing but rain hammering the windshield.

Dead silence.

I sat clutching my collar, exhausted beyond words.

After the photos, I'd been forced to drop out. My mother — a woman who'd spent her life upholding her reputation as an educator — was destroyed by the scandal.

She spiraled into depression.

I took care of her while juggling multiple jobs, running myself so ragged I collapsed on a public street.

That was the day I learned I was seven months pregnant. Too late for a termination.

The baby was born with a congenital heart defect — malnourished in the womb. For his entire first year, he survived on tubes and machines.

I went back to work less than a week after delivery. Not long after, I got the call that my mother had jumped from our apartment building.

When I heard the news, I dropped to my knees in the middle of a crowded street and screamed Damien Ashford's name like a curse.

But back at the hospital, when I looked into that incubator — when that tiny baby reached his fingers toward me, looking up at me with eyes exactly like his father's —

the despair went quiet. And I decided to live.

Then, just recently, Luca's heart took a sudden turn for the worse.

The doctors said if we didn't raise the funds for a transplant within three months, he'd die.

That day, for the first time, I swallowed my pride and went to find Damien. I didn't even make it through the gate — his bodyguards threw me out.

They said they'd seen plenty of women show up with sob stories.

I was at my lowest when a man stopped me.

He liked the way I looked. Offered me a spot at the casino.

"Offered" — that was the polite word. It was a transaction.

One night with him, in exchange for a way in.

I looked back at the Ashford gates, sealed shut against me.

And nodded.

A clean transaction was better than a rigged trap.

At least this time, I knew exactly what I was giving up.

Seven years ago, Damien had lured me into bed for one reason: revenge against my mother.

Because his first love, Rosalie.

Jumped from a building on his birthday.

And left behind a single letter. The only name in it—

was my mother's.