The poker night buzzed with a kind of hush that made Dina's skin crawl. The room was dim, expensive, drenched in soft golden light from overhead chandeliers. It smelled of cigar smoke, expensive whiskey, and male egos puffed up by too many zeroes in their bank accounts.
She stood by a polished mahogany bar in the corner, smoothing the short black cocktail dress Nora had insisted she borrow. It clung to her hips in a way that made her tug it down every two minutes, praying no one noticed her awkward fidgeting.
She hated this.
She needed this.
Across the room, men gathered around green velvet poker tables, their laughter low and conspiratorial as they tossed chips worth more than her rent for six months. Every so often, one of them would flick his eyes at her — up, down, linger at her thighs, her chest — then look away, pretending it hadn't happened.
Nora's friend Max, the so-called "organizer," leaned in and murmured instructions: Smile, serve, never stand still, don't let them touch you too long. Be polite, even when they're drunk idiots. The tips are worth it.
Dina forced a smile that felt brittle as glass. She could do this. One night. Then rent would be paid, groceries bought, and maybe, just maybe, she could breathe for once.
Meanwhile, across town, Pascal was in no hurry.
He lounged on the backseat of his custom black Maybach, tie undone, shirt open at the collar. The city lights streaked across the tinted windows as his driver weaved through the traffic.
A man sat beside him — Benson, his operations manager, already sweating under Pascal's indifferent stare.
"You think sending Kelvin was smart?" Benson said stiffly. "He froze up, sir. Almost tanked the contract."
Pascal smiled, slow and bored, drumming his fingers on his knee. "He didn't, though. Did he?"
Benson pressed his lips together. He knew better than to push when Pascal's voice dipped into that calm, silky tone. That tone meant danger.
Pascal tilted his head, looking out at the blur of neon. "Delegation, Benson. Learn to trust the next generation. Or don't — I don't care either way."
He turned to the two models draped on the seats opposite him, both giggling into their champagne glasses.
"Where's the real fun tonight?" one of them asked, tracing a painted nail down Pascal's wrist.
Pascal caught her hand and kissed her knuckles absently, eyes already distant. "At the table," he murmured. "Always at the table."
The car pulled up to the hidden entrance of the private club. Pascal stepped out first, adjusting his cuffs, the heavy wooden door swinging open before he even touched it.
Dina didn't see him at first. She was too busy balancing a tray of cocktails, slipping through tight knots of suits and silk dresses. Her shoes pinched. Her head ached from the haze of cigar smoke.
Then she heard the hush.
It spread through the room like a cold breeze — the subtle shifting of shoulders, murmurs, backs straightening. A magnetic pull, and every eye flicked to the entrance.
She followed their gaze. And there he was.
Pascal Huxley, in a midnight suit that looked tailored to his sins. His eyes swept the room lazily — until they landed on her.
Dina's breath caught so hard she almost dropped her tray. She spun on her heel and fled behind the bar, heart pounding, hiding behind the row of half-empty whiskey bottles like a child.
Please let him not see me, please let him—
"Bring me something strong," a deep, amused voice purred behind her.
She froze.
Slowly, she turned — and there he was, leaning against the bar, the ghost of a smile on his lips.
"You."
Pascal's gaze dragged over her slowly — her dress, her shaking hands, the flush creeping up her throat. He barked a soft laugh that made the hair on her neck stand up.
"So this is what a big boss lady does in her free time?" he drawled, voice dripping with mockery. "Serving cocktails to men who'd buy and sell her before breakfast?"
Dina swallowed, rage and humiliation clawing at her chest. "Do you want a drink or not?"
He leaned closer, the scent of his cologne dizzying. "I want you to turn around."
She blinked. "What?"
Pascal gestured lazily at her dress. "Turn around. Show me what you're selling tonight."
Laughter bubbled up behind him — two of his smug friends leaning against a nearby table, watching like hyenas circling wounded prey.
Heat flooded Dina's cheeks. She wanted to slap him again. She wanted to scream. But she couldn't afford to lose this gig — or the tips. Not tonight.
Slowly, trembling, she turned — just halfway — just enough for him to see the low dip of her back. She could feel his eyes like hot fingers tracing her spine.
One of his friends let out a low whistle. "Pretty little waitress. How much do you think she makes for this? Fifty bucks an hour?"
Pascal laughed — the sound sharp and cutting. "Not even half of what I pay my plaything for a single night. Isn't that right, sweetheart? Or are you worth more than you look?"
Dina spun back to face him, fists clenched so tight her knuckles were white. She wished she had the courage to throw the tray in his smug face. She wished—
No. She would.
In one savage motion, Dina lifted the tray, tilted the glass, and poured the entire cold cocktail over Pascal's perfect, expensive hair.
The liquid soaked his collar, dripped down his chest, splashed his watch. Gasps scattered through the room like gunfire.
For a heartbeat, no one moved.
Then Pascal's eyes lifted to hers — cold, amused, glinting with something far more dangerous than anger.
One of his bodyguards lunged forward. Dina flinched — but Pascal's hand shot out lazily to stop him.
"Leave her," he said, voice low, icy. "She's not worth bruising your knuckles over."
His eyes stayed locked on hers — unblinking, unflinching — as he slipped off his ruined jacket and tossed it onto a nearby chair.
"Run along now, princess," he murmured, so soft only she could hear. "But remember — you started this game."
Dina's chest heaved. She opened her mouth — then closed it again, fury and panic and something she refused to name boiling in her blood.
She shoved past him, her shoes slipping on the spilled drink as she half-ran toward the back hallway. Hot tears blurred the gold lights as laughter echoed behind her.
Behind her, Pascal wiped a drop of whiskey from his chin. His lips curled into a smile that was more wolf than man.
"Keep your eyes on her," he told his guard calmly. "I want to know every room she hides in."
He raised a fresh glass, tilted it toward his stunned friends, and downed it in one swallow.
The game had only just begun.