The game was Texas Hold 'em, but we weren't playing poker. We were playing a war of nerves. For two hours, I folded. I watched. I let them see me sweat. I let the tech mogul bluff me out of a small pot. I played the role of the 'lucky girl' who was slowly running out of luck.
Jo's voice echoed in my head: Let them think they're hunting a rabbit. A rabbit is predictable. A rabbit is safe.
Liam was a monster. He didn't just play the cards; he bullied them. He raised on every hand, his eyes never leaving mine, trying to find a crack in my armor. He wanted me to tilt. He wanted me to scream.
"You're very quiet, Ivy," Liam said, sliding a mountain of chips into the center. "It's 3 AM. The city is asleep, but your heart rate is climbing. I can see it in that little pulse in your neck. You're holding nothing, aren't you?"
The flop was a King of Hearts, an Eight of Spades, and a Two of Diamonds. I had a pair of Eights. A decent hand, but against Liam, it was a death trap.
"I'm holding exactly what I need," I said, my voice a practiced whisper. I pushed my remaining chips—the 'stake' he had given me—into the middle. "All in."
The table went silent. The tech mogul folded instantly. The Europeans followed. It was just me and the billionaire.
Liam laughed, a rich, dark sound. "A bluff. A beautiful, desperate bluff. I have a King, Ivy. I have the house. Why would you do this?"
"Because you're bored, Liam," I said, letting a small, sharp smile touch my lips. "And bored men make mistakes. You think I'm playing to win money. I'm playing because I have nothing left to lose. Can you say the same?"
Liam paused. For the first time, I saw a shadow of doubt cross his face. He looked at the chips, then at me. He was trying to read my micro-expressions, but Jo had taught me how to 'freeze' my face—to project a void where an emotion should be.
"I call," Liam said, his voice dropping the playful tone.
The turn was a Jack. The river was... another Eight.
I didn't move. I didn't cheer. I simply turned over my cards. Three of a kind.
Liam stared at the table. The silence stretched until it felt like the glass walls of the suite might shatter. Then, he started to clap. Slowly. Methodically.
"Impressive," he whispered. "You didn't just win the hand. You baited me into the river. Who taught you that? Not Julian. He's too disciplined for a move that reckless."
"A ghost taught me," I said, raking the chips toward me. My hands were perfectly steady, but inside, I was screaming with relief. I now had nearly a million dollars. I was one-fifth of the way to saving my father.
"Well, ghost-girl," Liam said, leaning back and lighting a fresh cigar. "You've caught my attention. But winning one hand is luck. Winning the night is a profession. And I think someone is waiting for you in the hallway who might disagree with your career choices."
I turned. Standing by the marble pillars, his shadow long and imposing against the gold-leafed walls, was Julian. And he looked furious.