He led her away from the roulette table, away from the crowd, toward a quieter lounge where the music from the quartet was just a whisper. The hook was set, deep and undeniable. She had agreed to his terms, but as she walked beside him, her heart pounding a wild, erratic rhythm against her ribs, Harper Ellis knew with terrifying certainty that disappearing was already an impossibility. The game had changed the moment their eyes met across the spinning wheel.
The lounge was a velvet cave, all deep sapphire walls and low, golden light from brass sconces. He led her to a small, round table tucked in an alcove, away from the few other couples murmuring over drinks.
He held out a chair for her. The gesture was old-fashioned, but the way his hand almost grazed her shoulder as she sat felt utterly modern and dangerous.
"What's your poison?" he asked, nodding to a waiter who appeared instantly. "The champagne here is adequate, but they have a cognac that's older than I am."
"I'll stick with wine," Harper said, her voice still feeling unsteady. "White. Whatever you recommend."
He ordered for them both in fluent, effortless French. A glass of Puligny-Montrachet for her, the ancient cognac for himself. The waiter vanished.
Silence settled between them, thick and humming. It wasn't awkward; it was charged, like the air before a lightning strike. He sat back, studying her, his blue eyes missing nothing—the slight tremble in her fingers as she adjusted her napkin, the rapid pulse at the base of her throat.
"So," he said finally. "An escapee. From expectations. Whose?"
"My own, mostly," Harper admitted, surprising herself again. The 'Monaco rules' were a powerful permission slip. "The expectation that I should always be in control. That my life should be a checklist." She took a sip of the water already on the table. "What about you? What cage are you flying from tonight?"
A shadow passed behind his eyes, there and gone. "A gilded one. The expectation of being… predictable." He swirled the amber liquid in his glass. "Of living a life that was mapped out before I could talk. Tonight, I'm off the map."
Their drinks arrived. He clinked his crystal snifter gently against her wine glass. "To be off the map."
"To escape," she echoed.
The wine was crisp and perfect. The cognac smelled of oak and dried fruit. They drank in another stretch of that electric quiet.
"I have a theory," he said, setting his glass down.
"Oh?"
"You're not just escaping. You're testing something. You, maybe. Seeing what happens when you color outside the lines for one night."
Harper felt seen, exposed. He was right. This was a reckless experiment, a one-time deviation from the protocol of her life. "And what's your experiment?" she countered.
"To see if I can still be surprised."
"And? Any results yet?"
His gaze locked onto hers, heavy and intent. "The data is… promising."
Heat bloomed low in her belly. She looked away, toward the main casino floor visible through an archway. The roulette tables were still busy. "It's just a game," she said, more to herself than to him.
"Everything's a game," he replied. "The trick is knowing what you're willing to wager."
She turned back to him, a challenge rising in her. This was familiar territory—risk assessment, strategy. "Is that a proposal?"
One dark blonde eyebrow arched. The scar through it made the expression uniquely his. "What would you be willing to wager?"
"Information," Harper said, the idea forming as she spoke. "Another round. At the table. If I win, you answer three questions. Truthfully. No deflecting."
Interest sharpened his features. "And if I win?"
"Then…" She trailed off, the real stakes dawning on her. What did she have to offer? Money was meaningless here. Her body thrummed with the obvious, terrifying answer.
"Then you join me for a bottle of champagne," he said, his voice dropping to that low, intimate rumble. "On my terrace. The view is better than the one from the bar."
It was a deceptively simple proposition. Champagne. A view. But the subtext vibrated in the space between them. Champagne on my terrace meant leaving the public eye. It meant privacy. It meant the night turning down a path with no clear exit.
Her logical mind screamed a warning. Her entire body leaned toward the promise in his eyes.
"Deal," she heard herself say.
He rose in one fluid motion, his hand extended. Not the formal crook of an arm this time—just his bare hand, open, waiting. She hesitated only a breath before sliding her fingers into his. Heat surged at the contact, sharp enough to steal the air from her lungs. His grip tightened, warm and unyielding, and without a word, he guided her forward. The casino lights spilled across them as they stepped back onto the floor, his hand never loosening from hers.
They returned to the same roulette table. It felt different now. It was their arena. He released her hand to pull a stack of high-denomination chips from his pocket, placing them carelessly on the green felt. Harper laid her smaller stack beside it.
"Your bet, escapee," he said, his shoulder brushing hers as they stood side-by-side.
She pushed all her chips onto black. A fifty-fifty chance. No sentimentality this time. Pure, brutal probability.
He watched her, a slight smile on his lips, then placed a single chip on red 17. "For luck," he murmured.
"No more bets," the croupier called.
The wheel spun. The ivory ball became a silver blur, a whirring soundtrack to her pounding heart. Harper's eyes were fixed on it, but her entire awareness was focused on the man beside her. The heat radiated from his body. The scent of sandalwood. The intense, waiting stillness of him.
The ball began to slow, clattering, hopping between numbers.
Red….Black….Red….Black
It settled.
"Red. Seventeen."
He'd won. On a single, specific number. Probability, humiliated.
A slow, triumphant smile touched his lips as he turned to her. His eyes were dark with promise. He extended his hand, palm up, an unspoken command.
"Looks like you're coming with me after all, Harper."
The world froze. The casino sounds faded to a dull roar. Ice flooded her veins, followed by a flash of white-hot panic.
She stared at his hand, then up at his face. "I… I never told you my name."
The smile on his face deepened, turning knowing, intimate. He leaned in, his voice a low whisper meant only for her, his breath warm against her ear. "You said it. Once. When you gasped it at the table. After your first win. 'Harper.' You whispered it to yourself, like a secret."
She had. She remembered now. The shock of winning, the silly, private thrill. She'd whispered her own name, a habit from childhood. And he'd heard it. He'd been listening that closely, watching that intently.
He had known her name this whole time. The 'no names' rule had been broken before it even began, and by her own lips. The balance of power, the careful illusion of anonymity, was shattered.
He had won more than just the bet. He had uncovered a piece of her.
His hand was still waiting, palm up, between them. An invitation. A claiming.
Harper's gaze flicked from his hand to the steady blue of his eyes. The promise of safety dissolved in that look, stripped away like mist in sunlight. What remained was a path that stretched only forward—into the unknown, tethered to a man who seemed to hear secrets carried on the air.
Terrified, exhilarated, she placed her hand in his.
His fingers closed around hers, firm and final. "Let's go."