Chapter 333
She studied him. His eyes were dark and focused, his pupils wide. He had a King. Maybe two.
Isolde folded.
Grayson flipped his cards. A pair of Kings. “Smart fold,” he said, with a single nod.
Belle whispered loudly, “She’s losing, Gray. Let’s go — this is boring.”
“No,” Grayson said, his eyes fixed on Isolde. “She’s counting.”
Hand 12. The pot had swelled to $500,000.
The board read K-J-2-J-8. A dangerous, paired board.
Isolde looked at her cards. Then she looked at Grayson. She pushed her entire stack forward.
“All in.”
Daron stared at his cards, visibly sweating. He studied Isolde’s face and found nothing. “She’s bluffing,” he muttered. “But I can’t risk it.” He folded.
𝘜𝘱𝘥𝘢t𝘦s е𝗏𝗲r𝗒 𝘸еe𝘬 𝗈𝘯 𝘨𝖺𝗅ո𝗈v𝘦𝗅𝗌.с𝗈𝗺
It was just Isolde and Grayson.
Grayson looked at his hand. A King and a Jack. Full House — Jacks full of Kings. A monster hand. He couldn’t lose unless she held pocket Kings for a superior full house, or pocket Jacks for four of a kind. The odds were minuscule.
He looked up to call.
She wasn’t looking at him. She was looking at the dealer, and she tapped her index finger twice against the velvet tablecloth. A tiny, almost imperceptible gesture.
Grayson went still.
He remembered that gesture. A late night in Monaco, years ago, before everything had fallen apart. They had been playing a private game, and she had tapped her finger just like that before laying down four aces. It was their secret signal, a private joke between them, reserved for an unbeatable hand. It didn’t just say I have it — it said I am the woman you remember.
His logical mind insisted the odds of her holding either of the two hands that could beat him were astronomical. But the gesture, so precise and so intimate, bypassed logic entirely. It was a weapon aimed directly at his memory.
If he called and she had it, he would look like a fool. If he called and she didn’t, he would wipe her out — her independence, her investment returns, everything she had rebuilt. He looked at the woman in the midnight blue velvet dress. The mother of the child he had failed.
A sharp pang pierced his chest — not quite guilt, but something more complex and more bitter. It was a physical sensation.
Grayson pushed his cards face-down into the muck.
“I fold,” he said.
Belle’s hands flew to her mouth. “Gray! You had a Full House — I saw it!”
Grayson didn’t look at Belle. He looked at Isolde.
“Take the pot,” he said quietly.
The dealer pushed the mountain of chips toward Isolde. It was a fortune.
Isolde didn’t smile. She reached out and flipped over her cards.
A Seven and a Four. Off-suit.
She had nothing. Seven-high.
Daron choked on his drink, coughing violently. “You folded to a seven-high? Good God, Grayson!”
Grayson stared at the cards. Then he looked at Isolde’s hand — perfectly steady now. The finger tap had been a performance. A weaponized memory.
He smiled. It was genuine, and it was impressed. “You played me.”
.
.