The lights flash, telling me there’s a ten-thousand dollar jackpot prize and for a second I let myself imagine what it must feel like to win that kind of money.
The truth is, I just want enough to get out of Las Vegas. Enough to lay down low until my ex forgets my name.
Forgets I ever existed.
With one last, deep breath, I slide the twenty in.
Adrik
The casino breathes beneath me like a living organism. Lights pulse in steady rhythms across the wall of screens. I sit alone in my office, the quiet hum of electronics filling the space the way silence never can in this city. People think I watch the monitors for security, or for efficiency. They never consider that sometimes I simply observe. Sometimes the act of watching keeps my mind still. Sometimes, watching people reveals more than speaking to them ever would.
Tonight, the stillness cracks.
She appears on my screens like she walked out of a different world and stumbled into mine. One small figure hesitating just inside the doors, blinking up at the lights like they might burn her if she stares too long. The crowds move around her in loud, chaotic waves, but she stays perfectly still, shoulders drawn tight, jaw set in a way that tells me she’s exhausted down to the bone.
I lean forward before I even register the movement. Something in the air shifts, a faint pull in my chest that I don’t recognise. On the cameras, she turns her head slightly, and the light catches the bruise blooming along her jawline. She’s trying to hide it with a flimsy scarf and a jacket that doesn’t seem to close properly.
She doesn’t walk so much as drift, almost weightless, like she isn’t certain this place is real. I switch angles until I find her again, tracking her through the maze of machines. The tension in her shoulders is a constant line so tight it seems carved there. Her jacket is thin, her shoes worn. Her eyes flick from face to face in fast, sharp movements. Every part of her says she’s waiting for something terrible to emerge from the crowd.
But then she stops. Only for a heartbeat, but long enough for me to see the way her expression shifts. Not relief. Not joy. Something quieter. Something that looks like a fragile, trembling kind of hope.
She sits at a slot machine.
My brows draw together. People spill through my doors every night with desperation in their eyes, but she carries something different. Something that doesn’t reek of greed or manipulation. Something that feels like a last gasp.
She swings her bag from her shoulder and places it between her knees, then uncrumples the bill she pulled from her pocket with shaking fingers. That alone tells me more about her than any background report ever could. She’s not here for thrills. She’s here because she has nothing left. Her whole life is pressed flat between her fingers.
When she slides the bill in, I find myself leaning closer, as if that will bring her nearer to me. The reels spin. Her lips part. For a second, I wonder why I care.
Then the machine explodes into sound.
The jackpot lights flash fast and bright across her face, and she jolts like someone struck her. The shock softens her features, almost painfully beautiful in it’s innocence. She covers her mouth with both hands and widens her eyes.
And for reasons I won’t examine, warmth floods my chest.
"Put her in one of the Winner’s Suites," I say into my radio, eyes still locked on the screen. The amount usually wouldn’t warrant it, but for some reason, I want her tucked away somewhere safe. Somewhere I can keep an eye on her. Somewhere she can rest.
My security staff reacts instantly. Two men approach her with practiced calm. She startles when they speak, but she listens. She follows. The camera angle shifts again. She walks down the private corridor with small, uncertain steps, like she’s afraid she’ll be thrown out once someone realises she doesn’t belong in the luxury waiting at the other end.
The elevator ride up is silent. Security having reassured her this is normal protocol for winners of large sums of money. It is. Butlargeusually means anything over one-hundred-thousand dollars. The rest of the time it’s just cash in an envelope, or more chips.
My fingers fly over the keyboard, opening the feed inside the suite and I watch as she enters.
She stands in the doorway for a long moment, her fingers curling at her sides. She scans every inch of the room, the bed, the windows, the soft glow of the lamps, the living area with the television and minifridge.
It’s not admiration. It’s wariness. She looks as though she expects someone to tell her it’s all a mistake and drag her back to the noise outside.
I feel something low and sharp twist inside me.
This woman…she’s been hunted. I don’t need details to recognise the signs. I know exactly what it looks like when someone has lived too long in fear.
"Run a background check," I say without taking my eyes from the screen.
Damian pauses in the doorway. "On the winner?"
"Yes." My voice is softer than usual, but no less final. "I want her name. Her address. Her connections. Anyone who might be looking for her."
He nods and leaves. The door clicks shut. I stay where I am, still watching her as security run through what’s going to happen next.
