"My friend," I answered before Kholod could.
Peterson smiled, gesturing us forward. "The game will begin shortly, Mr. Kholod. Your seat is at table three. Follow me."
We followed him across the hall. I could feel countless gazes on us—specifically on me. Those looks held curiosity, assessment, scrutiny, making me feel exposed.
At table three, Kholod sat down with Isabella and me behind him.
"Stay close to me. Don't act rashly. Just watch."
He pushed a stack of platinum-edged ivory chips toward me—each worth a fortune, the total enough to change an ordinary person's life. I quietly accepted them.
The game was classic showhand. The opponent was Karl Winterlaub,a middle-aged man who'd inherited railroad wealth and radiated arrogance from his fingertips. He had significant port trade disputes with Kholod. The stakes were staggering, each betting round like a small merger. Kholod remained impassive, but I knew he hated losing, especially in front of potential business rivals.
After several hands, I noticed an extremely subtle habit of Winterlaub's. Whenever his hole card was an ace—especially when he needed it to complete a strong hand—his right ring finger would unconsciously tap once against the soft felt table edge, with consistent rhythm.
This movement was so hidden it was nearly imperceptible. Without the compulsive attention to detail I'd developed from living in oppressive environments, it would be impossible to detect. Was he using this to signal hidden accomplices in the game? Or was it merely an unconscious tell revealing his inner state?
Another crucial hand was dealt. Kholod's face-up cards looked good, but Winterlaub's visible cards were equally strong. The air grew tense. When Winterlaub's turn came, he pushed forward an eye-watering stack of chips with a confident smirk.
Just as he completed this action and lowered his hand, that ring finger tapped once more against the table edge.
My heart skipped a beat.
Kholod was about to call. Just as his fingers nearly touched his chips, I raised my champagne glass, pretending to sip, while my other hand, hidden beneath the table, quickly and discreetly traced a clear "A" in Kholod's palm with my fingertip.
His body went imperceptibly rigid for an instant. He didn't turn to look at me, showed no expression change, didn't even alter his breathing rhythm. But his hand stopped, then casually withdrew.
"Mr. Winterlaub," Kholod's voice remained steady but carried an icy smile, "You're really on fire today. Why don't we make it more interesting?" Instead of calling, he pushed forward chips worth nearly double the current pot—a massive raise.
This was an extremely risky move, completely inconsistent with his previous playing style. Winterlaub's confidence immediatelycracked, staring at Kholod in disbelief, panic flickering in his eyes. He hesitated, then, after long consideration, folded with a grim expression.
Kholod didn't even show his hole cards, simply collecting all the chips on the table. He didn't need to reveal his hand—his action had declared everything. Winterlaub's rhythm was shattered, his confidence seemingly crumbling with it.
In the following hands, Kholod moved like a precise predator, tightening his grip. Eventually, Winterlaub not only lost all his liquid assets but signed a promissory note devastating enough to cripple his core industries.
When the game ended, we moved to the banquet hall. Soft lighting, flowing jazz, elegant socializing. But the looks directed at me were completely different now. Probing, surprised, even slightly awed.
Several powerful-looking men approached Kholod with their drinks.
"Brilliant reversal, Kholod." A gray-haired elder said meaningfully, his gaze falling on me like a searchlight. "Your wife has very sharp eyes. Mr. Morozov certainly keeps talented people close."
Kholod remained noncommittal, slightly shifting to shelter me in his shadow, his arm wrapping around my waist with undeniable possession.
I stood quietly beside him, enduring those stares, champagne bubbles rising steadily in my glass. I knew my unconscious action had not only helped Kholod win the game, but had also dropped a small but significant stone into this lake of power.
Chapter Twenty-Five
Kholod
I cradled my wine glass, ostensibly discussing port transportation deals with Peterson, but my attention was locked entirely on Noelle at my side.
She was in that deep blue velvet gown, the strapless design exposing her rounded shoulders and toned arms. The tailoring was impeccable, accentuating her slender waist and elegant curves. She stood there like a finely sculpted work of art.
That's exactly why those men's eyes swarmed over her like flies, unapologetic and blatant.
I noticed the old oil magnate, his stare practically glued to Noelle's bare collarbone. And that young banker lounging by the bar, eyeing her profile with a lecherous smirk.
My fingers clenched, the rim of the glass biting into my palm.
