Then he’s moving; sliding out of bed, the mattress dipping and rebounding as he stands. Footsteps retreating. The door clicks shut behind him.
I don’t move. Stay right where he left me, sprawled on my side, hand still hovering in the space where his chest was. The room feels colder, emptier. He doesn’t come back.
And that floating feeling? It sinks into something sharper, like a warning I should’ve heeded.
***
The Gilded Ace hits me like a fever dream the second we step inside.
Gold everywhere; veins of it threading through black marble floors, dripping from chandeliers that look like frozen fireworks, glinting off roulette wheels and the edges of crystal glasses. The air smells like money, cigar smoke, and expensive perfume. Laughter and low conversation roll over the hum of slot machines like distant thunder.
Maksim walks ahead of me, shoulders squared.
His button-down, the exact shade of blue that he dyed his hair again. He looks sharp, clean, expensive in a way that makes him seem even more untouchable. Sleeves rolled once at his forearms. No tie. Effortless.
I’m painfully aware of the dress clinging to me.
He brought it this morning without explanation, dropped it on the bed and told me to change.
Blue too. Dark enough to feel safe, soft fabric that molds to my waist and hips like it knows my shape better than I do. I’d stared at it for a full minute before putting it on, wondering if it was a gift or a uniform.
He hasn’t said more than six words since we left the townhouse.
No eye contact. No explanation for why he disappeared last night after that kiss.
Just a clipped, “We’re going out,” when he showed up in the doorway at dawn looking like he hadn’t slept either.
I follow him through the main floor, past high-roller tables where men in tailored suits glance up, recognize him, and look away fast. A security guy nods once; sharp, deferential, and opens a discreet door at the back.
We climb a short staircase into a private hallway lined with matte black doors.
He pushes into the last one.
The office overlooks the casino through a wall of glass, the city of lights and movement sprawled below us. Up here, everything feels muted. Controlled.
He walks straight behind the desk.
No invitation to sit
No explanation.
I stay standing, fingers brushing the side of my dress, suddenly aware of how exposed I feel in it.
He opens a drawer. Pulls out a black card. Sets it on the desk between us.
“This is yours,” he says.
I stare at it.
Matte black. Heavy-looking. Dangerous in its simplicity.
“What is it?”
“Access.” His voice is flat, businesslike. “No limit, so you can leave.”
The words land like a punch I don’t see coming.
Leave.
