All In

Ace's POV

I could calculate the exact probability of winning this weekend's World Series of Poker qualifier in my sleep. Sixty-four players, my current ranking, the statistical likelihood of certain hands appearing—it all added up to a solid 23% chance of taking home the million-dollar prize. Not the best odds I've faced, but definitely not the worst.

What I couldn't calculate was the growing knot in my stomach as I watched the clouds drift past the private jet's window.

Focus, Ace. I shifted my attention back to the passengers around me, a habit that had served me well at countless poker tables. The businessman in 2A kept checking his Rolex every thirty seconds—nervous energy, probably flying to close a deal he wasn't confident about.

The woman across from me had perfectly manicured nails but kept biting her cuticles when she thought no one was looking. Classic tell.

My phone buzzed with a text from Blake: Missing you already. Kill it in Vegas, babe. That private casino is going to be amazing.

The private casino. My dream for the past three years, and finally within reach thanks to the investment fund I'd built up from tournament winnings. Blake had been so supportive when I told him about transferring the money to a high-yield investment account he'd recommended—said his contacts at the bank could get me better returns while I waited for the right property to come on the market.

I smiled and typed back: Can't wait to celebrate with you when I get back. How's that important investment opportunity going?

His response came quickly: Complicated, but promising. Trust me, it'll be worth it.

Something about that phrase made me pause. Trust me. Blake said that a lot lately, usually when I asked too many questions about his work. I shook off the feeling. We'd been together for two years, engaged for six months. If I couldn't trust my fiancé, who could I trust?

I was reaching for my water when I caught sight of the laptop screen belonging to the man in the seat beside me. He'd been quiet the entire flight—tall, dark hair, expensive suit that fit him like it was custom-made. The kind of guy who probably had more money than sense, except there was something sharp about his eyes that suggested otherwise.

His screen showed what looked like a banking interface, and normally I would've minded my own business. But the number at the top made me freeze.

$847,000.

The exact amount I'd transferred to Blake's investment account last month.

My eyes darted to the transaction details before I could stop myself. Transfer initiated to: C. Romano. Date and time stamp: yesterday, 3:47 PM. Status: Complete.

My blood turned to ice.

I knew that amount down to the penny because I'd counted every dollar of it. Prize money from Monte Carlo, Atlantic City, three smaller tournaments in between. Money I'd bled for across countless hours at felt tables, reading faces, calculating odds, making split-second decisions that could cost me everything.

C. Romano. I didn't recognize the name, but the transaction notes made my stomach drop: Investment return - private acquisition.

Blake had told me the investment was still pending.

Blake had lied.

I tried to keep my expression neutral—a skill that had served me well in poker—but apparently not well enough. The man beside me glanced over, and I caught the exact moment his eyes flicked from my face to his screen, then back again.

Shit.

Instead of panicking, I did what I always did when someone tried to read me at a table—I gave them something to think about. I let a small, knowing smile cross my lips and shifted slightly in my seat, making it clear I'd seen exactly what he didn't want me to see.

His reaction was interesting. Instead of closing the laptop or angling it away, he did something unexpected. He smiled back. Not a friendly smile—something darker, more knowing.

But I caught the microscopic pause before he smiled. The slight tightening around his eyes. He was calculating, just like I was.

"Interesting reading?" His voice was low, with just a hint of an accent I couldn't place.