Chapter 3

Knox's POV

The Bellagio penthouse suite felt smaller than usual as I paced between the floor-to-ceiling windows, watching the Vegas Strip come alive in the twilight. She'd taken my card three hours ago. Either she was being cautious—which I could respect—or she wasn't coming at all.

I'd been in worse positions than waiting for a professional poker player to decide whether to trust me. But something about this particular gamble felt different.

Maybe it was because I'd been thinking about her for three years.

Monte Carlo, 2021. I'd been younger then, cockier, convinced that money and mathematical probability could solve any problem. The Casino de Monte-Carlo's high-stakes room had been my playground that night, and I'd been on a winning streak that had lasted six hours.

Then she'd walked in.

I remembered everything about that moment—the way conversations seemed to pause as heads turned, how she moved through the room with the kind of confidence that couldn't be bought or faked. She'd taken the seat directly across from me, and when she'd looked up from arranging her chips, those dark eyes had met mine with a challenge I'd never seen before.

No introduction. No small talk. Just a slight nod that somehow managed to say, "Let's see what you've got."

She'd systematically destroyed me over the next four hours.

Not through luck—luck had nothing to do with it. She'd read every tell I didn't even know I had, calculated odds faster than I could think, and maintained a poker face so perfect it should have been illegal. By the time she'd walked away with my two million, I'd been equal parts furious and fascinated.

I'd never even learned her name that night. She'd simply stood, gathered her winnings with the same quiet efficiency she'd used to demolish my confidence, and disappeared into the Monaco night.

I'd thought about her more than I should have over the years. The way she'd tilted her head when considering a bet. The precise way she'd stacked her chips. That moment when she'd paused at the door and looked back—not at me, but at the table where I was still sitting, probably wondering what the hell had just happened.

A soft knock at the door pulled me back to the present.

When I opened it, any doubt I might have had vanished instantly. Same eyes, same controlled grace, same way of taking in a room like she was cataloguing every possible advantage and threat.

It was definitely her.

"Ace Delacroix." I stepped back to let her in, studying her face for any sign of recognition. "I wasn't sure you'd come."

"I wasn't sure I would either." She moved into the suite with the kind of careful assessment I remembered from the casino. "Nice place. The kind that suggests either serious money or serious credit problems."

I almost smiled. Still as direct as I remembered.

"Serious money," I confirmed, gesturing toward the sitting area. "Can I get you something to drink?"

"Just answers." She settled into the chair across from me, and the déjà vu was so strong I had to focus on staying present. "Starting with who you are and how you know so much about my business."

I'd prepared for this conversation, planned out exactly how much truth to reveal and what to keep hidden. But sitting across from her again, I found myself wondering if she remembered Monte Carlo at all.

"Knox Santoro. I manage investments for high-net-worth individuals who prefer their financial activities to remain private."

"Polite way of saying money laundering?"

"Polite way of saying I help people navigate complex financial situations." I leaned back, matching her posture. "Your fiancé Blake Morrison is involved in one of those complex situations."

Her expression didn't change, but I caught the slight tightening around her eyes. She was angry—furious, probably—but keeping it locked down tight.

"The transaction you saw on the plane," she said. "That was my money."

It wasn't a question, but I nodded anyway. "Eight hundred and forty-seven thousand dollars. Prize money from various tournaments over the past eighteen months."

"How do you know that?"

"Because Celeste Romano—the woman who received your money—has been making similar 'investments' for the past six months. All of them through Blake Morrison, all of them from sources that don't ask too many questions about where the money came from."

I watched her process this information. She was good—better than good. Most people would have exploded by now, demanded immediate action, let emotion drive their decisions. But she was calculating, weighing options, considering angles I probably hadn't even thought of.

"You said this was problematic for your business interests," she said finally.

"Celeste's family runs a very specific type of operation. They use legitimate businesses to clean money that comes from less legitimate sources. Blake has been helping them expand their reach."

"And that affects you how?"

This was where it got complicated.