The words landed heavy in the private lounge of the Westbridge Club, thick with cigar smoke and old money.
“Fifty thousand,” Nathaniel repeated, swirling the amber in his glass. “Bring her to the gala. Let her try to keep up. The room will do the rest.”
Across from him, Sebastian Cole felt the wager drop into his chest like a coin falling down a deep well.
Clink.
Clink.
Clink.
He looked at his friends—Adrian Locke, polished and bored; Marcus Hale, smirking behind a crystal tumbler—and felt something shift inside him. Not dramatic. Not loud.
Just clear.
“You think that’s funny?” Sebastian asked quietly.
Nathaniel leaned back. “Relax. She gets a free night out. A taste of the high life.”
“A taste of humiliation,” Sebastian replied.
Adrian shrugged. “If she belongs there, she’ll survive.”
Marcus grinned. “And if she doesn’t… well. Fifty grand says she won’t.”
Sebastian set his glass down. The soft click against marble sounded louder than it should have.
“It’s not harmless,” he said. “It’s a trap.”
They laughed.
Because men like them laughed at anything that didn’t cost money.
Nathaniel lifted his phone. “So? You in?”
Sebastian stood instead.
“Enjoy your drinks,” he said.
He left before they could see the disgust settling into his face.
Down the hall, in the estate’s oversized kitchen, Elena Morales was rinsing crystal flutes. Sleeves rolled. Hair tied back. Focused.
She didn’t flinch when Sebastian entered.
“Sir,” she said evenly.
Not warm. Not submissive. Just professional.
Sebastian hesitated. His world ran on contracts and leverage, not apologies.
“I owe you one,” he said finally.
Elena turned off the faucet. “For what?”
“For letting them speak about you like you were invisible.”
Her expression didn’t change. “Apologies are easy, Mr. Cole. Patterns are harder.”
The words hit.
“You’re right,” he admitted. “I’m trying to break one.”
She waited.
“My annual gala is in two weeks,” he continued. “I’d like you to come.”
“As staff?” she asked.
“No.” He forced himself to hold her gaze. “As my guest.”
Silence.
“Why?” she asked.
Sebastian exhaled. “There was a bet.”
Her face went still.
“So I’m entertainment,” she said softly.
“No.”
“But that’s what they want.”
“Yes,” he admitted. “And I want to flip the arena.”
Elena studied him. “Do you want to win the bet?”
“I want to destroy it.”
A beat.
“Two conditions,” she said.
“Name them.”
“You cancel the bet. Publicly. And if anyone treats me like I’m less than human…”