The gala was a symphony of light and money. Crystal chandeliers blazed overhead, their light shimmering across jewels and champagne flutes. A string quartet played something elegant and forgettable in one corner. The air was thick with expensive perfume, cigar smoke from a terrace, and the low, self-satisfied murmur of people for whom this was just another Tuesday.
Harper stood just inside the grand ballroom, her clutch held like a shield. She felt like an imposter in a museum, afraid to touch anything. The emerald dress, which had felt like armor in her room, now felt like a beacon, drawing glances from men in tuxedos and assessing stares from women in gowns that cost more than her first car.
One drink, she reminded herself, weaving through the crowd toward a long bar manned by impassive staff. The plan was simple: acquire a glass of wine, find a quiet corner to observe, fulfill her promise to Chloe, then retreat to the sanctity of her room and her spreadsheets. Anonymity was her cloak.
"Champagne, madame?" a bartender asked, his French accent smooth.
"Please. Just a glass of the house white," Harper said. Her voice sounded small, drowned by the room's grandeur.
A tall man in a flawless Brioni tuxedo leaned on the bar next to her, ordering a Macallan 25 without looking at the menu. He glanced at her, his gaze sliding from her face down the length of the emerald dress and back up. It was a look she knew well—appraisal, acquisition. He opened his mouth, a practiced smile forming.
"If you'll excuse me," Harper said abruptly, taking her wine glass and melting back into the crowd before he could speak. The fortress walls went up, brick by mental brick. This was a mistake. She didn't know how to do this.
Seeking refuge, she found herself near the casino annex. This was where the real action lay. The room was darker, more intimate, the air humming with a different energy—sharp, hungry, focused. The rhythmic rattle of a roulette wheel, the soft slap of cards, the clink of high-denomination chips. Here, people weren't just displaying wealth; they were playing with it. She could understand the rules of a game.
She drifted to a space at the end of a crowded roulette table, watching the ballet of chance. The croupier, a severe-looking woman with impeccable posture, spun the ivory ball. Eyes followed its dizzying journey. A collective groan, a few muted cheers as it settled into black 17.
"Placing bets, please," the croupier intoned.
Harper sipped her wine, a spectator. Then a movement to her left caught her eye. A man. He wasn't placing bets either, just observing, but his observation was different. He wasn't watching the wheel; he was watching the people around it—the nervous tick of a man's jaw as he stacked chips on red, the too-loud laugh of a woman who'd just lost a pile. His gaze was analytical, detached, as though she were a flawed experiment under glass.
He was tall, even leaning against the rail. Dark blonde hair, cut short but not severe, caught the low light. His profile was all sharp angles and clean lines—a straight nose, a jaw that looked like it could cut glass. He held a tumbler of amber liquid, his long fingers resting idly against the glass. He wore a tuxedo, but it looked lived-in, like he'd thrown it on without a thought, the bowtie slightly loosened at his neck. He exuded an air of profound, almost bored, containment. Like a predator so sure of its position it didn't need to move.
Then, as if sensing her stare, he turned his head.
His eyes were in shock. A piercing, crystalline blue that seemed to see straight through the dim light and her carefully constructed anonymity. They didn't glide over her. They stopped. Held. For a second, the bored detachment vanished, replaced by a flicker of intense, focused interest.
Harper's breath hitched. She forced herself to look away, back to the wheel, her heart thumping a frantic rhythm against her ribs. Don't be ridiculous, she scolded herself. He's just another rich guy.
"Final bets," the croupier called.
On pure, reckless impulse, Harper set her wine down and pulled a single, crisp 100-euro note from her clutch—her designated "fun" money. She reached forward and placed the chip on the green felt, squarely on number 29. Her birth date. A silly, sentimental gesture she would never make with a client's portfolio.
As she straightened, she found the blue eyes were still on her. He had turned fully now, leaning his back against the rail, watching her with an unreadable expression. A faint, almost imperceptible smile touched his lips. It wasn't the practiced smile of the man at the bar. This was different. Amused. Intrigued.
The wheel spun. The ball rattled. Harper's world narrowed to that tiny, dancing ivory sphere. She felt his gaze like a physical touch on her skin.
The ball slowed, bounced, and settled.
"Red, twenty-nine," the croupier announced.
A small, startled laugh escaped Harper's lips. She'd won. The croupier pushed a tidy stack of chips toward her.
"A believer in luck?"
The voice was low, smooth, with a faint, unplaceable accent—a hint of British boarding school over an American base. It came from right beside her. He had moved, soundlessly, to stand at her shoulder.
She turned. Up close, he was even more imposing. The blue eyes were even more startling, and she saw a faint, pale scar slicing through his left eyebrow. It should have marred his perfection; instead, it made him real, dangerous. He smelled like sandalwood and cold night air.
"I believe in probability," Harper said, surprised at the steadiness of her own voice. She gathered her chips, her fingers brushing cool clay. "Luck is just probability taken personally."
His smile widened, a real one this time, transforming his face. It was devastating. "A philosopher at the roulette table. A rare breed." He nodded toward her chips. "Are you going to let it ride? Test the personal probability further?"
"Gambling with winnings is how people lose houses," she said, repeating something her pragmatic mother had always said.
"Wise." He took a sip of his drink, his eyes never leaving hers. "But not very Monégasque. This entire city is built on the principle of letting it ride."
"Maybe I'm not here for the principles of Monaco."
"Why are you here?" he asked, tilting his head slightly. "You don't look like you belong to this circus."
The directness of the question caught her. Most people here traded in veiled small talk. "I could ask you the same thing. You look like you're studying specimens under glass."
A flash of surprise, then appreciation in his eyes. "An accurate observation. I find the desperation disguised as boredom more interesting than the game itself." He gestured vaguely at the room. "But you didn't answer. You're here alone. You're observant. You're not impressed by any of this." He leaned in a fraction, his voice dropping. "You look like someone plotting an escape."
The words struck a chord so deep and true that it vibrated in her chest. He saw it. He saw her—the imposter, the escapee. The fortress walls trembled.
"Maybe I am," she heard herself say, the admission shocking her.
"From what?"
"Expectations," she said, the truth slipping out before she could cage it.
He nodded slowly, as if she'd confirmed a theory. "The heaviest chains." He extended his hand, not for a handshake, but gesturing to the space between them. "I'm escaping those tonight as well. So, two escapees are at the edge of the circus. What's the protocol?"
Harper's mind, usually a whirlwind of strategy and contingency plans, went blank. The 'one drink and leave' plan evaporated under the intensity of that blue gaze. Chloe's voice echoed in her head: Let someone see you.
"I don't know," she said, her voice barely a whisper over the casino hum.
"I have a proposal," he said, his tone casual, but his eyes were anything but. "One drink. One dance. A temporary alliance of escapees. No names. No pasts. No futures. Just… this." He gestured between them again. "Monaco rules."
Monaco rules. No consequences. It mirrored the vow she'd made in the mirror perfectly. It was terrifying. It was irresistible.
He saw her hesitation. He didn't push. He just waited, his stillness more compelling than any pressure.
The croupier announced the next round. The wheel began to spin again, a blur of red and black. The ball clattered, a sound like rushing time.
Harper looked from the spinning wheel to his waiting face. The safe choice was to take her chips, walk away, and return to her fortress. The unknown was this stranger with scarred eyebrows and eyes that saw too much.
She took a deep breath, the scent of sandalwood and risk filling her lungs.
"One drink," she said, the words feeling like a plunge from a great height. "One dance. Then I disappear."
The slow, knowing smile returned to his lips. It didn't reach his eyes with warmth, but with a kind of fierce satisfaction. He offered his arm, not his hand–agentleman's gesture from another era.
"Then we should make it count," he said, his voice like dark honey and promises. "Before you vanish."
Her fingertips rested lightly on the fine wool of his tuxedo sleeve. A simple touch, yet a current of pure, undiluted electricity shot up her arm, straight to her core. He felt it too; she saw the slight flare of his nostrils, the tightening of his jaw.
He led her away from the roulette table, away from the crowd, toward a quieter lounge where the music from the quartet was just a whisper. The hook was set, deep and undeniable. She had agreed to his terms, but as she walked beside him, her heart pounding a wild, erratic rhythm against her ribs, Harper Ellis knew with terrifying certainty that disappearing was already an impossibility. The game had changed the moment their eyes met across the spinning wheel.