Page 25 of Unleashed By Eden

I think for a moment, considering it. I only really have one question. Or more accurately, one question with a thousand variations and jagged edges.

“Let’s do it.”

He deals, and I pick up my cards. Four hearts in sequence, my brain doing the math automatically. I keep my face as neutral as possible, discard the odd card, and pull a new one from the deck.

When I see it, my teeth sink lightly into my top lip to stop my smile.

Straight flush. It’s over. I’ve won.

Winning should feel like relief, like some kind of cosmic correction. Instead, my heart starts to race, because the closer I get to opening my mouth, the closer I get to asking him about the night that shattered everything.

Why?

Why wasn’t I good enough?

Why did you shove me away like I was something dirty?

Why did you walk away and never look back?

Why did you pretend I didn’t exist when existing and surviving had been our whole thing?

I lay my hand down. “Call.”

He looks at my cards, then at me, eyes crinkling as a wide, beautiful smile breaks across his face. He taps his fingers once on the table, then places his own cards down.

A royal flush.

My jaw drops. I bark out a short, disbelieving laugh. “You’ve got to be fucking kidding me.”

He rubs his hands together like a kid on Christmas morning and leans back in his chair, pleased with himself.

“Where do I even begin?” he muses, eyes bright.

He crosses one arm over his chest, props his other elbow on it, resting his knuckles against his jaw in this ridiculous mock-philosopher pose.

I give him my most intimidating glare.

“I have a two-part question,” he announces.

“Fuck no. One question only, that was the deal.”

“It’s one question, but it has two parts.” He drops his hand, grin edging back in. “You can have a two-part question when you win.”

I do have multiple versions of my why waiting in the wings. I could probably use the extra room.

“Fine. Shoot.” I cross my legs and start drumming my fingers on the armrest to keep from fidgeting.

“Why do you work at Eden?” he asks.

I hold his gaze and let the silence stretch, giving him that dead-eyed stare I use on grown men to shut them down mid-sentence. It usually makes them backpedal . . . fast.

Carter just watches me, relaxed, a tiny curve at the corner of his mouth that says he’s not backing down.

“Because I enjoy it,” I say finally. “And I’m good at it.”

His expression doesn’t change.

I lean in. “And it gives me the financial freedom to do what I actually love. I wouldn’t be Vega Wolfe without Eden. Eden paid for my degree. It paid my rent when nobody wanted to hire an unknown photojournalist. There’s not a lot of work out there for someone who wants to shoot music and only music—not weddings, or babies, or influencer bullshit. Eden bought me enough time to get good and build a name for myself, so I didn’t have to pivot to something I hate. Even now, after years of busting my ass, I still need it. It lets me pick and choose my clients. Say no when I want to.”