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Boring has no place left in my head tonight.

I’m already moving before my brain catches up. I’m in the bedroom, stripping my work shirt, opening the wardrobe, reaching for the tux I wore to the charity event. Navy. Tailored. Proper. Except tonight it doesn’t feel like armour. It feels like potential.

I shower in record time.

Shave.

Do my hair properly.

I tie my bow tie twice because the first attempt is crooked and apparently I still have standards, even while sprinting towards personal destruction.

When I look in the mirror, something happens.

I expect to see the panic. The guilt. The man who sat in Bill Parker’s office and lied through his teeth.

But I don’t.

I see a man with bright, vivid colour on his walls.

A man summoned to a casino by a beautiful devil and the woman he has loved for half his life.

A man who, for once, might actually choose the dangerous option.

My shoulders square.

My tux sits perfectly.

I look tired, yes. There are shadows under my eyes, and no amount of grooming can erase the madness of the last few days. But I look alive.

More alive than I have in years.

And I can’t help grinning at myself.

It’s fucking showtime, baby.

The cab ride to Aurum House is a blur of headlights. London simply slides past the windows, like my predicament is no big deal in the slightest. People are having their lives altered in the back seats of black cabs every night of the week, I’m sure.

I nearly message Jack asking where exactly they are inside the casino, but I don’t want instructions. I want the hit of walking in and finding them.

I want to know whether I still have the nerve to stand tall and stride proud when I see them.

The casino entrance is discreet enough that half the world could pass it by without knowing fortunes are won and lost behind the doors. Understated on the outside, sin in a tailored suit on the inside.

The doorman checks my ID and confirms my full name.

Wow. Apparently I’m expected.

That gives me a stupid little thrill.

Inside, the air changes.

Warm. Expensive. Low-lit. The quiet pulse of money moving from hand to hand. Glasses clink. Chips stack. Cards whisper. A murmur of voices rises and falls like the place has its own breathing pattern.

And there he is.

Jack.

At the roulette wheel.