Chapter 4
1438 Words
Chapter 4
Katie's POV
The clinking of poker chips echoes through the room like a drumbeat, steady and sharp. Laughter mixes with the hum of quiet conversations. The air smells like leather, cologne, and just a hint of whiskey. The poker lounge isn’t as crowded as the main deck, but every person here carries the same air of quiet confidence, like they all believe they’re about to win big.
Rogan leads me in like he owns the place. Maybe he does. He walks with that kind of authority — slow, steady, eyes scanning the room like he’s looking for threats or opportunities. I follow, trying to look as calm as he does, but every nerve in my body is on high alert.
“See that guy at the end of the table?” Rogan leans in close, his breath warm against my ear. I follow his gaze to a man in a sharp navy-blue suit, his fingers drumming against his stack of chips. “That’s Lionel Pierce. Owns three resorts in Miami. Arrogant. Greedy. Gets sloppy when he’s winning.”
I glance at Rogan. “And you know this how?”
He grins. “I pay attention.”
“Right,” I mutter, crossing my arms. “So what’s the plan? We just... watch him lose?”
“Something like that,” Rogan says, his eyes flicking back to Lionel like he’s sizing up prey. “Sometimes, watching a man lose his pride is more satisfying than watching him lose his money.”
There’s something dangerous in the way he says it, like there’s more to the story. But I don’t press. Not yet, anyway.
He guides me to a small booth just off to the side. It’s dimly lit, shadows stretching long across the polished wood table. I slide into the seat, and Rogan sits across from me, leaning back with the ease of someone who’s done this a thousand times.
“You sure you don’t play?” he asks, tilting his head toward the poker table.
“Positive,” I say, watching the players shuffle their cards. “I like my money where I can see it.”
“Smart girl.” His eyes flick up to meet mine, and for a moment, something sharp passes between us. “But sometimes, risks pay off.”
“Or they blow up in your face,” I counter.
“True,” he admits, his grin widening. “But those explosions? Memorable.”
I roll my eyes, but I can’t help the small smile tugging at my lips. He’s impossible.
We sit in silence for a bit, watching the game. Every so often, Rogan points out something subtle—a player’s tell, a shift in their posture, the flicker of doubt in their eyes. It’s fascinating in a way I didn’t expect. Each player is like a puzzle piece, their confidence crumbling little by little with every bad hand.
“You see that?” Rogan asks, nodding toward Lionel. The man’s shoulders are tense now, his fingers tapping faster on the table. “He’s on tilt.”
“On what?” I ask, leaning forward.
“Tilt,” Rogan repeats, eyes gleaming with amusement. “It means he’s frustrated, off balance. He’s about to make a bad decision.”
Sure enough, Lionel pushes a massive stack of chips forward, his face tight with forced confidence. Another player calls his bluff, revealing a straight flush. Lionel’s jaw tightens, and he mutters something under his breath as his stack of chips gets pulled away.
“See?” Rogan says, leaning closer. “Predictable.”
“Impressive,” I admit, shooting him a sideways glance. “But I’m guessing you didn’t bring me here for a lesson on poker strategy.”
He raises a brow. “Didn’t I?”
“No,” I say, folding my arms on the table. “You have a plan. You always do. So, what is it?”
His grin falters, just for a second. But it’s long enough. I see something behind his eyes, something darker than the cocky charm he’s been throwing around all day.
“You’re smarter than you look,” he says quietly.
“Thanks?” I reply, not sure if that’s a compliment or an insult.
He leans forward, his elbows on the table, his eyes locked on mine. “You want revenge on your boyfriend?”
I blink, caught off guard by the sudden shift. “I never said that.”
“You didn’t have to,” he says, his voice low and steady. “You wouldn’t be here with me if you weren’t thinking about it.”
I open my mouth to argue, but the words get stuck. He’s right. I hate that he’s right. Winfred humiliated me, made me feel small. I’m tired of feeling small.
“What’s your point, Rogan?” I ask, keeping my voice calm even though my heart is racing.
“My point,” he says, leaning in until there’s barely a foot of space between us, “is that I can help you win.”
I narrow my eyes. “Win what?”
“Control,” he says simply, like it’s the most obvious thing in the world. “Power. The chance to stop playing by his rules.” He sits back, spreading his arms like he’s presenting me with an offer I’d be stupid to refuse. “All you have to do is say yes.”
“Say yes to what, exactly?” I ask, my eyes not leaving his.
“Us,” he says, his grin sharp as a blade. “Fake dating, remember? You and me. Together. Let him see you with someone better. Let him feel it.” His eyes darken as he says it, like there’s something personal there. Something raw.
The words hang between us, too loud in the quiet. I know it’s reckless. I know it’s risky. But then I remember the way Winfred’s hands were on that other woman. The way he didn’t even notice me standing right there.
I clench my jaw, my nails pressing into my palms. I’m done being invisible.
“Fine,” I say, meeting Rogan’s gaze head-on. “But this isn’t about him.”
“Of course not,” he says, smirking like he’s already won. “It’s about you.”
---
Later that night, I’m sitting on my balcony, the cool sea air brushing against my skin. The waves below are endless, stretching into the darkness like they could swallow the whole world. I wrap my arms around myself, letting the quiet wash over me.
It’s peaceful. Too peaceful.
Why can’t I relax?
The hairs on the back of my neck rise, and I feel it again—that feeling from last night. Like someone’s watching me. I glance over my shoulder at the sliding glass door. The cabin is dark except for the soft glow of the bedside lamp. No one’s there.
I tell myself I’m imagining it. Just nerves, Katie. You’re fine.
But I can’t shake it.
I step inside, locking the balcony door behind me. I double-check the main door too, making sure the lock is set. My heart doesn’t slow down until I’m under the covers, staring at the ceiling.
Minutes pass. Maybe hours. I’m not sure when I fall asleep, but when I do, it’s shallow and restless.
A sound wakes me.
Tap. Tap. Tap.
My eyes snap open, heart already pounding. I hold my breath, every muscle tense. Was that the door?
Tap. Tap.
I throw the covers off and tiptoe toward the door, each step slow, quiet. My pulse hammers in my ears as I press my ear to the door.
Tap.
“Who is it?” I ask, voice low but firm.
Silence.
I swallow, my throat dry. Don’t open it. Just don’t open it.
But then a voice cuts through the quiet. It’s soft, almost gentle.
“Room service,” it says.
My heart stops. I didn’t order room service.
“Go away,” I say, my voice shaking.
Silence again. Then, the sound of footsteps fading down the hall.
I don’t breathe until I hear them disappear completely. I wait. Five minutes. Ten. My fingers stay curled tight around the handle, my heart pounding like it’s about to c***k my ribs.
When I finally move, it’s slow and cautious. I peek through the peephole. No one’s there.
But something is.
A small, folded note, slid halfway under the door.
My fingers shake as I pull it through. Three words are scrawled across it in jagged black ink.
I see you.
- Writer
