No Hearts At Stake

A ray of sunlight with vibrant yellow light blinded me for a moment when I stepped onto the deck to observe the human tide that, amidst elbows and shoves, made their way up the ramp to board the cruise ship. "The Perle Rouge" awaited in the main port of Southampton, the sky tinged with shades of purple, orange, and pink as the noise, confusion, and growing panic of not making it on board dominated the dock. I felt a bit sorry for those people. Many of them had taken long flights to be there for their annual stroll through the waters of the Solent Strait, others were almost bursting with excitement at this new experience. I could see it on their faces. There was something innocent in their expressions, a virginal air in their gestures that betrayed them as neophytes. All that commotion was certainly justified; the enormous and luxurious cruise ship waiting for them promised non-stop fun, entire days of relaxation, romantic atmospheres, and, just the right amount, a touch of temptation for the more adventurous souls. All those men and women, once they crossed the doors, would stop being stressed business people, or frustrated housewives. There would be no more bored men or dissatisfied women. No, in Le Perle, as I liked to call it, everyone had their wishes fulfilled. It didn't matter your social class or your origin, if you paid for a ticket to Le Perle, you would be treated like a king or queen by its crew. I was startled out of my daydream by a persistent buzzing in my jeans pocket. When I pulled out my phone, Patrick's name appeared on the screen for the fourth time that day. Naturally, he was aware that we were sailing today. It wasn't a coincidence; they had never accompanied him. I gazed at the name for a few seconds, feeling a mixture of resignation and boredom reserved for ghosts that refuse to disappear. "For God’s sake, Patrick, just give up already. You should’ve given up months ago," I shut off the screen and put the phone away once again. There was nothing he could say that would alter my decision. I had no intention of leaving the boat, at least not yet. I rested my arms on the railing and contemplated the scene. I still had a bit of time; the crew was already wandering from one place to another, offering their help to the passengers; the cooks and waiters had been preparing everything for the dinner feast for a while, and the maids were giving the rooms a final inspection while the crew guided everyone, but the day at the casino wouldn't start until we had set sail, so I wasn't in a hurry yet. It would be my last breath. As soon as we left the dock, I would be facing fifteen days of long shifts, so I would enjoy the moment, which, to be honest, I loved; sometimes I seemed to enjoy the moments before departure more than the journey itself. As happens with every new trip, I remembered the first time I boarded a cruise ship. I was just an eleven-year-old girl, accompanied by my parents and my brothers. I had been dazzled by the majesty of the vessel, also somewhat paranoid about the possibility of hitting an iceberg. I smiled as I remembered how I hadn't stopped talking about it for at least three hours, although Jules, my older brother, assured me that I was just talking nonsense; but in reality, it was our first-class cabins, as luxurious as they were spacious, that made me forget the potential sinking; that and the delicious food that kept coming as long as there was something to eat; and although my cabin on Le Perle was about three times smaller and by no means as luxurious as the one from my childhood, I enjoyed it almost with the same enthusiasm. I loved adventure, even though my parents weren't happy with what I was doing, of course. "What the hell is a Cambridge economics graduate supposed to do dealing cards on a cruise ship?!" My father had shouted during Christmas dinner. And of course, that instantly ruined the festive atmosphere. Percival Hawthorne, owner of almost the entire railway industry in England, father of a crown lawyer and the president of the House of Lords, whom the entire country already sees as the next Prime Minister, the youngest in history, by the way, did not look kindly upon his youngest daughter, his delicate little princess, after graduating with honors from Cambridge, deciding to play cards with a handful of idiots on a cruise in Monaco. In general, my family was left speechless for a few minutes, and after the shock, they started asking me some questions, but my father? The poor man almost had a stroke when I announced my decision. He huffed, swore a couple of times, turned as red as a tomato, and pounded the table with his fists, but after a while, when he realized I wouldn't back down, he let it go. I mean... he didn't speak to me for the next two weeks, but by the time I started packing my things, he had already forgiven me. Percy was a big guy sealed in the fire of traditionalism, but I was his weakness, so, with crossed arms and impotent, he bid me farewell and wished me good luck from the door of the family mansion. I understood why he, Patrick and anyone sane, would see my decision as madness. I had left the luxuries and comforts of the ancestral mansion, along with a couple of juicy job offers and, perhaps, a promising marriage proposal, for a cot with cheap sheets, shared with a stranger, to endure exhausting twelve-hour shifts on a floating casino. But I couldn't be happier. There in Le Perle, in the sea, no one cared how many successful generations my last name encompassed. They weren't interested in the connections they could make through me, nor how beneficial it could be to marry me. There I was just Eva Sinclair, dealer at the floating branch of Monte d'Or, the most successful casino in Monte Carlo in the last decade. Their employers didn't care where my degree came from, only my willingness to work and my readiness to leave my entire life in England to embark on the adventure they offered their clients, in exchange for what they considered a decent salary for the sacrifice, assuming that was important to me, unaware that only the trust fund my parents had set up for me since birth generated much more than what they paid my entire team. I liked that. After a life that seemed to be meticulously planned out even before I was born, what my father called madness made me feel in control. I tilted my head back, enjoying the last vestiges of the sun and the cool breeze. When I sat up, I could see a man in his twenties looking at me with deep interest, brazenly. In fact, his lewd little smile, weak mustache, and a ginger tone so bland it was almost laughable. I knew I was attractive to many men, my long and shiny blonde hair, my rosy cheeks full of freckles, and my brown eyes, although not uncommon around here, still captivated men, or at least that's what Patrick, my ex, kept saying. But what many men didn't seem to understand was that just because I was attractive to them, it didn't mean I was attracted to them... or that I had to accept their advances. I raised a hand as a warning when the boy made a move to approach, and the cold look I shot him made the poor guy appear flustered while I turned around and walked away from the railing, muttering silently because that i***t had ruined the moment for me. I had seen it in his eyes, he was the type who didn't take "no" for an answer, and knowing that punching one of the passengers before setting sail wouldn't do my stay there any good, I decided to head back to my cabin. There were two things that bothered me about men: the first was that they looked at me with lust as soon as they laid their eyes on me. Are you a damn animal incapable of controlling your impulses? I wasn't a hopeless romantic, but where had the courtship gone? I didn't expect flowers from anyone or moonlit walks, but if you wanted to sleep with me, at least you should behave like a gentleman for the time it took me to decide if I wanted to undress in front of you. The second thing that bothered me was the arrogance of those who thought they were irresistible, those who believed that because they had muscles, I would melt at their feet, and especially those who thought that what hung between their legs gave them the right to decide when to attack. I say when; I say how, I say with whom. That was my mantra regarding men... to life itself! I was already tired of following others like a little lamb, letting old dogs guide me or crafty foxes try to devour me. No thanks. I walked through the grand hall and watched the boys from the orchestra getting ready to entertain during dinner in a little while. Almost all the passengers were on board, walking back and forth, marveling at every detail of Le Perle. As they passed through the restricted corridors, the smell of stews and seafood blended in a wonderful way; the food there was worthy of recognition. The last food critics who had made the trip had labeled it as "fantasy bites," not bad for the fools running the kitchen, a trio of Frenchmen who liked knock-knock jokes. “Hey, casino girl! Are your guys ready to fleece the passengers?” Asked Mike, an American boy who spent his days chopping vegetables on board. “Almost. And you? Ready for another vomiting epidemic?” My question was met with an indignant gasp in response. "It wasn't my onions, damn it!" Mike shouted as I opened the door without stopping to laugh. On the previous trip, about twenty people had spent two entire days vomiting, keeping the doctors on board stressed as they didn't know what had happened to the group. In the end, they concluded that all those affected had eaten from an onion soup. All those involved were immediately fired, but Mike, who never went near the stove, had survived. I couldn't know what had gone wrong with that soup, but I liked to insinuate loudly that he had something to do with it... that drove him crazy. I could still hear his curses in the air when I crashed against a wall, except it wasn't a wall at all, it was the chest —as hard as f*****g steel— of Vanko Boswell, the casino manager. I knew this not because I had seen him. I didn’t need to see him. The pain in my nose kept my eyes shut, and the sandalwood scent pouring from his pores filled my nostrils. "Are you okay?" He asked me with that deep voice that made us all tremble in the casino, which meant the man was not happy. “Yes, yes. I was distracted, I'm sorry.” I replied, stepping back, freeing myself from the grip of his hot hands that had been holding my arms, making them feel like spaghetti compared to his firmness. The man instilled an enormous fear in me; not only because he was about two heads taller than me, but because it seemed like he could crush my skull between his fingers, and I, used to seeing desire or interest in the eyes of men who looked at me, had to admit that I was a bit disoriented by the indifference in his, although, in reality, more than indifference, the man seemed to look at me with disdain, a very polite and silent disdain, but disdain nonetheless. Just like he did at that moment before glancing at his watch. “Aren't you late for the opening, Hawthorne?” "I assure you I will be on time for the opening, Mr. Boswell," I replied without bothering to deny my tardiness. If he was giving you a hard time, it was because he already had you by the neck. “I hope so. Remember that the rules have changed and there will be no concessions... It doesn't matter who you are.” “Yes, sir,” I hurriedly said, stepping aside to let him pass and then continuing on my way to the cabin. Boswell had arrived at the casino on my second trip, he had been undercover for a week to evaluate everyone, and in the first official meeting, he took it upon himself to tell us what he considered to be everyone's weak points; mine, according to him, was that I was too familiar with the gamblers and that gave a bad image to the company. That had offended me so much that, unlike the others, I hadn't tried to win his favor, but had kept my distance, and consequently, we had a rather tense working relationship, especially because the man had come to impose new rules, including zero tolerance for tardiness. They wouldn't let us work that night if we arrived even two minutes after our scheduled time. But I, determined not to give him the satisfaction of reprimanding me, started running towards the cabin to be at my table even before time, but then the memory of our exchange stopped me dead in my tracks halfway down the hallway. "Hawthorne?" I asked in a whisper, realizing he had called me by my father's surname. No one on board knew it. That could only mean one thing... He’d figured out the truth. "Oh, s**t!"