The words landed heavy in the private lounge of the Westbridge Club, thick with cigar smoke and old money.
“Fifty thousand,” Nathaniel repeated, swirling the amber in his glass. “Bring her to the gala. Let her try to keep up. The room will do the rest.”
Across from him, Sebastian Cole felt the wager drop into his chest like a coin falling down a deep well.
Clink.
Clink.
Clink.
He looked at his friends—Adrian Locke, polished and bored; Marcus Hale, smirking behind a crystal tumbler—and felt something shift inside him. Not dramatic. Not loud.
Just clear.
“You think that’s funny?” Sebastian asked quietly.
Nathaniel leaned back. “Relax. She gets a free night out. A taste of the high life.”
“A taste of humiliation,” Sebastian replied.
Adrian shrugged. “If she belongs there, she’ll survive.”
Marcus grinned. “And if she doesn’t… well. Fifty grand says she won’t.”
Sebastian set his glass down. The soft click against marble sounded louder than it should have.
“It’s not harmless,” he said. “It’s a trap.”
They laughed.
Because men like them laughed at anything that didn’t cost money.
Nathaniel lifted his phone. “So? You in?”
Sebastian stood instead.
“Enjoy your drinks,” he said.