Page 5 of Bound to Him

I nod, picturing her there, serving coffee, smiling at customers, blissfully unaware of the trap closing around her. "John Brightley loves his family," I say. "Whatever his failings as a provider, he's protective of them. Especially Hannah."

"That's what we've heard," Marco confirms. "He's mentioned her to some of the other gamblers. Proud of her talent, hopes she'll make something of herself."

"Hopes often fail, don't they?" I muse, rising from my chair to walk to the window. The city spreads below me, buildings gleaming in the afternoon sun. "I want you to increase his credit line."

Vincent raises an eyebrow. "Sir?"

"Double it," I continue. "Make it easy for him. Encourage him. Have someone at the tables lead him on, make him think his luck is about to change."

"He won't be able to repay it," Vincent points out, though he's already making notes.

"That's precisely the point." I turn back to face them. "I want him so deep in debt that he'll have no choice but to accept whatever terms I offer."

Understanding dawns on their faces. They've seen me acquire businesses, properties, power, but never a person. This is new territory, even for them.

"There's a high-stakes game at Le Blanc on Friday," Marco says after a moment. "Private room, minimum buy-in of twenty thousand."

"Perfect." I walk back to my desk, picking up Hannah's file. "Make sure Brightley knows about it. Make sure he has the money to buy in. And make sure he loses. Everything."

They nod, rising to leave. At the door, Vincent pauses. "Sir, if I may ask...why not just take the house? Or have him work it off? Why?—"

"That will be all, Vincent," I cut him off, my tone leaving no room for further questions.

After they leave, I open Hannah's file again. There are more photographs—taken over the past week by men I've assigned to watch her. Hannah at school, Hannah walking home, Hannah sketching in a park. In each image, she's unaware of the camera, caught in moments of genuine expression. Concentration as she draws, laughter with friends, thoughtful contemplation at a crosswalk.

I select one photograph in particular. Hannah alone at a café table, sunlight catching in her hair, her eyes focused on the sketchbook before her. Shelooks…peaceful. I wonder if she'll ever look that peaceful again after I take her.

The thought should disturb me. It doesn't.

Three days later, I stand in the shadows of Le Blanc's private gaming room, watching John Brightley destroy his family's future. He doesn't see me. No one does. I've arranged to observe from behind a one-way mirror, a feature installed for security purposes but perfect for my needs tonight.

Brightley sits at the poker table, a glass of whiskey at his elbow, a dwindling stack of chips before him. He's not a bad player, but he's up against professionals who know exactly what they're doing. Every win is calculated to keep him at the table; every loss designed to bleed him slowly, keeping hope alive just long enough for him to push all his chips into the center.

I sip my bourbon, savoring the burn. There's something almost sexual about watching a man's destruction. The desperation in his eyes, the sweat on his brow, the trembling hands as he places his bets. Brightley doesn't know it, but with every hand, he's pushing his daughter closer to me.

My phone vibrates with a text from Vincent: "He's down 45K. Borrowed another 20 from the house on your approval."

I text back: "Let him continue. I want him ruined by midnight."

As the hours pass, Brightley's expression grows increasingly haunted. He's losing badly now, chasing hands he should fold, risking more to recover what's already lost. It's a common pattern among gambling addicts—the inability to walk away, the desperate belief that the next hand will turn everything around.

By eleven, he's borrowed more money than he could repay in five years. By eleven-thirty, he's pale and shaking, the reality of his situation finally beginning to dawn on him. At eleven forty-five, he makes a final, desperate all-in bet with a hand that any reasonable player would have folded.

He loses, of course. He was always going to lose.

I watch as he sits there, stunned, staring at the cards as if willing them to change. The other players—my players—begin to leave the table, their jobs complete. Only the dealer remains, sliding a piece of paper toward Brightley.

"Your marker, sir," the dealer says. "The house requires acknowledgment of debt before you leave."

Brightley stares at the paper, the total amount clearly causing physical pain. His hand shakes ashe signs. He doesn't read the fine print. They never do. He doesn't see the clause that assigns collection rights directly to me, bypassing the casino entirely. He doesn't understand that he's just signed away any leverage he might have had.

I step out from my observation point and make my way downstairs. It's time to introduce myself properly to the man whose daughter will soon be mine.

The main floor of Le Blanc is still busy, the regular casino guests unaware of the drama that unfolded in the private room above. I find Brightley at the bar, a fresh drink before him, his face a mask of despair.

"John Brightley," I say, taking the seat beside him.

He looks up, confusion momentarily replacing distress. "Do I know you?"

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