Page 126 of House of Cards

The king of diamonds and the eight of clubs stare back at me, but I barely register them. I don’t care how this hand ends. All I care about is getting back to Zoey.

Which is why I can’t allow myself to leave this table yet.

Nathalie studies me across the baize, a lazy smile curving her lips. She doesn’t care how this hand ends either. She thrives on the performance. The slow sip of her overpriced cocktail, the way she glances at me through her eyelashes, how her knee brushes against mine under the table like it’s an accident.

It isn’t.

“I believe you’re brooding, Sir,” she purrs, tipping her martini glass toward me before taking a sip of her espresso martini. Her nails tap once against the side of the glass before scraping over the patterns on the felt again. “What’s her name?”

For once, it’s not just Zoey who’s clouding my mind.

I was pacing through the rows of slots machines, where I knew Nathalie wouldn’t be caught dead, trying to ignore Myles’s summons. Then Troy messaged me about a staff issue.

Dylan’s gotten several warnings for sexual harassment over the past few months, verbal and written, and was subjected to hours of educational training materials to help him understand why what he was doing was wrong.

Narcissistic little shit thinks none of that applies to him. That if he wants to grope his girlfriends during his shift, he was fully entitled to do so.

Problem is, neither Kate nor Nicky are dating him. And I sincerely hope they press sexual assault charges against him like I insisted they did.

Then there was his drinking. He was barely two hours into his shift, but I smelt booze on him the moment I walked into the HR office.

I fired him on the spot, then had to physically remove him from the property when he refused to leave. That’s around when he began yelling about suing me.

“So not a girl, then,” Nathalie murmurs with a faint smile. “Bad cards?”

I exhale through my nose, flicking my gaze over the rim of my cards to find her watching me like I’m a puzzle she intends to solve.

I’m supposed to answer. Flash a smirk, make some idle remark, play pretend like I always do. But I’d rather stab a fork in my other pec than put up with this any longer.

I know how this ends.

Her, kneeling without being asked, bowing her head just enough to appear obedient. But her submission was never real, just a role she was playing.

A script she’s perfected over the months she’s played at being the perfect little sub.

Usually, I let her push the illusion forward for as long as it entertains me. She calls me Sir and purrs out, “please.” When Idecide she’s earned it, I take what I want from her, as rough and degrading as I want.

Even then, her part is pure performance. Back arched just so. Panting and moaning like she’s rehearsed it.

No need to earn her surrender. She offers it like a gift, and I tear off the wrapping the same way every single time.

“Listen, Nathalie. Tonight’s not?—“

My phone vibrates in my pocket. I fish it out, glancing briefly at the screen.

Troy

Got another issue. You available?

Thank fuck.

I toss my cards onto the table and shove my chair back.

“We’re in the middle of a game,” Nathalie huffs, tacking on an irritated, “Sir.”

But I’m already rising from my seat, leaving my chips on the table because I know the dealer will make sure they find their way back to me.

“Not even a goodbye?” she calls after me, her voice a much too loud for the mezzanine level.

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