Page 94 of Dating Goals
Eight players are already seated, each with a small mountain of chips before them.
And there, at the far end, sits Malcolm Chase, looking like the cat that ate the canary, washed it down with cream, and is now eyeing the goldfish. His silver-flecked hair is slicked back, and his eyes narrow when they land on me. He adjusts his gold cufflinks and gives me a smile laced with vitriol.
“Ah, McGregor,” he says, his voice carrying across the room. “I was beginning to think you’d changed your mind.”
“Wouldn’t miss it,” I reply, channeling every ounce of confidence I’ve ever felt making a save in overtime.
The floor manager gestures to the one empty chair. “Mister McGregor, if you please.”
Elodie gives my arm a squeeze. “For luck,” she whispers, pressing a kiss to my cheek that feels like a branding iron.
To Malcolm’s right sits a Middle Eastern man with a beard trimmed like a topiary. He nods at me with cool assessment.
Next to him is the only woman at the table. A statuesque blonde with ice-blue eyes. She wears a simple black dress with a diamond choker. She kind of reminds me of Uma Thurman.
“That’s Katarina Volkov,” whispers the voice in my ear. “Russian oil heiress. Don’t let her looks deceive you.”
On my left, a young Korean man is lounging back in his chair, thumbs flying over his phone’s screen.
“The man on your left is Ye-jun Song. Social media influencer. All he does is travel around the world playing in poker tournaments. That’s pretty much his full-time job.”
A gaggle of young Korean women (probably his entourage), watch him from across the room. Also glued to their phones.
And then, I notice the man taking his seat across from me looking impeccably British in a tailored suit. He’s the guy from the gala who danced with Anika. The one who took off with her and sent her through that secret passageway. He catches my eye and gives me a barely perceptible nod. I don’t like him. Not one bit.
Joseph, the floor manager, begins his spiel.
“Ladies and gentlemen, the game is no-limit Texas hold ’em. Five communal cards, two in the hole. Buy-in has been confirmed at ten million euros per player.”
Ten million euros. Right. Totally fine. With nothing but plaques and chips stacked up in front of me, I can just pretend it’s not real.
Joseph presents himself on top of the landing. “The banker, Monsieur Gerhardt, represents Credit Suisse and will be holding the stakes in escrow.”
A thin man with wire-rimmed glasses steps forward, holding a sleek metal briefcase. “Good evening. I will be overseeing the funds for tonight’s game.” He places the briefcase on a small table beside the floor manager. “Each player has deposited ten million euros. Additional buy-ins of five million will be available by electronic transfer only. The funds will remain in escrow until the winner enters their password into the secure terminal.”
He opens the briefcase, revealing a computer screen and keyboard. “The winner’s funds will be transferred to any account of their choosing upon verification of their personal password.”
He turns to the table. “We will proceed alphabetically. Mr. Chase, please be the first to enter your password.”
Malcolm stands and approaches the briefcase. Gerhardt turns it away from prying eyes as Malcolm types. I catch a slight smirk on his face as he finishes.
“Monsieur Durand,” the banker calls next. The man who danced with Anika stands up. So that’s his name. Unless he’s operating under a secret cover. Not that it matters to me. Whoever he really is will have the pleasure of getting acquainted with my fist later tonight. I shoot laser eyes into the back of his head as he hunches over to type in his password.
Elodie takes her place behind my chair, her hand resting lightly on my shoulder. Her perfume is too strong for my taste. I prefer a woman with a natural scent.
My mind flashes to Anika. How her eyes crinkle when she laughs, how she brandished that trout the first time we met. What would she think if she could see me now?
“Mr. McGregor,” the banker announces, snapping me back to reality.
I approach the briefcase, staring at the keyboard. What would a super-spy use as a password? What would be impossible to guess?
“Remember, something you can recall under pressure,” Showalter whispers in my ear.
My fingers hover over the keys. Then I smile, thinking of Anika and type: H-O-P-P-S-C-H-W-I-I-Z
“Password accepted,” the banker confirms.
I return to my seat, my heart hammering against my ribs like a slap shot. The chips in front of me represent more money thanI’ve ever seen in one place. And somehow, I’m supposed to win it all while pretending I know what I’m doing.
