Page 33 of Roulette Rodeo
My reflection stared back—professional smile, perfect posture, dead eyes.
Well, mostly dead.
Tonight, there was something else there. A spark of hope I couldn't quite extinguish.
Red lace and cherries. A billions-dollar alpha pack. High tides for an omega.
It was probably a coincidence.
The universe wasn't kind enough to send me a rescue in tactical gear with gentle hands and a daddy complex. This was Vegas, where the house always won and dreams went to die.
What were the chances that my scent-matched alpha would walk through those doors tonight?
In fact, what are the odds that he'd have enough money to play Marnay's games?
The probability that I'd actually get out of this hellhole?
Far from likely.
I dare to feel disappointed, as if I ever should have got my hopes up to begin with, but I decide its the only way to keep going down this endless path of uncertainty where all we’re playing is games.
Only difference is we’re the hanging prizes, waiting to be claimed by the grand winner.
PLAYING AGAINST ALL ODDS
~RED~
The chaos behind the curtain was controlled pandemonium, the kind that only happened when Marnay's carefully orchestrated world tilted off its axis.
Girls rushed past in various states of undress, costume changes happening at breakneck speed as the entire evening's program had been scrapped and rebuilt. The theme change to "red lace and cherries" had sent the wardrobe mistress into near hysteria, pulling every crimson piece from storage, every cherry-themed accessory that had been collecting dust.
"They're from where?" Amber hissed to Nicole as they waited in the wings.
"Someplace called Jackknife Ridge. Never heard of it."
"It's off-grid," Tanya supplied, adjusting her cherry-red corset for the tenth time. "Like, literally not on most maps. The fact even google maps can’t take you there is some real isolated shit. No service or way of tracking. Some tiny town in the middle of fucking nowhere."
Which explained the billions appearing out of thin air.
Old money, hidden money, the kind that didn't need to announce itself until it wanted something specific.
And that “specific” something is clearly among us for them to be here tonight.
"The Morettis look pissed," someone whispered. "They've been the high-rollers here for three years, and suddenly they're second tier."
"The Castellanos are worse. Tommy's been drinking straight bourbon since the new pack walked in."
New pack. Unknown players.
The kind of variables that made Marnay sweat through his expensive suits.
I stood in the shadows, trying to breathe through the contraption Briar had somehow procured in the span of two hours. The base was deceptively simple—a bodice of cherry-red lace so fine it looked like it had been spun from spider silk and sin. But the construction was architectural, each piece of lace strategically placed to reveal and conceal in equal measure.
The bodice started just below my breasts, leaving them lifted and displayed by an underwire structure that defied physics. The lace created the illusion of coverage while actually showing everything—shadows and curves visible through the delicate pattern of roses and thorns. My nipples, barely concealed by strategically placed embroidered cherries, were clearly visible through the sheer material.
The bottom was worse. Or better, depending on your perspective.
High-cut French lace that sat low on my hips, the waistband a mere suggestion of fabric. The back was essentially nonexistent—a single strand of pearls running down between my cheeks, connecting to a small triangle of lace that barely covered what needed covering. The front wasn't much better, the lace so sheer that the carefully groomed strip of hair beneath was visible in the right light.
