The alphas barely noticed us unless they wanted something, and the betas treated us like part of the furniture. We existed in the spaces between, neither fully present nor allowed to disappear.
As I reached the door to the high roller suite, I touched the mini compact tucked into my corset—a reminder that this wasn't forever.Eight thousand dollars down, ninety-two thousand to go.Or maybe less, if I could find another way out.
If I could find someone,anyone,willing to help an omega whose father had literally gambled her away.
But first, I had to survive another night in my velvet prison, smiling for alphas who saw me as entertainment, pouring drinks with hands that had once held college textbooks, and pretending that the gilded cage they'd built around me was anything other than exactly what it was—a trap designed to look like luxury, with bars made of debt and locks made of shame.
I knocked on the suite door, arranging my face into the pleasant, slightly mysterious smile they'd trained me to wear. Inside, I could already smell the alphas—bourbon, leather, and testosterone-fueled entitlement.
"Come in," a voice called.
I turned the handle, stepping into another night of survival, my scent trailing behind me like a siren song I couldn't stop singing.
Spiced honey and cherrywood, dark berries and danger—the perfume of an omega who'd learned to hide her claws behind perfectly manicured nails and her rage behind roulette-red lips.
Three years down.
How many more to go?
THE HOUSE ALWAYS WINS
~RED~
The outfit change took twenty minutes—nineteen more than I had, but Marnay's instructions had been explicit.
The high roller suite required what he called "elevated presentation," which translated to:make them want what they can't have.
The crimson dress I'd worn for the lineup wouldn't do.
Instead, I'd been handed a new creation—black silk that poured over my body like liquid sin, held together by strategic cutouts that revealed glimpses of skin from hip to collar. The neckline plunged dangerously low, held in place by a diamond roulette wheel brooch that caught the light with every breath. They'd even changed my lipstick from Roulette Red to something darker, almost burgundy, like aged wine against pale skin.
"Five minutes," I whispered to my reflection, watching the gold flecks in my garnet eyes catch the vanity lights.
The girl staring back looked expensive, untouchable, exactly what Marnay wanted.
Underneath the silk and diamonds, my heart hammered against my ribs.
The walk to the high roller suite felt longer tonight.
My heels—six inches of patent leather torture—clicked against marble in a rhythm that matched my elevated pulse. The suppressants were doing their job, keeping my scent muted to that perfect level of intrigue, but I could feel them wearing at my system. Three years of double doses would do that. Dr. Kepler had warned about long-term effects, but Marnay didn't care about long-term anything except profit margins.
Typical…
We’re the dolls of this grand masterpiece of his, and it’s only a matter of time where we all wear and tear. One by one, until the new favorite rolls in, ready to take our moment in the spotlight of favouritism.
In the back of my mind, I know my time is ticking here.
To fund my escape is but a mere mirage that stops me from panicking about my approaching decline. Every night, every dose, brings me one step closer…but there’s nothing I can do about this reality.
That’s probably the most painful part.
Having no control in your own story.
I knocked twice, waited for permission, then entered.
The suite scents hit me like a wall of sensation.
Cigar smoke created a blue haze that hung at eye level, mixing with the sharp burn of aged whiskey and something else—cocaine, probably, judging by the crystalline residue on the mirror someone had pushed to the side of the main table. The ventilation system struggled against the cocktail of alpha pheromones that saturated the air, testosterone, and dominance thick enough to taste.