Page 72 of Double or Nothing
His show of vulnerability touches me, knowing how he always projects an air of self-assured confidence.
He leans down to give me a quick kiss on the lips, a soft connection that lingers. “Don’t be late. The show begins promptly, right on time.”
“I won’t. Good luck!”
When I hear the door to the penthouse slam shut and I’m alone in the room, I explore the boxes, each filled with delicate tissue paper and fresh smelling fabrics. The first box is a beautiful black dress, the color and cut carefully chosen to flatter my figure. The fabric of the dress is soft against my skin, instead of the scratchy material so many dresses are sewn from.
This tells me Seven is paying attention when I grumble about clothing tags bothering me or when I change clothes three times because a shirt is suddenly uncomfortable.
The reflection in the full-length mirror captures my smile as I hold up the dress, imagining how it would look on me. I can almost hear his approving voice, his laughter, his gentle teasing.
I move to the next box, and the next, each one a personal love letter from Seven. There are casual outfits, elegant gowns for special occasions, and even accessories. His hand is evident in every choice, and yet it’s clear he’s not trying to dress me to his personal tastes.
He respects who I am, and my individuality. By his selections, he’s showing me he embraces my quirks and isn’t trying to change me into a better or more sophisticated version. Any man can buy me clothes, but for him to encourage me to be myself means everything.
The more time I spend with him, the more layers he reveals. He’s not the cocky and confident man I first met; he’s vulnerable, caring, and complex. I’m seeing deep beyond the sexy, charismatic surface, into the soul of a man who genuinely cares for me.
In this room, surrounded by his proof of acceptance of me, I feel a deep connection to Seven, a bond that’s growing stronger and deeper with each passing day.
He accepts me for who I am, and I’m finally beginning to see him, too.
31
JADE
Leroy escorts me down the red carpeted stairs and unhooks a plush velvet rope, blocking off a reserved VIP section. With a flourish, he points to my seat, right up front in the first row.
“Enjoy the show,” he says. “I hope you realize what a special treat you’re in for. With Seven, you never know what might happen. That’s why his show is the best one in Vegas. Every night it’s something different. He even surprises me sometimes and I’m there for every rehearsal.”
“I’m excited,” I tell him. “I’m still in shock he’s allowing me to come to the show, instead of keeping me hidden away. Honestly, I can’t wait.”
“Sit tight after the show and I’ll come get you to take you backstage,” Leroy says, his eyes twinkling with mischief. “We’ll meet up with Seven there. I’ll send a waiter over with a drink for you, too. It’s important to Seven that you enjoy the show. It means a lot to him that you’re finally here to watch him perform.”
“Okay,” I respond, my voice light and filled with anticipation. “I’m thrilled to be here.”
Leroy strides off, then quickly disappears into the dimly lit backstage area. A cocktail waitress, dressed in a shimmering outfit that catches the light, gracefully approaches soon after with a chilled glass of champagne for me. The bubbles rise enticingly, and I lean back in my comfortable seat, relaxing for the first time today. I take a sip of the crisp, expensive champagne.Nice.I could get used to this life.
In all the time I’ve spent with the guys, they’ve never talked much about their careers. Which is a little odd, considering how deeply intertwined their professions are with their identities. Seven, with his enigmatic illusions, Kit, with his wild tigers; and Vulcan, cloaked in secrecy, never quite revealing exactly what he does. When I dare to broach the subject, Vulcan's eyes, dark and unfathomable, cloud over, brushing aside my inquiries with a quick change of topic. I refrain from probing too deeply, trusting that he will unveil himself when he’s ready.
Abruptly, the overhead lights in the theater flicker on and off, signaling the show's commencement in five minutes. Scanning the theater, I note the full seats. That's a promising sign. Leroy had told me that the show reaches capacity nearly every night.
Soon the lights dim, sending a wave of anticipation through the crowd, silencing them in eager expectation. Seven dashes onto the stage, seizing the microphone, anddamn,how I adore a man in a black tuxedo. But it's more than just the tux on him; it's the tantalizing promise of what's hidden beneath—the tattooed, chiseled muscles concealed under that perfect fit. He’s breathtaking. No wonder the women in the audience are drooling over him.
The moment he steps onto the stage, the audience is already his. They erupt into cheers and applause before he utters a single word. My heart swelling with pride, I carefully place my champagne flute on the table beside my seat, turning my undivided attention to the man on stage.
My man.
Seven flashes a smile, every inch of him alive with a magnetic aura, pacing the stage and holding the crowd spellbound.
“Good evening!” he calls out to the audience, his voice deep and captivating. “Welcome to my show. My name is Seven, and it’s my great pleasure to be performing for you tonight. If you’ve never seen one of my shows before, pay very close attention. I promise you’ll be amazed!”
In a fleeting pause, he turns, our eyes lock, and he winks. My pulse quickens, and my stomach does that familiar flip-flop. I flash a grin and sink back into my seat, ready for the show.
The next hour is a whirlwind of mind-bending illusions and his enthralling magnetism. He’s more than a mere showman; he’s an artist, painting a masterpiece with every trick, building on the crowd’s belief in the improbable.
His artistry doesn’t linger on corny, tedious buildups; it’s swift, moving from one spellbinding setup to the next, cramming in as much entertainment as he can into the hour-long show. I remember Seven telling me he wants his audience to get their money’s worth, and he delivers.
As he guides the audience’s gaze with his graceful hands, my eyes dart elsewhere. I scan the stage, the props, his sleeves; everywhere he doesn’t want the crowd to look, trying to figure out how he does his tricks. I’m constantly searching for the secret behind the magic, knowing he’s intentionally misdirecting their attention.
