During the break, the crowd buzzed with unease, trying to make sense of the exchange. Naomi had won the round, yes—but barely. And not convincingly. She didn’t celebrate. She didn’t even smirk. She simply gathered the chips with a mechanical hand, her mind elsewhere.Peter could see it. The flicker behind her eyes. The tremble she was trying to bury beneath bravado.And that’s when Viktor moved.He didn’t speak. He stood.Slowly. Deliberately. Like a king rising from a throne he never doubted was his.The lights of the hall seemed to bend toward him. Eyes turned. Voices hushed.Even the dealer, ever expressionless, paused mid-shuffle to watch.Viktor stepped onto the edge of the raised platform, not breaking eye contact with Peter. The distance between them was wide—but somehow, Peter felt like the man was breathing down his neck.“You’re clever, Peter,” Viktor said softly.His voice didn’t need to be loud. It carried.Too well.The crowd leaned in.Naomi’s spine went rigi

The sound of Naomi’s heels echoing off the stage faded into stunned silence. For a few seconds, no one moved.Then—Viktor stood.Slowly.Deliberately.Like a storm rising.The air in the room thickened. The crowd that had moments ago gasped at Naomi’s surrender now sat paralyzed, unsure whether they’d just witnessed a victory, a rebellion… or the beginning of something much worse.The dealer blinked. “Mr. Viktor—”Viktor raised a hand.She fell silent.He didn’t speak.He just stared at Naomi’s retreating figure. His jaw clenched. His eyes darkened.Then, finally, he turned his gaze to Peter.And smiled.But it wasn’t the smug smirk of a man in control. It was thinner now. Stretched tight across his face like a mask trying to hold together a crumbling expression.“You’re clever,” Viktor said.Peter didn’t answer.“You didn’t beat her with cards. You beat her with memories. With feelings.” He said the word like it was an insult.“I didn’t beat her at all,” Peter replie

What the hell? She has to be joking… right? Why the hell would she do that?Peter couldn’t believe his ears. For a split second, his brain refused to register the words that had just been spoken. The arena, too, reacted with matching disbelief—like a hive kicked at its core.The crowd erupted.“No way—”“She’s bluffing!”“Did she just—?”“No. No, that can’t be right!”Gasps cracked through the tension like thunder. Confused murmurs turned to stunned exclamations. The very air in the room grew tight, like it didn’t know how to breathe anymore.“Naomi!!!” Viktor’s voice boomed with a mixture of rage and disbelief. His composure—always pristine, always absolute—was shattered like glass under a hammer. “What is the meaning of this?!”But Naomi remained still.Still, and silent.And somehow, that silence was louder than the uproar. She didn’t flinch. Didn’t defend herself. Didn’t explain. That made it worse. That made it real.The betrayal wasn’t just strategic—it was personal.Even Peter,

The chips hit the dealer’s tray one after another with a chilling finality. One. Ten. Dozens. Hundreds. And with that, the game was done. Every single chip—the entire 80 billion—was swept from Naomi’s side of the table and placed into Viktor’s waiting hands. He didn’t flinch. Didn’t gloat. Just stood there, stoic, his cold fingers curling over the mountain of victory like a predator reclaiming territory. The room filled with murmurs—quiet, awkward, hesitant. No applause. No cheers. Just the stunned silence of an audience who’d been building toward a storm and instead got rain. The energy that had once crackled in the air fizzled out like a spark drowned in water. Even Grant sat frozen in his seat, mouth slightly open, eyes scanning for something—anything—to make sense of the disappointment. Logan sighed. Katherina crossed her arms, her brows furrowed. What an anticlimax. That was the unspoken consensus among the crowd. After all the tension, after all the heart-racing roun

"Now then…" the dealer’s voice rang across the silent auditorium like a sword being unsheathed, sharp and ceremonial, "Let the gamble resume." A ripple of anticipation swept through the crowd. The weight of what had just occurred—Naomi putting her life on the line, Viktor returning to the stage with half a trillion euros at his disposal—had not yet settled in their collective chests. But now, the game was moving again. The dealer deftly flicked her wrist, distributing the cards. The sound of each card hitting the felt table was impossibly loud in the hush that followed. One card. Two. Five each. Naomi and Peter sat opposite each other, a world of tension between them, the table a battlefield. The overhead lights glared down like spotlights on a stage, illuminating every twitch, every flinch, every shift in breathing. Peter’s hand hovered over his cards for a moment. Then, slowly, he lifted them and took a look. A flicker passed across his expression. Subtle. Only those who kn