As the guards escorted a stumbling Mr. Sim away, the crowd slowly dispersed, their thirst for drama satisfied. The Gilded Grotto slid back into its low, buzzing normalcy as if nothing at all had happened. The roulette wheels spun, glasses clinked, and laughter floated through the air—shallow, easy, and forgetful.
Zeke returned to the bar, took his seat, and downed his drink in one smooth, quiet motion. The burn of the liquor was a familiar comfort, a small reclaiming of control.
Not a minute later, his phone buzzed—a secure line. He answered without looking.
"Sir," came the low voice of the head of security. "We have him. Per your earlier signal, we did not remove his clothes. We've taken him to the black site exit. Awaiting further instruction."
Zeke allowed himself a faint, cold smile into the dim light of the bar. The public spectacle was just theater. This was the real move.
"Escort him to the old conservatory on the penthouse level," Zeke said quietly, his eyes sharp and focused on the middle distance. "Keep him calm. Don't hurt him. I think I have a better use for Mr. Sim."
He ended the call and set the phone down softly. The game wasn't over. It had simply changed venues. Sim wasn't just a cheater—he was a man with information, connections, and a very clear understanding of fear. And Zeke needed assets far more than he needed examples.
He signaled for the check he would never actually receive, then stood. The hunt for a bride was still on—but first, he had a pawn to recruit.
Zeke made his way out of the Gilded Grotto, the weight of the night's events settling on his shoulders. Before he stepped through the private exit, he glanced back one last time, his eyes scanning the crowd out of habit more than curiosity.
And there, near the velvet ropes of the VIP lounge, his gaze landed on a particular performer, a pole dancer.
He could swear he had seen her earlier—when he first entered The Knight's Gambit. But there was something obviously different about her now. She wasn't half-dressed like the other podium dancers. She was well covered, yet elegant, moving with a grace that felt intentional, not performative. She had an alluring, knowing smile, and a striking beauty that seemed to hold its own light. But more than that—she seemed curiously out of place, as if she didn't quite belong in the glittering haze of the casino floor.
For a moment, Zeke watched her. She turned, caught his eye, and held it—just a second too long. Not with invitation, but with something like recognition.
He filed the sight away, another piece of an unsolved puzzle.
Then, without breaking stride, he turned and headed upstairs to meet his new pawn—Mister Sim. Some puzzles could wait. Tonight, he had use for a broken man.
Zeke stepped into the conservatory on the penthouse level. The air was cooler here, thick with the scent of orchids and damp soil, a stark contrast to the choked perfume of the casino below. Moonlight streamed through the glass ceiling, painting the exotic plants in silver and shadow.
In the center of the room, Mister Sim sat on a simple iron chair, his face hooded with a black cloth bag, his hands bound tightly behind his back. At the sound of the door, he flinched violently.
"Who is that? Who is it?" Sim's voice was muffled, frantic. "Please, get me out of here!"
Zeke didn't answer immediately. He walked slowly around the perimeter of the room, his footsteps silent on the stone tiles. He stopped before a rare, night-blooming cereus, its white petals just beginning to unfurl.
"Mister Sim," Zeke said, his voice calm in the quiet room.
Sim jerked at the sound. "M-Mister Zeke! Sir! I'm so sorry about what happened tonight. Please—don't let me be paraded, don't ruin me. I will do whatever you want. Anything."
Zeke finally turned from the flower. With deliberate slowness, he walked over and removed the hood from Sim's head. The man blinked up at him, his face pale and slick with sweat in the moonlight, his eyes wide with terror.
Zeke pulled another chair forward and sat, facing him, their knees almost touching. He studied Sim's broken expression, not with pity, but with assessment.
"Good," Zeke said, his voice low and even. "That's exactly what I wanted to hear."