Jocelyn
The car is a cage of leather and silence. Logan drives, his knuckles white on the steering wheel. He thinks this is a treat for me. An outing. He doesn’t see it for what it is: a display of property.
“Are you sure about this, Logan? It sounds… loud.” I keep my voice a fragile thread, easily snapped.
“It’s not a nightclub, Sera. It’s a private game. Civilized.” He glances at me, his eyes sweeping over the demure black dress I chose. It’s elegant but forgettable. The dress of a widow, not a wife. “You used to love the games.”
“I don’t remember.” It’s my shield and my sword, that simple phrase. It absolves me of a past he wants erased and excuses a future he cannot comprehend.
“It’s for the best,” he says, the same words he always uses. He’s reassuring himself, not me. “Just sit behind me. Look beautiful. Don’t talk to anyone unless they talk to you. And smile. It makes me look good.”
*Everything is about how you look.* I offer him a small, obedient nod.
The game is in the penthouse suite of a boutique hotel that officially doesn’t exist. No name on the door, just a black lacquered surface that reflects our distorted images. The air inside is thick with the scent of expensive cigars and whiskey. It’s a low murmur of power, not a roar.
There are four men at a round, green-felted table. I recognize two of them. Alessandro Rossi, an old-school Don clinging to his dwindling territory, and Kai Chen, the volatile Triad underboss carving out a piece of the docks. The third man is a stranger. The fourth… the fourth is not.
He sits with his back to the panoramic window, the city lights forming a fractured halo around him. He doesn’t look up when we enter, but I feel his awareness as a shift in the room's gravity. Travis ‘The Ghost’ Volkov. Even sitting, he has the coiled stillness of a panther. In my past life, our paths crossed only on paper. Financial reports, surveillance summaries. I knew him as a series of brilliant, ruthless moves. Seeing him in the flesh is different. He’s younger than I expected, his dark hair cut severely, his face a collection of sharp, Slavic angles. He radiates a cold, disciplined control that makes Logan’s bluster seem childish.
“Logan. Good of you to finally join us,” Alessandro grunts, gesturing with a cigar.
“Fashionably late, Alessandro. You know how it is.” Logan claps him on the shoulder, a gesture of forced familiarity. He pulls out a chair for me, placing it a few feet behind his own, then takes his seat at the table.
“And you brought the lovely Jocelyn,” Kai Chen says, his eyes slithering over me. “We heard you had an accident. A tragedy.” His tone holds no sympathy, only a lurid curiosity.
“She’s recovering beautifully,” Logan says, answering for me. Always answering for me.
Travis Volkov finally looks up. His eyes are the color of a winter storm, and they don’t just look at me, they assess me. He takes in the vacant expression, the quiet posture, the hands clasped in my lap. I give him nothing.
“Mrs. Pierce.” His voice is quiet, a low baritone with a distinct Russian accent. It cuts through the other noises in the room. He inclines his head, a gesture of formal respect that feels more unnerving than Kai Chen’s leer.
I offer a shy, hesitant smile in return.
“Don’t mind her,” Logan says with a laugh. “Her head is still in the clouds. Let’s play cards, shall we?”
The chips are ceramic, heavy in the men's hands. The first few hands are tests of will. Logan plays like he does everything: with loud bets and undisguised aggression. He wins a small pot from Alessandro and puffs his chest out like a pouter pigeon.
I tune out the drone of their talk, letting my gaze drift around the room. I am the perfect accessory. Bored, beautiful, and broken. But behind the blank facade, I am working. I am watching. Every tick, every gesture, every bead of sweat.
Then comes the hand. Kai Chen is dealing. Logan has a good starting hand; I see the flash of the cards and his slight, satisfied smirk. He raises. Alessandro folds. It’s down to Logan, Kai Chen, and Travis Volkov.
Kai Chen raises again. A big, theatrical push of chips into the center of the table. A bluff. I know it with absolute certainty.
I know it because I see the tell.
It’s a tiny, almost imperceptible flutter of the eyelid in his left eye. It happens every single time he is lying. In my past life, that tiny piece of information cost him a two-million-dollar shipment. He has no idea I know it.
Logan doesn’t see it. He’s too busy staring at the mountain of chips, high on his own arrogance. He’s going to call. He’s going to lose.
I need to stop it. Subtly.
Travis Volkov isn't looking at Kai Chen’s face. He’s not even looking at the cards. His gaze is fixed on me. It’s unnerving. He’s watching the trophy, not the game.
I make my move. As Logan reaches for his chips, I let out a small, quiet gasp. My hand goes to my temple. “Logan,” I whisper, my voice trembling.
He turns, annoyed. “What is it, Sera?”
“My head. It’s… it’s spinning.”
“Just breathe. It will pass.” He turns back to the table, his focus broken for only a second.
But it’s enough. The momentary distraction has planted a seed of doubt. The bravado has leaked from his posture. He looks at Kai Chen’s impassive face, then back at his cards. He hesitates.
And in that moment of hesitation, as I lower my hand from my temple, my eyes meet Travis’s. He’s not looking at Logan anymore. He is staring directly at me. His expression is unreadable, but I see a flicker in those stormy eyes. Not of sympathy. Of calculation.
He saw it. He saw the whole thing. The tell, my distraction, Logan’s hesitation. He saw the move behind the move.
*He knows.* The thought is a shard of ice in my gut.
“I fold,” Logan says finally, throwing his cards down in disgust. “Too rich for my blood.”
Kai Chen smirks, raking in the pot without showing his cards. He sends me a nod. “Perhaps your wife is your good luck charm, Logan. She just saved you a fortune.”
Logan just grunts, his ego bruised.
I keep my eyes downcast, my heart hammering against my ribs. A quiet, steady rhythm. Not of fear. Of adrenaline.
Travis Volkov folds his own cards. He hadn’t even been in the hand for the final bet. He was just watching. Observing. Gathering data.
The game continues, but the dynamic has shifted. I can feel Travis’s attention on me, a constant, unnerving pressure. He doesn’t speak to me again, but I know I am no longer just a piece of scenery to him. I am part of the puzzle.
An hour later, Logan is down a significant amount. His mood is darkening, the air around him growing thick with frustration. He throws his cards down after losing another pot to Travis.
“That’s it for me tonight,” Logan snarls, pushing his chair back.
“So soon?” Travis asks, his voice smooth as silk. He stacks his newly won chips into a neat, perfect tower. “The night is still young.”
“I’ve had enough,” Logan says. He stands and jerks his head at me. “Jocelyn. We’re leaving.”
I stand obediently. I keep my eyes on the floor. I am the dutiful wife, the fragile doll being put back in her box.
“A pleasure, gentlemen,” Logan says to the room at large. He puts a heavy hand on the small of my back, guiding me toward the door.
As we pass Travis’s chair, he speaks, his voice just for me to hear. “I trust you are feeling better, Mrs. Pierce.”
I look up, startled. I meet his gaze. There is a sharp, predatory intelligence in his eyes. A knowing. He is offering me a conversational hook, a chance to respond.
Logan tightens his grip on my back. “She’s fine. Just tired.”
Travis’s eyes don’t leave mine. A small, almost imperceptible smile touches his lips. It does not reach his eyes. “Of course. A mind like hers must require a great deal of rest.”
The words hang in the air between us. A mind like hers. He said it in the present tense.
It’s a signal. A question. A challenge.
I just stare at him with my wide, empty eyes. I give him the same placid, doll-like smile I gave Isabella. I let him look into the void.
For a moment, I see a flicker of something in his expression. Frustration? Intrigue? I can’t be sure. Then it’s gone, replaced by that cold, controlled mask.
“Come on, Sera,” Logan says, pulling me away.
He steers me out of the room, out of the silent hotel, and back into the cage of the car. The silence on the ride home is heavier than before. Logan is stewing in his losses. I am replaying every second of the night in my head.
Travis Volkov saw me. Not the ghost Logan lives with, but the woman behind the curtain. He doesn’t know what he saw, not yet. But he saw a flicker. A hint of the queen behind the pawn.
This changes things. A man that perceptive is not an enemy to be underestimated. He is a threat.
But as Logan slams the car door, the sound echoing in the sterile silence of our garage, another thought takes root in my mind.
A man that perceptive could also be a weapon.
