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My throat went dry.

Because I swear to God, in that moment, I wasn’t sure if I wanted to run… or get closer to him.

He didn’t look away.

Neither did I.

For one long, unbroken second, it was just us in this warehouse full of heat and blood and screaming bodies, staring at each other like we were the only two people in the room.

Then the ref grabbed his arm, the crowd erupted in cheers again, and it was like someone broke the spell between us. He took a step back, the moment shattered.

But I still felt it.

In my chest. In my throat. Between my fucking thighs.

Goddamn.

Who the hell was this man?

I looked around, noticing that the crowd was starting to thin after the fight, people stumbling out with laughter, adrenaline, and dollar signs in their eyes. It was like the whole place just exhaled—drunk on blood and victory.

I didn’t move right away. I should have left. I knew I should, but I wanted to see one more thing first.

Near the far wall, there was a makeshift payout station: a long folding table with two men behind it counting thick stacks of cash with gloved hands and dead eyes. People lined up like kids waiting for candy, clutching slips of paper, trading them in for rolls of bills fat enough to snap rubber bands.

I edged closer, just enough to see.

Some guy got handed four thousand dollars in hundreds, grinning like he’d just gotten laid twice.

Four grand.

For betting on the right guy.

OnNikolai.

Curious, I lifted my brow. That wasn’t just shady warehouse fun—that was business. That was rent money. That was power.

Suddenly, I wasn’t just watching anymore.

I started calculating.

I could do this. I knew I could. I’d been raised around sharks in cocktail dresses my whole life—hedge fund assholes and dirty lawyers and PR snakes. I knew what a stacked game looked like.

This wasn’t any different.

It just had blood on it.

I turned on my heel and slipped out the blue door into the cold Boston night, adrenaline still humming through me like a drug I can’t quite come down from.

By the time I slid into the backseat of my rideshare and started heading home, my brain was already spinning.

I could bet on fights if I knew who was going to win.

If I had… I don’t know…an edge.

Wheels turning, I pulled out my phone and opened Instagram, scrolling mindlessly for a second, watching the stream of curated smiles and clout-chasing chaos—until an idea hit me.

What if I could tilt the odds?