Page 11 of R Is For Revenge, Part One (The Billionaire Boys Club #1)

The room quiets slightly, the others exchanging looks—some amused, some curious—as I rise from my chair.

“Let her in,” I say simply.

Brent disappears back into the hall. A moment later, I hear the soft click of heels on the hardwood outside, the quiet rustle of movement as Jules steps into the lion’s den for the first time.

The air shifts as the door opens, the warm amber light catching on her dark hair, the black clothes I told her to wear. She pauses just inside, her eyes flicking over the room—at the smoke, the cards, the men who own more of the world than most will ever see.

Jules steps inside like she’s trying to make herself smaller, shoulders drawn just enough to suggest nerves but not fear. Her black blouse is simple, modest, but it hugs her shape in a way that earns Braedon’s slow, appreciative glance from across the table. She doesn’t notice—yet.

But I fucking do.

Her eyes flick across the room, taking in the smoke, the low light, the men she probably recognizes from business headlines if not the society pages. When her gaze finally lands on me, there’s a flicker—something sharp, like she’s bracing herself without even realizing it.

“Jules,” I say, my tone even, cutting through the low hum of conversation. “Drinks are set on the bar. Food’s coming up in ten. Keep glasses full, ashtrays cleared and stay quiet unless spoken to. Understood?”

She doesn’t like the way I framed things. I see it in the way her eyes narrow a bit. “Yes, sir,” she says softly, nodding once.

Braedon leans back in his chair, his grin lazy as he looks her over. “I forgot how cute she is.”

I don’t glance his way. “She’s here to work, not to entertain you.”

Huxley frowns over the rim of his glass. “That’s a first. Usually you’re the one with the rule about not mixing business and pleasure.”

I ignore that, sliding my cards toward Abel for a shuffle. “Deal the hand.”

Jules crosses to the bar, her movements precise but careful, like she’s aware of every eye in the room. She pours Braedon a whiskey first—he must have snapped his fingers, the bastard—and delivers it without flinching even as his grin widens.

“Thanks, sweetheart,” he says, low enough I barely catch it.

She doesn’t reply, just turns smoothly back toward the bar, and I catch the faintest exhale when her back is to us.

If I was a nice man, I might even feel sorry for her.

The cards are dealt, chips tossed in neat stacks, the banter rising and falling like a tide.

Every so often, one of the guys tries to draw her into conversation—Braedon asking where she’s from, Huxley asking if she knows how to play.

She deflects politely, always circling back to work: pouring, clearing, fading back into the edges of the room.

But I’m watching closer than they are. Not for nerves, but for tells.

The way her gaze lingers, just a beat, on the panoramic view of the city when she thinks no one’s looking. The way her shoulders ease slightly, when Abel—silent as ever—offers a soft thank-you for a refill, as if simple courtesy throws her off balance in this room of self-absorbed assholes.

She doesn’t belong here. Not yet.

And that’s exactly why I brought her. I want her off kilter.

Every hour she spends in this suite is another reminder of what kind of world she’s stepped into—a world where I set the terms, where the men around this table hold more power than most governments, and where one wrong move can make you or break you.

And by the time the last hand is played, I’ll know whether she’s just a girl desperate for a paycheck… or a Horner with a spine I can break.

We settle in and in some ways it’s just like old times. Back before we became the men we are. We drink too much. Swear more than we should, laugh at off color inappropriate jokes. But the entire time I’m aware of her.

Poker night is winding down. The room smells like cigars and weed, expensive bourbon, and the men who’ve had just enough to forget the masks they usually wear in public.

Braedon has had more than enough. He’s been drinking too much lately. Abel has mentioned it and so has Hux.

He’s been on a losing streak all night, his stack whittled down to nothing. Two fingers of whiskey left in his glass and a chip on his shoulder. A dangerous combination for a guy who doesn’t like to lose—especially not in front of people who matter.

Jules is clearing glasses near his chair when it happens.

“Hey,” Braedon says, voice slurred just enough to sound wrong. “You missed a spot.”

She turns, polite mask in place. “I’ll get it?—”

Before she can reach, he grabs her wrist. Not hard, but not soft either. His smile is lazy. Predatory.

“You ever dealt cards, sweetheart? Bet you’ve got the hands for it.” He glances at us. “Let’s play one last hand. Give me a chance to get my winnings back.”

She tries to step back, but he doesn’t let go. His fingers slide up her forearm, and something cold settles low in my gut.

She’s frozen. Not panicking—but stiff. Controlled. I can tell she’s not sure how to handle things. Maybe she’s thinking that if she does what she should—kick the guy in his balls—she’ll be fired. I’m an asshole and I want her uncomfortable, but I don’t like this.

I’ve seen enough.

I rise from my chair and cross the room in three long strides, the quiet finality in my steps silencing the conversation at the table.

“Let go of her,” I say, voice calm, quiet.

Braedon looks up, still grinning like this is a joke.

“Relax, Beck. We’re just talking.”

I don’t raise my voice. I don’t have to. “Now.”

Something in my tone finally cuts through the liquor. Braedon lets go of her wrist, leaning back like it was nothing.

“Jesus fuck, Beck. You’re wound tight tonight.”

I ignore him and turn to Jules. “Are you alright?”

She nods quickly, eyes still wide. “I’m fine.”

“She’s fine,” Braedon mutters, reaching for his glass. “God, you act like I tried to slip my hand down her pants, which, fuck me, but she’s got a nice ass.”

I step between them, fully facing him now. “If you touch her again, this becomes personal. Understood?”

Braedon blinks, then frowns, some of the arrogance draining from his face. “Come on, Beck, what the fuck?”

I don’t repeat myself.

Huxley watches from the other side of the room, quiet but alert. Abel says nothing, though his gaze flicks from Braedon to me with something like approval.

Braedon stands, grabbing his coat off the back of the chair. “Guess I’ll take the hint.”

He moves toward the door but pauses just before he exits. He nails me with a look that says some things. Things I might not want to hear. Then nods at Jules. “Sorry for that. Too much whiskey makes me an asshole.”

The door closes behind him with a final thud.

I turn back to Jules. She’s standing like someone bracing for a second blow that hasn’t come. Her hands are clenched at her sides, but she’s keeping her expression neutral. Barely.

“Stay,” I say quietly. “The rest of you can go.”

Huxley and Cade exchange a glance, but neither questions me. Abel tips his chin toward Jules as he passes, a silent acknowledgment.

Then it’s just the two of us.