Page 15 of Secret Hope (Hope Landing: New Recruits #5)
Cassidy's legs were numb.
But not as numb as her brain. She stumbled along next to her rescuer, mind carefully blank.
As Kenji guided her toward the stairwell, his hand steady against her back, Cassidy found herself remembering his gentle competence when that man had collapsed at the poker table. The way he'd immediately known what to do, how to help, how to save a life.
Maybe God did work through broken vessels. Maybe He sent unlikely guardians in moments of desperate need.
Maybe a failed gambler with demons of his own was exactly the protector she needed against a monster like Xavier Vega.
The stairwell door closed behind them with a soft click, sealing away the horror of room 347. But Cassidy couldn't stop shaking. Her breath came in short gasps, and she gripped the metal railing with both hands, knuckles white with strain.
"Hey." Kenji's voice was gentle but firm. "Look at me."
She managed to lift her eyes to his face, expecting to see impatience or frustration. Instead, she found calm understanding—the expression of someone who'd guided others through shock before.
"We need to get you back to the tournament floor," he said, his tone steady and reassuring. "But first, let's get you centered. Breathe with me. In through your nose, hold for four, out through your mouth."
His hand came to rest lightly on her back, warm through the thin fabric of her blazer. "That's it. Again."
She followed his lead, matching her breathing to his calm rhythm. Slowly, the tunnel vision receded. The trembling eased from violent shakes to minor tremors.
"Better?" he asked after a minute.
She nodded, not trusting her voice yet.
"You've been gone from the media room for maybe ten minutes," Kenji continued, clearly calculating timelines. "Short enough to be a bathroom break. But we need to move now, before anyone notices a longer absence."
"I can't—" Her voice cracked. "How am I supposed to walk back in there and pretend?—"
"Because you're stronger than you know." His amber eyes held hers with quiet conviction. "I watched you at the tables yesterday. Perfect control under pressure. This is another performance."
He pulled a handkerchief from his pocket—crisp white cotton that spoke of old-fashioned preparedness. "Your makeup is smudged. May I?"
The gesture was so unexpected, so gently protective, that fresh tears threatened. She nodded, standing still as he carefully dabbed beneath her eyes.
"My mom always said a gentleman carries two handkerchiefs," he said, his voice deliberately light. "One for himself, one for a lady in distress. Never thought Navy training would actually prove her right."
Despite everything Cassidy had just experienced, her lips twitch toward a smile. "Your mother sounds wise."
"She was." A shadow crossed his features before he refocused on her. "There. You look perfectly composed. "
He stepped back, assessing her with a professional eye. He surprised her again by reaching out to smooth a strand of hair that had escaped her careful styling.
"Tournament face," he coached. "Confident. Controlled. Giving nothing away."
She straightened her spine, muscle memory taking over. He was right—she'd performed under pressure a thousand times. This was just another game. With higher stakes.
"What about Sophia?" she asked. "I need to warn her?—"
"We'll find her during the next break. Right now, maintaining your cover is critical. If Vega's people notice you're rattled, if they report back that their setup worked..." He didn't need to finish.
"You'll stay close?" She hated how vulnerable the question sounded.
"I'll be watching from the rail. You won't see me, but I'll be there." He checked the stairwell to ensure it was still empty. "Ready?"
She touched her cross one more time, drawing strength from its familiar weight.
This man—this stranger who'd appeared at her darkest moment—was offering her a lifeline.
Every instinct said she shouldn't trust so easily.
But something deeper, something that resonated like divine providence, whispered that he was exactly where he was supposed to be.
"Ready," she said, and was surprised to find she meant it.
They emerged from the stairwell into the normal bustle of the resort. Guests chatted over morning coffee. Early gamblers drifted toward the sparsely-populated casino. The world continued spinning, oblivious to the horror in room 347.
"Chin up," Kenji murmured as they approached the tournament area. "You're the Angel of the Felt, remember? You own every room you walk into."
His quiet confidence was infectious. By the time they reached the media room, Cassidy had found her poker face—the serene mask that had won her millions and hidden a thousand calculations.
"Ms. Reynolds!" A reporter waved her over. "Quick question about your strategy for today's event?"
She moved toward the interview, her smile professional and warm. But before she turned away, she caught Kenji's eye one last time.
“Thank you,” she mouthed silently.
He gave the slightest nod before melting into the crowd, becoming invisible the way only trained operators could. But she sensed his presence like a guardian angel—unseen but undeniably there.
If she were willing to count on anyone, she thought as she discussed pot odds and position play with practiced ease, it might be the man who carried handkerchiefs for ladies in distress and knew exactly how to bring someone back from the edge of panic.
But counting on people meant risking betrayal. And Cassidy Reynolds had built her life on calculating odds, not taking leaps of faith.
Still, she wondered if maybe—maybe—God had sent her exactly the protector she needed, wrapped in the unlikely package of a broken gambler seeking his own redemption.