Back at Victor's mansion, the night felt long and heavy.
He sat alone in the dimly lit living room, the fire crackling quietly. A glass of wine sat untouched on the coffee table—he didn't even look at it.
Victor sank deeper into the leather couch, running a hand through his hair. Frustration was all over his face.
"Damn it," he muttered. "I was too hard on her."
His voice was low, like he was talking to the fire more than to himself.
"I acted like a total jerk."
Victor's mind kept going back to the moment Elena stood in front of him—glowing, her pregnancy showing, her strength shining through—and he had thrown it all away with harsh, careless words.
"All I wanted was one night with her," he said, rubbing his tired eyes. "Just one night... and I forgot everything she's been through."
His voice was low, heavy with regret. "She's lost so much… and I made it all about my ego."
He picked up his phone and stared at her name on the screen like it held all the answers. His thumb hovered over the call button.
"She didn't deserve that," he whispered, swallowing hard. "Not after everything she's survived."
The fire crackled louder, almost like it was urging him to move.
"I should call her... apologize. It's the least I can do," he said at last. His voice cracked under the weight of guilt.
…..
Meanwhile, across the ocean in Monaco, Charles Laurent was having what he thought was a perfect night.
Luck seemed to follow him at every turn in the casino. No matter the game—cards, dice, roulette—he kept winning. His stack of chips grew taller with each round, drawing a small crowd that clapped and murmured in amazement.
Charles leaned into his chair, flashing his usual cocky grin. "What can I say? I'm just that good."
Just as he reached for another drink, three men in sharp suits walked up to him.
"Mr. Charles," said the tallest one, voice smooth like butter, "the VIP room is ready for you."
Charles blinked but kept smiling. "Appreciate it. But I'm on a hot streak. Don't want to mess with the magic."
The man stepped forward, parting his coat just enough to show the gun at his waist.
"Let's not cause a scene," he said with a fake smile. "Best to keep things... polite."
Charles's smirk faltered. He raised his hands slightly in mock surrender.
"Well, since you asked so nicely," he said, rising slowly. "Lead the way, Mr. James Bond."
As they moved through the casino, Charles muttered under his breath, "Hope this VIP room comes with free drinks—and fewer guns."
They slipped behind heavy velvet curtains and into a hallway that felt too quiet, too far from the clinking chips and spinning slots.
The moment they stepped into the private room, something felt wrong.
Smoke curled in the air—not the usual cigarette haze, but something thicker, heavier. Charles's nose twitched.
"Alright, what is this? A casino or a smokehouse?" he joked, waving a hand in front of his face. "You guys grilling ribs in here or—"
His words stopped short. His knees gave out.
He dropped like a puppet with its strings cut, hitting the polished floor with a dull thud.
Eyes rolled back. Body still.
The room went quiet—except for the soft hum of the overhead light and the distant clatter of chips being stacked in the main hall.
When Charles woke up, his head was pounding like a drum. But that familiar smirk was already creeping back onto his face.
He was slouched on a long velvet couch—soft to touch but clearly meant to impress, not relax. In front of him, a low table was a mess of pricey liquor bottles, half-empty glasses, ashtrays full of cigars, and a golden, skull-shaped bottle that definitely broke the rules.
Behind him, two guards stood like statues—guns ready, eyes fixed on him like they were just waiting for permission to shoot. The air was thick with cologne, gun oil, and danger.
The room was big and dim, lit only by a red chandelier that made everything look like it was soaked in blood. Thick carpets swallowed up every step. The walls were covered in rare weapons and strange items that looked like they'd been stolen straight from a museum.
Across from him, sitting like a mafia boss on his own fancy throne, was a man in his early sixties—Don Sylvester. He wore a silk robe over a sharp white shirt, with a lit cigar resting between his fingers. On each side of him, a beautiful woman lounged on the couch. But they didn't just look pretty—they looked dangerous. One was flipping a butterfly knife like it was a toy. The other cleaned her nails with the tip of a bullet.
Charles laughed. "Wow. Did I walk into a Bond movie or some kind of villain nightclub?"
No one noticed the small earpiece hidden behind his left ear, blending in with his shiny earring. And that button on his collar? Not just for style. A tiny hidden camera was there, quietly recording everything.
A voice came through the earpiece.
"You're still in the casino, just on a lower level. Looks like this area isn't part of the public tour."
Charles smiled. "So... Don Sylvester finally shows up. I'm honored. Really."
The Don smiled too, but it wasn't a good smile. It felt like trouble was coming.
"Charles Laurent," the Don said, his voice calm but sharp. "You stole from me... then come back to my casino with your cheap tricks? That takes guts. Or maybe you're crazy."
Charles tilted his head. "Oops. Looks like you caught me. But let me be clear—I didn't steal from you. I just outsmarted you... and took what your girls stole."
The Don's smile flickered, but he stayed quiet. Then one of the women whispered in his ear. He nodded a little.
"I could kill you right now," the Don said, swirling his drink. "Then dig up the artifact's location from your cold, useless body."
Charles leaned back, looking almost relaxed. "What took you so long? I've been waiting for death for years. Death flirts with me but never calls back."
Don Sylvester laughed. "You're either brave, stupid, or really well prepared."
Charles raised an eyebrow. "Why not all three? I'm a triple threat."
The Don stared at him like a predator ready to attack. "You really think you have any power?"
Charles smiled. "Let's just say... I'm not alone."
The Don's eyes flicked to his guards, then back to Charles. "You brought friends?
"I always do," Charles said with a wink. "You just can't see them yet."
Don Sylvester took a long puff of his cigar, looking at Charles like he wasn't sure whether to shoot him or hire him.
"Alright then," he said at last. "Let's talk. I know you want to sell the artifact."
Charles smiled. "Now we're talking. But don't expect a discount just because you tried to kill me."
He kept smiling, but his eyes stayed sharp on Don Sylvester.
"I was really curious why you wanted that artifact so badly. You tried to get it the easy way, but when that didn't work, your girls here went dirty—trying to swap it with the fake you brought."
He looked at the two women beside the Don. They both tensed up. The one on the left—like a mix of a runway model and a panther—narrowed her eyes, angry. Her fingers tapped her thigh like she wanted to grab something sharp.
Charles kept talking, calm. "Luckily for me and my team, we couldn't make a good fake, so we guessed you'd bring the real one. All we had to do was let you walk in with it—and then do what we do best."
Suddenly, the second woman—taller, thinner, and angrier—quickly pulled a knife from her boot and threw it straight at him.
THWACK!
The blade hit the couch, cutting the fabric just inches from his head.
Charles froze for a moment, staring at the knife. Then he slowly looked at her. Her face was full of anger, jaw tight, eyes fierce.
He blinked and smiled calmly. "If that was a warning... ten out of ten for drama. Two out of ten for aim."
He leaned back, arms spread out on the couch. "Next time, sweetheart, try throwing insults. It's safer—no murder charges."
Don Sylvester laughed, clearly enjoying the moment. The woman hissed quietly but stayed seated, her eyes never leaving Charles.
Charles shrugged. "Stealing that artifact should've been tough. But you made it easy. You just walked it right into our hands." He gave a lazy smile. "No offense, but I didn't even break a sweat getting you two, into bed that night."
Don leaned forward, eyes bright with interest. "Really, I've been wondering—how did you do that? They said someone tricked them, but their story sounds too perfect."
One of the girls frowned, arms crossed tight. Her jaw moved, but she didn't say a word.
Charles put his hands together and smiled. " I will be glad to tell you. Sit back, Don. This story has betrayal, bad timing, and two beauties who trusted the wrong man."
He winked at the angry women. "Spoiler alert—you two were the beauties."