The Floor Is Tilted

“This place was never just about cards. It was always about control—and the moment you think you have it, the floor shifts.”

With a renewed drink in hand—its surface catching the garish casino light like liquid glass—I drifted between the blackjack tables, my pace slow, almost lazy. The gin warmed slightly against my fingers, condensation slickening the glass. I held it like a prop, something to anchor the pretence of aimless interest. A woman on her second round, idly soaking up the atmosphere. A regular. Harmless.

The clatter of chips echoed like distant percussion, undercut by murmured strategies and breath-held anticipation. Dealers moved with balletic precision, all crisp sleeves and studied neutrality. The occasional cheer punctuated the ambient hum—someone hitting twenty-one, someone else losing it all in a heartbeat. Rituals of risk. All theatre.

But none of it held my attention.

I kept one eye on the games, the other on the periphery—on him. Jarod remained at the poker table, posture impeccable, expression composed. He was a still point in the chaos, the kind of calm that drew attention by contrast. Even across the room, I could see it: the subtle shift of his weight, the controlled sips from his glass, the exact placement of his hands. Every motion was measured. No tells. No distractions. He was in it, deep.

And seeing him there—so centred, so intent—tethered me. Reminded me what was at stake. Why we were here.

I took a sip of my drink, sharp and cold, just as I turned a little too abruptly and—

"Sorry," I muttered, the word tumbling from my lips automatically as I collided with a passer-by.

A brush of shoulder. A soft jolt.

Minor. Mundane. The kind of collision that happened a dozen times a night in a place built for drama.

But then I looked up.

The word Security was stitched across his black shirt, bold and unmistakable. A uniform designed to signal authority without nuance. My stomach tensed—but not because of the title.

It was the face beneath it.

Recognition hit like a slap. My breath caught in my throat. My pulse skipped, stuttered, then surged. The world narrowed. Not just a security guard—him.

The man behind the badge wasn’t a stranger. He was a memory. A warning.

"Shit!"

The word escaped me in a breathless murmur, barely audible over the roar of slot machines and celebratory yelps—but to me, it rang like a gunshot. A quiet, personal detonation.

I turned swiftly, ducking my chin, letting my hair fall slightly forward, a curtain drawn across a face too easily remembered. The crowd became my shield. I slid between bodies, adopting the shuffle and sway of the aimless, of the casually intoxicated, desperate to sink back into anonymity before his gaze could sharpen into certainty.

But I felt it—That flicker. That second-long hesitation in his stride.
He paused. Just briefly. Just enough.

His eyes did a double take, narrowing with the vague discomfort of a memory trying to surface. For one sliver of a moment, the world held its breath with me. Then he moved on, continuing across the casino floor with the disinterest of a man on routine patrol.

But I knew better.

His presence here—in uniform—wasn’t just surprising. It was seismic. A truth cracking the surface of everything I thought I understood about this place.

I reached out, instinctively, for the nearest blackjack table, my fingers wrapping around the cold metal edge. The chill bit into my skin, grounding me, holding me upright against the sudden flush of heat that surged up my neck and into my face. My drink wobbled precariously in my other hand, the ice inside rattling like bones.

The blade-wielding man. The one from before. The shadow I’d hoped was an aberration. He works here?

The thought hit like a dropped weight. Not a revelation—something worse. A realisation. A key slid into a lock I hadn’t known existed, and the door it opened showed me just how far off the map I’d wandered.

My pulse kicked hard. My breathing shallowed. Around me, the casino continued its endless performance—flashing lights, clinking glasses, synthetic cheer—but I could feel the floor tilting beneath me, shifting the rules, reshuffling the game.

If he recognised me—if he remembered—then the fragile cover Jarod and I had built could unravel before the night truly began. He wasn’t just a threat from my past now. He was a wildcard planted right in the middle of our present.

No. Don’t spiral. Not here.

I forced myself to take a breath, slow and deep, though it lodged partway down my throat like gravel. I released my grip on the table, fingers stiff, reluctant. My muscles ached with the effort of appearing casual. I peeled myself away from the blackjack rail and re-entered the flow of the casino’s bodies—just another woman with a drink, killing time, minding her own business.

But everything had changed.

That brief encounter had pierced the illusion like a crack in glass. It reminded me, sharply and without mercy, that this wasn’t just a game of poker chips and whispered signals. This was a high-stakes con layered over real danger.

Our roles, our masks—they weren’t costumes anymore. They were armour.

And now I needed to rework the plan—quietly, quickly, and without a single misstep.

The night had just grown teeth. And it was watching.

"Still bored?"

The voice slid in like a blade behind silk—low, familiar, and laced with that casual arrogance that men like Graeme wore like cologne. It cut through the ambient chaos of the casino, zeroing in on me with unnerving ease.

A second later, I felt him.

The warmth of his breath brushed the back of my neck—too close, too deliberate. The press of his presence wasn’t just near; it was invasive. Uninvited. There was a particular kind of male confidence that didn’t see boundaries so much as doors. He stood just behind my shoulder, close enough that I could smell the faint remnants of his drink—vodka, maybe, layered with cheap citrus and a misguided sense of entitlement.

A ripple of discomfort slid down my spine.

I turned slowly, every movement measured. A second too fast would’ve read as flinching; too slow, and he’d think he had the upper hand. My face shifted into the weapon I’d long ago mastered—a coy, flirty smile that pulled at the corners of my lips like strings. The kind of smile that promised nothing but suggested otherwise. A smile worn like armour.

Reflex. Survival. Habit.

Graeme, of course, didn’t notice the tension in my jaw or the way my hand clenched faintly around my glass. His grin widened, his eyes alight with assumption. He took the smile as encouragement. An open door rather than a bolted one.

It always amazed me how many men saw what they wanted and called it truth.

The smile vanished before it could settle. Gone. Snapped off like a faulty light.

"Fuck off. I'm not interested."

The words came sharp, clean, and hard enough to chip enamel. I didn’t raise my voice—it didn’t need volume. It had weight. Finality.

His expression faltered, the grin short-circuiting into something slack-jawed, caught between offence and surprise. Before he could muster a response—before he could try to reframe it as a joke or a misunderstanding—I moved.

I pushed past him with just enough force to make a point, shoulder clipping his as I re-entered the current of the crowd. My pace was quick, but not frantic—a blend of escape and assertion. I didn’t look back. Didn’t give him the satisfaction of seeing whether I flinched.

As I walked, I drained the rest of my drink in three hard gulps. The liquid burned on the way down—not pleasantly—and each swallow felt like a challenge issued to my own fraying nerves. Gin had once been a companion of sorts, a ritual. Tonight it was more like punishment, a futile attempt to drown the taste of something I couldn’t quite name.

The empty glass met the bar with a sharp clack, louder than I’d intended. Heads didn’t turn—this was Wrest Point, after all—but the sound rang in my ears like punctuation. Final. Irate. A small act of aggression from someone trying not to unravel.

My pulse was hammering beneath my collarbone, heavy and insistent. Each beat felt like an accusation.

What the fuck am I doing here tonight?

The question landed with weight. Not rhetorical. Not passing. It lodged itself between my ribs and sat there, throbbing with quiet menace.

I stayed at the bar, unmoving, hands braced on the polished surface. Around me, the casino kept spinning—lights flashing in rhythmic hysteria, voices rising and falling like a drunken choir. It was all blur and noise, neon and nonsense, and I stood in the centre of it like the eye of a storm that hadn’t quite realised it was forming.

This night, meant to be tightly scripted—an elegant con with all the pieces in place—was slipping sideways. The seams were showing. The set was creaking.

A security guard from another life, reappearing like a bad omen. Graeme, all ego and intrusion, peeling back layers I didn’t have the luxury to lose. And above it all, the antique shop—my shop—dangling just out of reach, like bait strung on a wire.

It was supposed to be about control. Precision. Execution.

Instead, it felt like I was grasping at smoke. And for the first time in a long while, doubt started to seep in—slow, sticky, and insidious.

I took another breath, shallow and sharp, trying to find myself in the fog. But the fog wasn’t lifting. Not yet.

"Rum and coke," Leigh’s voice cut clean through the haze of background chatter, as distinct and composed as ever, rising above the clinking glassware and electronic chimes of the pokies.

I felt him before I saw him—an invisible disruption in the air, like a change in temperature. Then he appeared beside me, leaning casually against the bar, as if this were a planned rendezvous and not a collision in the middle of my spiralling night.

Of course he’d look calm. Nonchalant. Like he was waiting for a bus. Not standing in the epicentre of a night quickly turning sour.

I turned to him, lips already tightening.

"What are you doing here?" The question came out low, a hiss shaped by suspicion more than curiosity. I didn’t try to mask it. Not with Leigh. His sudden appearance wasn’t coincidence—it never was. In a night already riddled with uninvited variables, this one felt personal. Too personal.

"You spying on me?"

I didn’t blink as I asked it. My gaze sharpened into something closer to interrogation than conversation. He didn’t flinch—never did—but I searched anyway, scanning the faint shifts in his expression, the corners of his mouth, the muscle at his jaw. Any sign of the truth beneath the smirk.

"It's not always about you," he scoffed, scooping up his drink from the bar with theatrical ease. There was no performance in the irritation that laced his voice, though. That landed. A clean jab. And it stung—not because it wasn’t true, but because it was.

His words twisted the knife already embedded in my evening, reminding me I wasn’t the only one with pieces on the board. This wasn’t my game alone. We were just players—interchangeable, expendable, depending on the angle.

The bartender leaned in, oblivious to the undertow churning between us.

"What can I get you?"

It was a neutral, professional question. A tether to the real world.

"Shut up."

The words left my mouth before I could leash them, too fast, too loud—sharp with displaced frustration. It wasn’t meant for him. But the look that passed across his face—momentary confusion giving way to hurt professionalism—stabbed at something I hadn’t yet numbed out.

"Sorry, not you," I corrected quickly, my tone softer, more human. A flicker of heat bloomed in my cheeks—embarrassment, anger, some twisted cocktail of both. I dropped my gaze to the countertop, suddenly too aware of myself, of the evening spiralling out in too many directions.

A soft chuckle escaped Leigh, low and unguarded. It might’ve been charming, even disarming, in another setting. Another lifetime. But here, in this moment, it landed differently. Not quite mockery, not quite amusement. Just another reminder of the tangle we kept finding ourselves in—half camaraderie, half cold war.

"Gin and tonic, thank you," I said finally, with more steadiness than I felt. A simple request, delivered like a ritual. One clean thing amidst the mess.

Something I could still control.

Leigh spun himself around with the ease of someone who made a habit of knowing where the exits were. The motion was fluid, casual on the surface, but it carried the undercurrent of constant vigilance—his version of being at rest was never truly resting. He leaned back against the bar with a deliberate sort of looseness, the pose relaxed but not idle. His eyes scanned the casino floor like radar, flicking from face to face, cataloguing every movement, every detail. Nothing escaped him. Not ever.

"Actually, I'm here keeping an eye on Charlie," he said, his voice low and measured, like he was dropping a piece of the puzzle I hadn’t even realised was missing.

My reaction was immediate. "The Sergeant?"

The name leapt from my lips, too loud, too sharp, tethered to a world of grey uniforms and interrogation rooms—not this garish hall of vice and velvet upholstery.

"Yes."

"The Sergeant is here?" I echoed, slower now, but my mind had already begun sprinting. It grasped at fragments, trying to fit this out-of-place name into the glittering chaos around me. The clink of glasses, the drone of pokies, the laughter that sounded just a little too forced. Charlie didn’t belong here. Which meant something was very wrong—or very calculated.

"Yes," Leigh repeated, his tone flat but tight, his patience just starting to fray. The confirmation echoed in my chest like a second heartbeat. This wasn’t a visit. It was surveillance. And if Charlie was here, then who was he watching?

"Shit! What the hell is Charlie—"

"Shh, keep your voice down."

Leigh’s warning came fast, sharp as broken glass, slicing through my rising panic. His head tilted slightly, eyes narrowing—not at me, but at the room. At them. Whoever they might be. The way his pupils darted, scanning, made something cold crawl up the back of my neck.

I clamped my mouth shut.

It wasn’t just a reprimand. It was a reminder. The walls had ears.
And tonight, we weren’t the only ones playing a part.

The bartender slid the gin and tonic across the bar, the glass clinking softly against the lacquered surface. The drink shimmered under the lights—crystalline, beautiful. For a fleeting moment, the simple act grounded me. A pause. A touchstone.

I reached into my purse, fingers fumbling for a bank card. The movement was a gesture of habit rather than need, a distraction to stave off the questions swirling in my head like stirred sediment. Why Charlie? Why now? How many threads were tangled in this one night, and how many had already started to snap?

Leigh’s presence—initially just an irritant—had shifted into something more loaded. Strategic. If he was keeping tabs on the Sergeant, then this wasn’t just my con anymore. It was something bigger. A game with more players. Higher stakes.

"I got this one," Jarod’s voice came from just behind me, low and unexpected.

I jumped.

Not visibly, I hoped—but inside, something jerked like a puppet’s string pulled too tight. He appeared as if conjured, sliding into place beside us with the ease of someone who could read a room in a heartbeat. His timing was always uncanny. Whether that was a gift or a curse, I hadn’t yet decided.

His offer—“And her friend’s”—came with a glance towards Leigh, his tone smooth but deliberate. It was an olive branch. Or maybe a strategic flex. Either way, the gesture blurred the lines: friend, partner, rival. The roles we all played shifted constantly, depending on who was watching.

Leigh didn’t protest. He tucked the note back into his pocket without a word, his expression unreadable.

"Sure," the bartender replied, his tone clipped and professional. An island of neutrality in the midst of our charged triangle. He took the transaction as just another part of the night’s rhythm—no different than a blackjack deal or a slot machine ding.

"Oh, and I’ll have another whiskey, thanks," Jarod added, sliding his empty glass forward.

His nonchalance was calculated. Every move Jarod made was part of the act—cool exterior, razor underneath.

"Gotcha," came the bartender’s reply, already turning. Efficient. Detached.

The three of us stood there, framed in the haze of lights and noise, outwardly calm but wound tight beneath the surface. A woman with a drink, two men with secrets, and a thousand unseen eyes.

The game was still on. But the board had changed.

While Jarod and Leigh exchanged pleasantries—a handshake here, a nod there, the rehearsed dance of men pretending not to measure each other—I stood slightly apart, drink in hand, unable to silence the gnawing edge of unease threading its way through me.

They played their roles well, conjuring a thin veneer of normality over an evening that had already slipped well beyond the bounds of ordinary. The soundscape of the casino pulsed on around us—flashing lights, jubilant cries, the clatter of coins into trays—but beneath it all, I felt the shift. A tension building like static on my skin.

My gaze drifted across the floor, scanning for cracks in the façade. It didn’t take long.

The security guard I’d collided with earlier—the blade-wielder, as my mind now insisted on branding him—was still prowling the periphery, eyes sweeping the crowd with the casual menace of someone who’d seen too much and enjoyed it. And then there was Graeme. Young. Clueless. But persistent. His presence loomed like a bad decision waiting to happen.

The floor was no longer just busy. It was a minefield.

A tightrope walk between visibility and vanishing, every movement carefully calibrated. I could feel my mask slipping at the edges, tugged by too many angles of exposure.

"I think we should go," I said suddenly, the words escaping before I had time to shape them into something more tactical. I raised the gin and tonic to my lips, hoping the chill would steady my nerves. It didn’t.

"Go?" Jarod repeated, eyebrows rising. Surprise flickered across his face—subtle, but real.

"Probably a good idea," Leigh cut in, quick to agree. His tone sharpened, eyes narrowing with the focus of someone watching a chessboard tilt mid-match.

I followed his gaze and found the fault line.

Charlie.

The Sergeant stood off to the side, half-slumped against the far wall like he was taking a breather from pretending to be respectable. He looked rumpled, detached, out of place. But it wasn’t his posture that unsettled me—it was what he held. A thick wad of cash, counted slowly in full view, as if the whole casino had blurred around him and he’d forgotten to hide the rot.

The sight was jarring. Not just for what it was, but for what it represented: a ripple beneath still water. Something corrupt moving in plain sight, daring the world to notice.

"Excuse me," Leigh said suddenly, peeling himself away from the bar. His voice was polite, but tight. "Thanks for the drink."

"My pleasure," Jarod replied, his grin easy, all teeth and charm. It looked genuine. But I knew better. We were all acting tonight. Only the stakes were no longer theoretical.

The security guard’s frequent glances had become a slow, deliberate metronome of unease, ticking behind every moment. Each pass of his gaze stitched another thread of tension through the fabric of my nerves, a reminder that we were playing with fire—masked and smiling in a place that would devour us if it caught the scent of weakness.

"I'm going home," I said, the words landing with more weight than expected. A declaration, not a suggestion. I set my glass down on the bar, the hollow sound it made against the wood feeling oddly ceremonial—like the closing of a chapter. My fingers lingered on the counter a moment longer, the coolness grounding me, a small anchor in a sea of rising panic and fraying control.

"Oh, come on, Beatrix."

Jarod’s voice—half cajole, half complaint—washed over me, dragging the frayed edge of my patience with it. His hand found my bare arm, warm against my chilled skin. It was meant to reassure, but instead it pressed into me like a shackle. His touch felt suddenly foreign—too familiar, too possessive.

I turned sharply, shoulders taut, spine rigid. My tongue primed a small arsenal of reasons, excuses, and retaliations, but the words caught in the back of my throat as his face met mine. There was a look there—soft, imploring. Too much.

"Just for an hour," he said, low and coaxing, eyes boring into me like they could carve a path straight through my resistance. "Then we can go home. I promise."

"We?" The word shot out of me, clipped and caustic, the single syllable slicing through the air between us. My eyes narrowed as a heat bloomed in my chest—not passion, but fury. That he would dare to slip we into this moment, like it belonged there, like it hadn’t been the thing that wrecked us the first time.

"No." My head shook slowly, deliberately, each shake a rejection, a reassertion of the walls I’d rebuilt. "We're not having another repeat of last time."

The phrase landed heavy, dense with memory. Last time—those two words carried a minefield. Regret, entanglement, aftermath. I wouldn’t wade back into that. Not tonight. Not again.

I wrenched myself free of his grip with more force than strictly necessary. The sequinned fabric of my dress shifted slightly as I stepped back, my silver stilettos pressing into the thick casino carpet like punctuation marks. Each step away from him was a statement: I choose myself.

"I didn't mean it like that," Jarod’s voice followed, just behind me, clipped with desperation. I could feel him moving to match my pace, his words chasing at my heels like a dog that didn’t realise it had been shut out.

"Like hell you didn't."

The words burned on their way out, more exposed than I wanted them to be. There it was: the hurt. Twisting with the anger, feeding it. And then the worst betrayal—tears. I could feel them rising like traitors, a shimmer behind my lashes that blurred the glittering chaos of the casino into something soft and cruel.

"Beatrix, please."

His plea barely cut through the background noise, but it reached me all the same. A single word, stretched thin with hope. Too late.

"No, Jarod."

The words were quiet, but they ended the conversation with the finality of a slammed door. No drama. No spectacle. Just a boundary drawn in concrete. This wasn’t about spite. It wasn’t even about punishment.

It was about walking away before the fire reached me again.