He Chose Another Woman Over Me. I Chose His Friend.

“What if we bet Lia instead?”

Ivy, my husband’s adopted little sister, her voice was light, almost playful, as if she were suggesting a new card game—not offering up a human being.

The room went quiet for a beat.

For a second, I wasn’t sure I’d heard her right. I stood behind Adrian’s chair, my fingers digging into my own palms, my heart slamming so hard it felt like it might crack my ribs from the inside.

“Excuse me?” someone said, laughing.

Ivy smiled wider. Blue eyes. Soft lips. That perfect, practiced innocence that had fooled men for as long as I’d known her.

“I mean just for one hand,” she continued sweetly. “Lia’s always been Adrian’s lucky charm, hasn’t she?”

A few of the men chuckled. Someone whistled. I went still.

Across the table, poker chips clicked together like teeth.

The Mediterranean glittered beyond the floor-to-ceiling windows, moonlight breaking across black water. We were on my husband Adrian’s yacht—The Siren—surrounded by champagne, silk suits, and the sons of men who owned oil fields and governments. A celebration. A party.

Or, as now how it was revealed to me. A trap.

“Ivy,” I said quietly. “That’s not funny.”

She turned to me, feigning surprise. “Oh? I didn’t mean anything bad by it.”

Marcus Rothwell leaned back in his chair, his grin slow and sharp. “Depends what the bet is.”

I stared at him. What the ***? What did that mean? So if the bet was “proper” then it was ok for Ivy to bet me out?

Just as I was about to question Marcus, Ivy’s gaze had already flicked to the side table. To the crystal bottle of Russian vodka, clear as poison.

“If Adrian wins,” she said quickly, cutting into my words just to attract all the attentions, tapping one manicured finger on the felt, “I owe each of you a favor. If he loses…”

Her pause stretched.

“Lia drinks.”

The room reacted all at once—laughter, murmurs, interest snapping to life. I felt the blood drain from my face.

“No,” I said. This time louder. “I can’t.”

Marcus raised an eyebrow. “Can’t what? It’s nothing, just alcohol, we’re not selling you or something, Lia. Don’t be boring.”

Adrian still hadn’t looked at me.

“I have an allergy,” I said, my voice shaking now. “Adrian knows that.”

Finally, Adrian glanced up. His expression was calm. Detached. Almost bored.

“Ok, then just one glass,” he said. “You’ll be fine.”

The words landed harder than a slap.

Ten years of marriage. Countless doctors. Emergency rooms. EpiPens. And he reduced it to fine.

“I won’t be,” I whispered. “Adrian. Please.”

I reached for his shoulder. He shrugged me off. Not violently. Casually. Like brushing away smoke.

“Don’t make a scene, Lia.”

Laughter rippled around the table. Someone poured vodka into a waiting glass. The sharp smell burned my throat, made my chest tighten before I’d even touched it.

Marcus grinned. “So? Is the great Adrian St. James afraid of a bad hand?”

Adrian’s jaw tightened. Pride flared in his eyes—the only emotion I’d seen from him all night.

“I’m in,” he said. “Double the stakes.”

Cheers erupted.

I stood there, frozen, as the dealer shuffled the cards. The sound was clean and final. I realized, distantly, that I was shaking.

Ivy met my gaze and gave me a quick, conspiratorial wink. As if this were a joke. As if my life were a party trick.

Adrian picked up his cards. I watched his face change—just slightly. A flicker of irritation. A tightening around the eyes.

Bad cards. He knew it.

And still, he played.

Because Adrian St. James never backed down.

Not from a challenge. Not from an audience. Not even for his wife.