Chapter 1

The delivery room was cold, the sterile white walls closing in on Ava Miller. Her son, Leo, had come too early, a tiny, fragile thing fighting for every breath in an incubator down the hall. Pain was a constant, a deep ache in her body that mirrored the ache in her heart. She was supposed to feel joy, but all she felt was a hollow fear.

Then her phone rang.

It was Liam, her husband.

His voice was a panicked whisper, a raw sound that cut through her exhaustion.

"Ava, you have to help me. I'm in big trouble."

"Liam? What's wrong? Where are you?" she asked, trying to sit up, a sharp pain shooting through her abdomen. "I had the baby. It's a boy, Liam. Leo. He's... he's in the NICU."

There was a pause, a beat of silence where she expected him to ask about their son. He didn't.

"Listen to me, Ava," he said, his voice cracking. "I owe money. A lot of money. The Gambler... he's a poker king, an animal. He has me. He says if I don't pay, he'll kill me."

"How much?" she whispered, her blood running cold.

"Six point sixty-six million dollars."

The number was so huge it didn't feel real. It was a joke, a nightmare. They were struggling artists, living in a small apartment filled with canvases and dreams, not cash.

"I don't have that kind of money, Liam, you know that," she said, her voice trembling.

"You have to find it," he pleaded. "Sell the apartment. Sell your father's things. Anything. Please, Ava. He's going to hurt me."

A sob broke from his end of the line, and her heart shattered. This was Liam, the man she loved, the charming, smiling man who had promised her the world. Now he was begging for his life.

Her own pain, her own recovery, the fragile life of their newborn son-it all faded into the background. All that mattered was saving Liam.

The next days were a blur of frantic activity. Her body screamed in protest, but she ignored it. She went to their small apartment, the smell of oil paint and turpentine now feeling like a memory from another life. She found her late father's comic book collection, his most cherished possession, a legacy of love he had passed down to her. Each volume was carefully preserved in plastic. She sold them all for a fraction of their worth to a collector who knew she was desperate.

She called the bank, maxing out high-interest loans that she had no idea how she would ever repay. She sold her car, her jewelry, every small thing of value she owned. She drained their savings account, which held barely enough for a few months' rent.

She lived on cheap coffee and adrenaline, pumping milk for Leo in the sterile quiet of the hospital's lactation room, her mind consumed with numbers and deadlines. Every time she looked at her tiny son through the glass of his incubator, tubes and wires attached to his small body, a wave of guilt washed over her. She was supposed to be focused on him, but Liam's desperation haunted her every waking moment.

Finally, after a week of sleepless nights and relentless effort, she had the money. It was a duffel bag full of cash, heavy and smelling of ink and desperation. She followed the cryptic instructions Liam had given her, driving to a deserted warehouse district by the docks.

A single black car was waiting. A large man with a flat, emotionless face got out. He didn't say a word, just took the bag, opened it, and counted a few bundles of cash. He looked at her, his eyes cold.

"The boss says the price went up. He's an expensive man to keep waiting."

"What? No. We agreed. It was six point sixty-six million," Ava said, her voice shaking.

"It's sixteen point sixty-six million now," the man grunted. "You have one week. Or your husband comes back to you in pieces."

Before she could protest, he shoved a phone into her hand. A video was playing. It was Liam. He was tied to a chair, his face bruised and swollen. He was screaming, a raw, animal sound of pure agony. The video cut off.

Ava fell to her knees on the wet asphalt, a sob tearing from her throat. The man got back in his car and drove away, leaving her alone in the darkness with the echo of her husband's screams.

The next four years were a living hell.

The new price was impossible, a cruel joke. But every time she thought of giving up, the image of Liam's tortured face flashed in her mind. So she worked. She gave up her art, the one thing that had ever been truly hers. She took on three jobs. By day, she was a waitress at a greasy diner, her hands raw from hot water and cleaning chemicals. By night, she cleaned office buildings, the silence of the empty floors a constant reminder of her solitude. On weekends, she did freelance graphic design, her eyes burning from staring at a computer screen.

She moved into a tiny, run-down studio apartment in the worst part of town. The rent was cheap, but the building was infested with roaches and the sound of sirens was a constant lullaby.

Leo was a sickly child. His premature birth had left him with a host of health problems, his lungs weak, his immune system compromised. He needed expensive medications and frequent doctor's visits. The debt collectors, the loan sharks Liam had sent her to, were relentless. They were thugs who showed up at her door at all hours, their threats a constant source of terror.

The worst part was the blood. Liam would call, his voice weak and desperate, telling her The Gambler was a sadist. He'd say they were bleeding him, that he was getting weak. He told her they had the same rare blood type, and that he needed her to donate for him. He said it was the only thing keeping him alive.

So she sold her blood. Twice a week, she went to a clinic, the needle in her arm a familiar sting. She grew thin and pale, constantly exhausted, but she did it. For Liam. She told herself it was a direct lifeline to him, a sacrifice only she could make.

Four years passed in this agonizing haze. Four years of working until her bones ached, of living in constant fear, of watching her son struggle to breathe. The final deadline for the full $16.66 million was now just days away. She was still short, so terribly short.

Desperation was a physical thing, a clawing in her gut. She had nothing left to sell, no one left to borrow from.

There was only one option left. She had heard whispers at the diner, stories about an exclusive, high-stakes poker club downtown called "The Devil's Table." It was a place where fortunes were won and lost in a single night. It was dangerous, illegal, and her last hope.

Swallowing her pride, her fear, and what little was left of her dignity, Ava put on the only nice dress she still owned. It hung loosely on her emaciated frame. She left Leo with her neighbor, a kind old woman who looked at her with worried eyes.

She took a bus downtown, her heart pounding with a mix of terror and grim determination. She found the club in an unmarked alley, a heavy steel door the only sign of its existence. She didn't know the password, didn't have an invitation. She just waited until a group of rich men in expensive suits arrived, and she slipped in behind them.

The inside was a different world. It was all dark wood, plush red velvet, and the smell of expensive cigars and whiskey. The air was thick with tension and greed. She ignored the stares, the low-stakes tables, and pushed her way toward the back, toward a heavy door marked "VIP."

This is where The Gambler would be. This is where she would beg, plead, offer him her life, anything to save Liam.

With the last of her strength, she burst through the doors.

The scene inside stopped her cold. It was a lavish suite, not a torture chamber. Money, stacks of hundred-dollar bills, was scattered across the floor like confetti.

And in the center of the room, lounging on a leather sofa, was Liam.

He was not bruised. He was not bleeding. He was wearing an expensive suit and a gaudy gold chain around his neck. His arm was draped around a stunning woman, a woman with a face so eerily similar to her own it made her stomach turn.

The woman took a slow drag from a cigarette, her red lips curling into a smirk as she looked at Ava.

"Gambler, darling," she purred, her voice like velvet and poison. "I heard you had a little 'stand-in' in the outside world?"

Liam' s eyes met Ava's. There was no pain, no fear, no love. Just a flicker of something she couldn't name-annoyance, maybe hesitation. He smirked, pulling the woman, Scarlett, closer to him.

"Not really," he said, his voice the same smooth, charming tone he had always used with her. "She's still undergoing my 'evaluation.' Only if she passes will she be worthy of being a stand-in for my beloved Scarlett."