Page 188 of Double or Nothing

My eyes open wide.

“What do you mean?”

“You heard what I said. I never lose a game. Even when I’m only a player on the sidelines.” He stares at me. “So, are you in or out? You gonna help me, or not? Even if it means getting your poker face in better shape for Daddy fucking Parker. You might not get your happy ever after, Bryce, but at least it will give her a fair fucking shot at getting out of her family tomb.”

I stare at him, mouth open in shock as he grabs his laptop and opens it up next to the Toastique Pro.

“Come on,” he says. “I need an answer. You in or out?”

I take a seat next to him, watching as he calls up a tab onscreen. And I think about Alice. About Christopher bastard Otley. About saving Soul Girl so she can be herself, regardless of where I fit into it.

But can I lie to Bill? Can I keep a poker face with the powerhouse of a man who has mentored me since I was just a teen?

The thought gives me shivers, but damn it. I’m going to have to try.

“Answer me,” Jack says. “In or out?”

I look the master in the eye.

“I’m all in,” I say. “Just tell me what you need from me.”

CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX

ALICE

I’d give anything to be back at Jack’s right now, chilling out, eating toasties with the guys and laughing my head off with my sketchbook in my hands.

I wish I could see the world like Jack does, and say fuck it to Dad’s status games and his money-fuelled quest for a Parker worthy heir.

Helen greets me with a warm smile at my parents’ front door. The only one in this place that feels genuine.

“Good afternoon, Miss Parker.”

“Hi, Helen.”

I step into the entrance hall, and the weight of the house settles around me. Such a contrast to Jack’s place, and an even bigger contrast to mine.

No coats hang over the banister. No shoes have been kicked against the wall. No discarded mug on a windowsill, no splash of paint drying where it shouldn’t be.

Nothing is ever allowed to happen here by accident. Not without consequences.

I already miss Jack’s apartment so fiercely that my chest aches.

“Your parents are in the dining room,” Helen says. “Lunch is almost ready.”

“Great, thanks.”

She takes my coat, and I smooth down my dress.

The respectable daughter costume.

Jack had it nailed.

Mum is already seated when I enter. Dad’s standing at the head of the table, one hand on the back of his chair. So pretentious, even in resting mode.

Three places have been laid precisely, the polished cutlery aligned against white linen. A fresh vase of flowers sits in the centre. Gentle hues of yellow at odds with the bright, jagged freedom of mine.

Everything here has been arranged to create the appearance of an intimate family lunch. But it’s fake. A paper thin veil over the shackles.