BET. BOUGHT. OWNED. THE BILLIONAIRE'S PROPERTY

“You’re out of options,” Mr. Chris Salvador said, his voice low and thick with cruel satisfaction. A slow smile curved his lips as he leaned forward, resting his elbows on the table. “So I win it all.”

Opposite him was James Smith, a man who had evidently not seen a mirror...or sleep...in days. His hair which had been neatly combed, was now in greasy strands, stuck on his forehead. His shirt, once perhaps white and tight, was hanging on his body, slackened and creased and stained with sweat and disappointment. The collar was loose and hanging open.

James sat with his head down, his one arm hanging over the side of his chair, the other hardly supported as he held a glass half-full of whiskey. His eyes were empty, staring in a place midway between memory and despair, his mind was obviously having replaying every silly bet, and every wrong card he had made.

He didn’t look poor.

He looked ruined.

He held the glass shakily. The clink of ice inside the glass gave away the weakness he was pretending not to have. He sipped slowly and carefully and then placed the glass with a dull thud on the table. His lips moved, and his voice was husky.

“Let’s go another round,” James murmured.

Chris studied him for a long moment with narrowed eyes. His gaze had nothing of pity in it...it was cold and calculative. He pulled his cigar to his lips and breathed out a long cloud of smoke.

Finally he said, "You got nothing to bet"

James didn't reply, he just appeared lost in deep thoughts. His hands beat nervously on the table. He kept his eyes looking down, and would not look at Chris.

Mr. Chris got out of his chair and brushed an ash-spot off his coat. “Pack up the winnings,” he ordered over his shoulder.

His men moved silently, and efficiently. Chips clattered into cases. Stacks of cash disappeared into black duffel bags. Mr James just stood there frozen, and uncertain.

And then Mr James screamed with a shaky voice, “How about my wife.”

The words cut through the air like a knife.

Mr Chris paused mid-step. Slowly, he turned to face the broken man across the table.

“What did you just say?” His voice was calm, but colder than before.

James finally looked up. His eyes were bloodshot, sunken, and heavy with something far more dangerous than desperation.Conviction.

“I’ll bet my wife,” James said. His voice steadier now. “If you win, you get one night with her.”

The room went dead quiet.

Chris gazed long at him, and then, with slow, hesitating steps, went back to the table. He sank into the chair again, majestically, and slowly. He paused for a moment before continuing.

“Your wife?? You are willing to bet your wife?” He raised an eyebrow. “That’s all your wife’s worth to you?”

James didn’t answer.

Salvador leant forward, and the smoke curled between them.

"Come on Mr James, how about we raise the stake?" he whispered. We go bigger, say...triple the pot." James stared at him curiously.

Chris smiled and continued, "If you win, you take home three times the prize. But should I win…” He stopped and left the words hanging. “She’s mine. For a year.”

James flinched. Slightly. Barely.

“A year?” he asked.

Chris nodded. “Yes. A full year. I’ll house her. Feed her. Dress her in silk or strip her bare. It’ll depend on how well she behaves. She becomes mine for one year.”

James inhaled sharply, his knuckles white against the edge of the table.

He lowered his eyes. Then raised them again.

“Fine,” he said. “Deal. But remember...triple.”

“Of course.” Chris smirked. “Set the cards," he ordered.

The dealer shuffled the cards with trembling hands.

The players sat in silence, the weight of the bet stretching across the room like a noose.

James’s breathing was shallow at first, then steadied as he stared down his hand. He fidgeted, rubbed his thumb anxiously over his palm, Mr Chris noticed, but his focus never wavered.

Cards were drawn. Bets placed.

The final hand was laid.

James revealed his first card, a full house. A grin pulled faintly at the corners of his mouth. His eyes gleamed with fleeting hope. Maybe this was it. His miracle.

Chris didn’t even blink.

With quiet confidence, he spread his cards across the table.

A straight flush.

The room became silent.

James's eyes widened in shock, his breathing became faster, a tiny tear dropped from his right eyes. “No…” he breathed. "Let's go again," his eyes red. "I said let's go again," he screamed.

Chris stood up: sleek and slow, like a king risen out of his throne. He looked at the man who had gambled the only thing he had left of worth in his life.

“You lost,” Chris said simply. He tapped the table once. The sound echoed. “One week. I come for my prize in one week, make sure you prepare it.” And with that, he turned and walked out without looking back.

Behind him, James crumbled further into his chair, his hands gripped his empty glass in fear and regret.