The dealer entered: a young woman with porcelain skin and hands that looked crafted for the task. She took her place at the table, cards already in her grasp. Her smile was polite, her movements professional.
The game began.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Before the game began, chips had to be arranged. Though no one at the table would pull out cash—this wasn't like a casino on the Strip, and none of these men were professional gamblers. For them, poker was a pastime, a way to simulate risk in lives already insulated by obscene wealth. Boredom was the enemy of tycoons. Tonight's table promised excitement.
The game of choice: Texas Hold'em. Straightforward, flexible, but ruthless in the right hands. Two hidden cards dealt to each player, five community cards revealed one by one. Strategy came not just from the hand you held, but from the confidence you told with your bets. Bluff, pressure, patience—every move was an act wrapped around mathematics.
"How many chips should we start with?" Gilson Marbury asked smoothly. As the host, it was his duty to set the tone.
James spoke first. "Give me a hundred million."
The words landed like a gunshot.
Stark's head snapped toward him, eyes wide. One hundred million wasn't just bold—it was reckless. For a man who has no cash to liquidate, it looked suicidal. But then Tony caught himself. Natasha was missing, trapped somewhere in this building. The mission was already compromised. James wasn't the type to throw numbers around without a plan. Stark kept his mouth shut, letting the younger man manipulate.
The other tycoons exchanged glances. Their usual "big-name" tables might stretch into single-digit millions. But a hundred million raised questions. Was Gibson fearless—or unhinged? Men of their stature hadn't climbed to the top on luck alone. Foresight, risk, and nerve were their currencies. They studied him with the same scrutiny they gave billion-dollar mergers.
"Mr. Gibson is going to play so large?" David Koch asked, tone skeptical but tinged with interest.
James leaned slightly toward him. "I heard Mr. Marbury say this would be a big-name game. A hundred million isn't so large, is it?" His face carried the look of someone naive enough not to recognize limits.
Koch gave a short laugh. "Bold. Very bold. No wonder you built League Games into a powerhouse so quickly. I'll match you." He gestured for his own hundred million in chips.
Others hesitated. Robert Mercado and Michael Bloomberg studied James, their experience telling them no man threw down that much without intent. Still, reputations mattered. They called for stacks of chips as well, each neat tower gleaming beneath the chandelier's light.
James filed away their reactions. Every twitch, every pause. Information was the real currency here. He remembered a saying from his father: men at a poker table reveal more than they do at a boardroom. Fear never hides for long.
The dealer, the young woman with precise hands and a porcelain smile, began her performance. Cards shuffled, flicking and snapping in hypnotic rhythm. James kept his gaze steady, but Cortana was already at work.
[Recording sequence. Card order logged. Deck shuffle analyzed.]
Her voice in his ear was calm. Every card, every placement, mapped and stored. James's memory alone was sharp, but with Cortana's overlay, he was untouchable.
The game opened with a modest proposal. "Shall we say one million to start?" James asked lightly.
No one objected. One million was little more than the cost of an expensive lunch to these men. Six players, six million on the table, and the first hand was dealt.
James glanced at his hidden cards: six of clubs, jack of hearts. He already knew how the hand would end—Cortana's projections had mapped the public cards before they left the dealer's fingers. Final outcome? A pair of jacks. Decent, but not unbeatable.
Robert Mercado and Michael Bloomberg had stronger hands. James decided to bleed quietly. Sometimes a loss was more valuable than a win.
As the rounds played, the pot climbed, and tension with it. James let his body language stay loose, casual, while Cortana guided the rhythm of his bets. A shrug, a half-smile, a call at the right time.
In the end, he folded deliberately, letting Bloomberg take the win. Tens of millions shifted across the felt into Bloomberg's stack. Laughter followed, lightening the air.
"Oh, this is faster than Wall Street," Bloomberg quipped, stacking his chips. "One hand, and I make more than a day on the market."
The table chuckled. Atmosphere reset. The scent of expensive cologne and fine whiskey clung to the air.
The second round began.
Cards dealt, community cards waiting. James knew the script. This time, he had the edge: three queens. The kind of hand that let him play slow, bleed the others until they felt safe enough to commit.
"It's a little small," James said, pushing chips into the center. "I'll add another million."
Two million sat in the pot. The others followed without fuss. The public cards began to turn. One, two, three—the board took shape. Faces tightened, glances traded. By the time the river card fell, the pot had swollen to thirty million.
Only three players remained: James, Marbury, and Koch. With the rest having folded.
James knew the endgame. Marbury held two pairs, Koch had a weaker triple. Both respectable, both enough to tempt. But James had a monster hand.
He leaned back slightly, then pushed forward. "Fifty million."
The room seemed to hold its breath.
Marbury and Koch hesitated. Their eyes left their cards, moving instead to James. Searching his expression for any bluff. Looking for the twitch, the flicker of nerves.
James gave Cortana the silent command.
[Executing minor physiological adjustment acts.]
A sheen of sweat appeared at his temple, subtle but visible. His breathing hitched ever so slightly. To men trained in boardroom warfare, it looked like nervousness.
Marbury's mouth curved into a smirk. Koch gave a knowing chuckle. Both pushed their stacks forward, fifty million each.
Chips clattered against chips, towers collapsing into a mountain of wealth in the center.
James smiled faintly. "Confident now, are we?"
Koch answered with the patronizing tone of an elder schooling a youth. "Heh. You've been in business barely a year, Mr. Gibson. It's admirable, really. But don't mistake bravado for strength. A hundred million is a great deal for a young company still burning cash."
James kept his eyes flat, his voice steady. "Maybe. Or maybe this is just another investment."
Marbury's smile widened. "If Mr. Gibson dares to play, so do we. Now—let's see the cards."
James gestured toward them. "By all means. Show me how strong you think you are."