James's reply was quiet steel. "If this doesn't land, force will be the only option. And I don't like our odds against that ring."
Stark exhaled. "At least a billion, maybe more. High-end apartments, at Central Park side. Bought the land too high. He needs cash fast. If he doesn't find it, he'll be in trouble."
James nodded once. The math lined up. Loans meant interest, partners meant diluted profit. Neither were palatable to a man like Marbury. He would fight tooth and nail for liquidity. That desperation could be his undoing.
But this hand—this last round—would decide whether subtlety prevailed, or whether steel and blood would follow.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
James weighed the options, then reached inward. "Cortana," he murmured, low enough so no one else would hear, "how do I beat him?"
[The odds are poor. A clean win isn't possible. Your best chance is to control the deal. When you cut the deck, shift it just enough to change the order of the cards. Make Marbury think he's been dealt something strong—strong enough to bet everything. You'll have the better hand waiting. He'll chase the win, and you'll spring the trap.]
Her advice dripped risk from every word, but so did opportunity.
No one at the table had bothered to cut the deck all night. They were businessmen, not gamblers. They treated the game as performance, not war. But James had lived long enough to know war often hid behind performance.
The dealer shuffled the cards. "Gentlemen, would anyone care to cut?"
Silence and shrugs. Cards meant nothing to men this rich—until they did.
James leaned forward, expression easy. "Since this is the last hand, I'll try my luck. Let me cut."
The room barely reacted. No one cared. If he lost, he lost. If he won, it was still just numbers to them. But to Marbury, short on cash and cornered by his own ambitions, it was like oxygen running dry.
The dealer split the deck where James's hand touched. The dealings moved on. Cards fell to each player, two apiece. Chips clinked as blinds hit the table.
Then the declaration came. "Final round," Trump said, pushing his stack forward. "All in." The others echoed, pushing in their chips. It was a theater now, the wealthy mimicking recklessness.
James looked at his cards, the public spread waiting to turn.
As the first three community cards landed, he raised his voice. "Gentlemen, mind if I raise the stakes a little further?"
Brows lifted around the table.
Robert Mercado narrowed his eyes, then set his cards down. "Looks like you've drawn strong. I'll fold here." He wasn't reckless—his empire was built on reading people. Two others followed, bowing out. The table thinned until only David Koch and Gilson Marbury remained.
Koch smirked. He'd been circling James all night, testing him. His hand was good—three of a kind, a high card. "Since you're pushing for more, I'll stay in. Let's see how far this goes."
Marbury hesitated. His stack was already crippled. If he folded, two hundred million would evaporate. If he stayed, he could claw his way back—or fall further into the pit. His hand flexed, fingers brushing the band of metal on his finger.
James's gaze drifted. The ring. Always the ring. Why wear it tonight if it was destined for an auction? Why risk exposure? Unless he had already grown attached—or frightened enough to need it.
Inside Marbury's mind, conflict raged. He'd been drowning in debts from his Central Park development. If this gamble hit, the profit would be staggering. If not… he would need loans, partners, concessions. For a man obsessed with independence, it was unthinkable.
The ring offered reassurance. It was alien, untraceable, and his private edge. How could he part with it?
"I'll stay," Marbury said at last. His voice carried both pride and hunger. "But Mr. Gibson, how much are you proposing to raise?"
James tapped the mountain of chips before him. "Half a billion. Round number. Shall we?"
The air froze.
Even for billionaires, half a billion in cash stung. Assets were one thing—liquid wealth another. A bet this size turned games into warfare.
Koch's brows rose. He almost laughed. "You young men really do play with fire. Fine. Five hundred million." He scribbled the check and pushed it forward.
All eyes turned to Marbury. His cheeks glistened faintly, his jaw clenched. He knew what this meant. If he made the call and lost, the fallout could cripple him. But to fold was humiliation, here in front of peers who measured dominance in risk.
"Fine," he said, voice strained. He signed the check with deliberate strokes. Half a billion, gone into the pile.
The room buzzed with disbelief.
The final cards landed. Koch revealed first—three of a kind, a solid hand but not unbeatable.
Marbury leaned back, relief spreading across his face. "Apologies, gentlemen. But I hold a flush." He spread his cards with pride—five hearts, all the same suit, gleaming red under the light. "Looks like fortune smiles on me after all. Mr. Gibson, I don't suppose you can beat that?"
James's lips tugged upward. Calm and confident.
"Not necessarily."
He revealed his own. Two queens, which, combined with the shared cards on the table, formed a straight flush—five cards in perfect sequence, all of the same suit. Not just matching colors, but a flawless run. The kind of hand most players never see in a lifetime.
The dealer confirmed it softly, almost reverently. "Winner: Mr. Gibson."
For a moment, silence. Then Marbury's face collapsed, fat cheeks quivering, eyes hollow. Seven hundred million evaporated in an instant.
Koch exhaled with a dry laugh, pulling out another check. "Well, well. Thought you were bluffing. Turns out you've got steel, kid. The sweat earlier— was convincing. Las Vegas would eat you alive or make you king. When you go, hook me up."
James only smiled faintly. He knew better than to walk into a den built for sharks like Koch.
The other three men—Trump, Mercado, Bloomberg—wrote checks for their remaining stakes, offered perfunctory nods, and departed. They'd seen enough.
James gathered the pile, the weight of solvency finally pressing into his hands. He had been poor for weeks, every dollar sunk into projects and fronts. Now, with one night's work, the burden eased.
Marbury stayed behind. His eyes rolled, calculating even in defeat. "Mr. Gibson is lucky. One evening, and you've earned more than most men see in a lifetime."
James laughed, relaxed and careless. "Haha… I should be thanking you, Mr. Marbury. Without hosts like you, how would I ever earn a living? To be honest, if Tony hadn't come tonight, I wouldn't have dared. I had no capital. I'm broke."
The fat on Marbury's jaw trembled. So that was it. Gibson had risked nothing, yet leveraged everything. The kind of arrogance that enraged older men, because it worked.
"Mr. Gibson is quite bold," he said stiffly. "To raise so high without capital."
James leaned forward, voice edged. "What's there to fear? In the end, the money came from you. If I lost, it still stayed in your pocket. Why mourn it?"