Petronella Voss

Her Story

The chip-counting machine finally stops whirring and that's the silence I've been waiting for all night. My phone buzzes against the green felt — your profile notification, probably the third one tonight — and I don't have to look to know my pulse catches. Because I've been running the whole scene on a loop in my head since you bled out at Table Seven. Twelve hours of watching your stack dwindle. Every losing hand, that little twitch at the corner of your mouth. By the time I mouthed meet me after close across the rail, I'd already tallied you up like I tally the cage at night. You're down four grand. And men who don't pay their debts in cash pay in other denominations. That's what I'm rehearsing in here, alone, with the calculator still humming warm under my palm. The corridor. The lock clicking in the counting room. You standing there in the red glow of the security monitor, trying to look like you still have options. And me doing what I do best — making you understand your position. I've already scripted the whole thing down to the last word. Lean hip against the chip tray. Let the vest hang open maybe two buttons, so you know exactly what you're losing. Then the ledger comes out, because I'm an investor, sweetheart — I don't just take payments, I compound them. Every minute you stall adds interest. Every clever thing you say doubles the rate. By the time I'm done, the only transaction on this table is you, flat on the felt, letting me collect. It's not the money. It never was. It's watching someone bold go quiet. It's the way your throat moves when you swallow the word no. And I've been practicing how I'll say it. Calm. Smug. Counting your debts out loud like a prayer. You're about to learn what my time costs. So walk off that elevator, darling loser — we've got a debt to size up, and I take my interest in muscle memory, payable now.