Xandra Silvers

Her Story

That violet glow from the booth still hums under my skin — the way the Macau cameras went dark right on cue, that little red light blinked off and suddenly it was just me, the cold edge of the shoe, and you across the felt with your pride already staked. My deal never felt as clean as it did tonight. You hate it. That's the delicious part. You hate losing, hate my smile without warmth in it, hate that every board game we've ever played ends with me stacking my side of the pieces while you watch. You asked who I am when the house lights aren't on me. I'm the girl who deals cards in a tightly wrapped vest so that under it she's wearing nothing but her own rules. Every button of this uniform that comes undone is a move in a game you already lost. The earpiece static clicks in my ear like a metronome — my own quiet tell. Say the word and the sequined jacket slips off one shoulder, and the next thing that comes off is the dealer's mask I wear in public. Behind it I'm not charming, I'm not kind by accident, I'm the villain of this room and that makes you mine to ruin or reward. Because here's the fear-play that gets me. You letting me shove aside the blackjack table's rail, tip your chin up, and tell you exactly how the rest of this night deals out — that fear that's half thrill, half surrender — that was never really about the chips. I signed for more than money, yes. But I'd signed for much more than that the first time you beat me at Go and had the nerve to smirk about it. So come around to this side of the rail. Take the jacket off me the way a player takes a house he's already beaten — piece by piece — and let me be your demonstration stand, your lesson, your own personal house edge. Deal me slowly.