At the casino, I forced my godfather fiancé to kneel and apologize.

Before our wedding, I went to inspect my fiancé's casino — and was stopped at the door by his PR director.

She tossed a handful of chips at my feet: "Dressed like that and you dare come to the VIP area? Take the money and get lost."

My fiancé rushed over, refused to acknowledge me, and announced publicly: "You're no longer my fiancée. Pay 500,000 in compensation, then disappear."

I made one call to the regulatory team.

Ten minutes later, twenty agents in black uniforms stormed the casino and saluted me: "Inspector General, the team is in position. Awaiting your orders."

I raised my badge and looked at the man already on his knees:

"I've decided to reopen the review of this casino's license."

……

I was sitting at the corporate headquarters, working through an approval file.

Then my phone rang. It was my father.

I picked up.

"The Moretti family is opening a new casino. You need to go see it yourself. And meet the heir while you're there."

"Don't forget — he's your fiancé."

He emphasized that fact again, the one I'd long grown tired of hearing. Marco Moretti. My future husband.

I let out a quiet breath.

Arranged marriages were common enough in our line of work.

I'd heard the name before — Marco Moretti. The heir of a family that had built its empire on underground gambling, and was now trying to go legitimate.

"Valentina, this is both a political alliance and a business inspection," my father said. "Go keep an eye on things. Don't let those upstarts trash my casino's reputation."

If he wanted me to go take a look at that man, I would. But what I was more interested in was whether that casino was even worthy of holding a group license.

Two hours later, I arrived in Atlantic City.

Night had just fallen. The Moretti family's casino blazed with light. Luxury cars lined the entrance, a red carpet ran all the way to the front doors, and guests moved through a corridor of security and concierge staff.

I glanced down at myself.

Jeans. White button-down. Flat shoes.

Fine by me.

I walked into the lobby and quickly found the entrance to the VIP lounge. A cluster of staff in formal wear stood at the door, and a woman in a red evening gown was greeting guests with the easy authority of someone who owned the place.

The moment I approached, her eyes landed on me.

She took in my plain clothes with one sweeping glance. Her gaze traveled up and down, slow and deliberate, full of contempt.

She'd clearly decided I was some ordinary gambler trying to bluff her way into the VIP section.

"Excuse me, sweetheart — did you take a wrong turn?"

She stepped in front of me, arms crossed, voice sharp as a blade.

"This area is for top-tier guests only. It's not the kind of place for someone in jeans. Here, take these, and go play roulette out in the main hall. Stop blocking the entrance."

With that, she pulled a few chips from her purse and tossed them at my feet.

A low ripple of laughter spread through the nearby guards and onlookers.

I looked down at the chips on the floor. A hot surge of anger rose in my chest — so sharp it almost made me laugh.

If my father Silas Vance ever found out someone had humiliated his daughter like this, the Moretti family would be bankrupt by morning.

But I wasn't about to show my hand just yet.

My father had told me to observe quietly. I wanted to see exactly how far this woman's stupidity would take her.

I swallowed the anger, didn't bother picking up the chips, and calmly pulled out my phone. I dialed the private number I'd just saved to my contacts.

The call connected.

Before he could say anything, I spoke — cool, deliberate, just loud enough for everyone nearby to hear:

"Marco Moretti. Is this the kind of 'welcome' you arranged? Has she lost her mind?"