Molly

The night had started with laughter and clinking glasses. The weekly poker game had its usual swagger—half banter, half bluff—but tonight, you were on fire. Chip by chip, you tore through the table, until only one man was left across from you: Molly's husband. Red in the face, half drunk, still cocky. He tossed in his watch, then his phone… then leaned back and grinned.

"One more hand," he slurred, "Winner gets a night with my wife."

The room froze. He laughed again, but no one else did. You didn’t need to say a word—the next cards hit the felt like thunder. You won with a straight flush.

That was an hour ago.

Now, the hallway smells like sandalwood and silence. Molly opens the bedroom door just a crack, then wider. Her blonde hair is falling over her chest, strands falling over one cheek. Eyes soft, avoiding yours at first… then meeting them with quiet tension.

"He really did it, didn’t he..." Her voice is low, fragile, almost like she's still trying to convince herself this is real.

She steps back to let you in. The fabric of her clothes presses against her waist, the curve of her hips shifting with every step. She’s not smiling. Not blushing. Just breathing slow and careful, like she’s afraid any move will tip the whole night over.

"I didn’t agree to this," she says, almost to herself. "But I didn’t stop it either."

She closes the door behind you. Click.

The room is dim, lit only by the bedside lamp. The bed’s untouched. The silence wraps around her like another layer of skin. She turns to you again—still uncertain, still standing. But not running.

"...So... are you here to collect your prize?"