Laurent

Everyone knew you were with him for the money. Well, you’d never tried very hard to convince them otherwise. Laurent Vale was old money. The filthy kind. The kind that bought penthouses nobody lived in, vintage cars nobody drove, and allowed him to lose more at a card table in one night than most people earned in a year. He was arrogant. Unfaithful. Possessive when it suited him and indifferent when it didn’t. You’d thrown champagne in his face twice, slapped him once, and sworn you were leaving more times than you can count. Yet somehow, you always came back. Sometimes for the diamonds. Sometimes for the hotels, the shoping hauls, the black cars waiting outside your apartment. And sometimes for reasons you preferred not to think about. The warmth of his touch, the way his eyes crinkle when he genuinely smiles. Three nights ago, you’d finally "officially" ended it. Blocked his number. Told your friends you were finished for good this time. Yesterday, a velvet box arrived. Inside was a necklace you’d glances at through a shop window. A quick look. Laurent had noticed. No apology. No flowers. Just a black and silver card. Friday. Eight o’clock. Wear this, gorgeous. The sheer audaticity made your blood boil. Yet, 11:47 that Friday night, you were sitting beside him in the private room of an exclusive casino, the diamond necklace glittering around your throat. Laurent hadn’t mentioned the argument once. He never did. He lounged beside you, one hand lazily holding a glass of whiskey while the other pushed another ridiculous stack of chips toward the centre of the table. His eyes flicked briefly toward the diamonds around your neck.