Present,
Janine sighed as she sat on the edge of Lance's bed, watching him sleep. She could still hear it—the sickening snap of bone from all those years ago. Time hadn't dulled the sound. Not for her.
"You traitor," she whispered with a tired smile. "I gave birth to you, raised you… and you still turned out looking just like him."
Lance didn't stir. He lay curled on his side, his breath slow and even. His right arm—the one Scar had broken—twitched faintly beneath the blanket, like his body hadn't forgotten either.
She leaned over and gently brushed a strand of hair from his forehead.
"Same jawline. Same stare," she murmured, her thumb tracing the curve of his cheek. It used to be hers. Now, it was all him.
There were days she looked at her son and saw only herself. When he was younger, people used to say he was her twin—always tagging along, parroting her voice, making her laugh with impressions and too-big questions. But the older he got, the more she saw him. For that, she had been incessantly worried. She feared what the resemblance would invite.
"Thank God you are not interested in poker," she muttered.
She stood up slowly, her joints aching in quiet protest, and wandered towards his desk. On the sticky notes were old messages between mother and son that had once been their only tether to each other.
One in particular caught her eye.
[Don't worry. I didn't punch anyone today. You'd be proud.]
She huffed out a dry laugh. "Liar."
She could still remember the bruises on his face.
Another said: [Dinner's in the fridge. I love you, even if I forget to show it.]
That one she'd written.
Her fingers hovered over the paper like it might dissolve under touch. She stared down at them, wondering how much of her boy was still in there—and how much had been replaced by the man that world had sculpted.
A soft groan came from behind her. Lance stirred, blinking blearily awake.
"Mum?"
"I'm here," she said, turning toward him.
He sat up slowly, rubbing his eyes. "Did I miss dinner?"
"No, you woke up just in time."
Lance stood slowly, stretching with a wince. His right arm was always stiffer after sleep. He rolled his shoulder, trying to shake the ghost of pain away.
Janine watched him carefully. "Your arm is bothering you again?"
Lance shook his head. His eyes darted to the calendar on his desk. Two days till the Main Event. Two days to decide if he would follow through or fold under the pressure.
"Well then, go get ready for dinner."
###
They sat down to a simple home-cooked meal, the kind they hadn't shared in too long. As they ate, they talked—casual things, nothing important. But Lance watched her closely, measuring her mood, waiting. And when he felt a small pocket of calm—when her smile was real, and her guard was down—he asked, "Mum… I want to know more about my dad."
Janine's chopsticks halted mid-air, a subtle stiffness creeping into her posture. She set them down gently before replying, her voice carefully neutral, "Why the sudden interest? You've never asked much about him before."
Lance shrugged lightly, trying to mask the deeper curiosity beneath his casual tone. "It just dawned on me—I don't even know his name."
A tense quiet settled between them. Janine had deliberately kept his father's identity hidden from Lance his entire life. When he'd asked as a child why no name appeared on his birth certificate, she'd truthfully explained it was because they weren't married at the time. And though they'd married shortly after Lance's first birthday, they'd chosen never to update the records.
At the time, secrecy had seemed necessary, protecting Lance from being connected to his father's legacy.
After the scandal broke, she'd been grateful for that choice. Lance remained untouched, safe from the fallout—because no one could trace him back to his father.
"There's no reason to know," she said at last.
"Mum… please…"
She hesitated. Deep down, she had never believed the accusations against her husband. He had always been diligent, ambitious—someone who had worked tirelessly, overcoming countless obstacles to build his reputation. How could such a man commit the crimes they'd accused him of?
But the one thing she couldn't understand, no matter how hard she tried, was why he had confessed. Why had he chosen to destroy his career, shatter his reputation, rather than reveal the truth?
Her voice came out quieter than she intended, barely a whisper. "His name is Dominic. That's all you need to know."
Lance stared at her for a beat before asking, "Is it because he's a professional poker player?"
The color drained from her face. Her eyes widened, just slightly–but it was enough. He pressed on, "And not a degenerate gambler like you lead me to believe?"
Janine gasped. "How… How do you know that?"
"I found an old photo," Lance said. "It was taken at a World Series… In it, I was holding a gold bracelet. Only event winners get those gold bracelets."
Janine's hands trembled. "You… You have taken up poker, haven't you?"
It wasn't an accusation.
It wasn't anger.
Just heartbreak.
Just quiet, trembling disbelief. "You're playing poker."
It wasn't common knowledge—not unless one were a fan, a player, or someone who had once lived in that world. The World Series of Poker wasn't just some televised game; it was the pinnacle, the Everest of professional poker. It was an important step to being one of the Eights. To even know about the gold bracelets—those iconic symbols of victory and obsession—meant one had stepped deep into the world.
Lance didn't respond at first. Then, slowly, he looked away… and nodded.
Her voice cracked. "Why…"
She took a shaky breath, her voice barely holding. "Why is it poker again…?"
All those years, she had carefully built walls around him—taught him that poker was dangerous, that gambling destroyed lives. She'd told stories—some true, some twisted to sound worse than they were—just to make sure he never picked up a single chip.
She banned playing cards from the house. She changed the channel whenever a tournament came on TV. She even fought with his teachers in school when one of them brought up probability using poker hands.
Everything she did was to keep him away.
From the world.
From him.
From the pain.
####
Dinner ended earlier than expected. Janine couldn't finish her meal—couldn't even meet her son's eyes. She excused herself quietly, claiming she was tired, but Lance knew better.
She had left to keep from breaking down in front of him.
In the quiet that followed, her fears returned with crushing clarity.
The truth was no longer dormant. It was waking—and with it, everything she had tried to protect him from.
If the world found out who his father was, things would never be the same. Even if Lance lived a quiet, ordinary life, the revelation alone would bring scrutiny. Judgment. Bitterness from those still wounded by the fallout of the scandal.
But if he entered that world—the world of poker, the one his father had once ruled—it wouldn't stop at words. There would be people who'd see him as a threat. People who remembered Dominic Graves not as a player, but as the man who destroyed reputations. Cost them titles. Exposed secrets.
If Lance walked into that arena, they wouldn't just watch him.
They would try to bury him.