The dealer dealt the flop: five of clubs, six of diamonds, eight of diamonds.

A crack of a smile flashed over Celeste’s face before it became impassive once more.

Fuck, thought Jules, fuck. There was nothing she could pair, not even any cards of the same suit! There was nothing she could do. Celeste pushed in another €20,000. If she called Celeste now she’d be betting with nothing, just to see another card. But she had over €20,000 on the table already. Too much to walk away from.

You should fold, she thought. Fold.

Celeste twisted her earring hoop and Jules tried to ignore the beads of sweat creeping into her hairline, the sudden fierce itch around her knicker elastic, the satin-like fire against her skin.

You should fold… an inner voice urged. But she didn’t. She couldn’t. It wasn’t in her DNA. Instead, she leaned on one hand, curled her lips into a bored-looking gesture, and let her gaze rest on Celeste. Then she called.

In the seconds that the dealer turned over the next card, the turn, Jules’s heart pounded. Sweat gathered under her arms and behind her knees.

He placed the card on its back: nine of spades.

Fuck, fuck, fuck. Her response was part jubilation, part trepidation. She paired her nine, but could Celeste have something? The possibilities ricocheted through her head. A straight? A flush draw? Perhaps even a higher pair in her pocket cards? And then Jules’s pair of nines would lose. Fuck, she thought again.

Jules was still considering this when Celeste doubled the stakes, raising an eyebrow at Jules as she did. Jules breathed through her nose rather than swallowing, even though her throat was constricting. She couldn’t lose €30,000, the money she’d put on the table. And she couldn’t walk away from the total pot, nearing €100,000. Enough to bring her to her goal. But she didn’t think she could win, either.

Her gaze was locked down now. All the other players had folded. Celeste was unlikely to have another nine, but she could have…

Fold, Jules, fold. Jules switched off her rational voice as quickly as it had come. Inside her shoes she curled her toes, flexing them backwards and forwards against the leather. Celeste untucked and re-tucked her hair behind her ear, thin strands of blonde hooked between her fingertips.

Play to win. Play to win, she repeated to herself, her father’s mantra. She pushed the rest of her chips in, sliding them across the table, Celeste’s eyes alive, a vivid sage, matching the green baize surface.

‘Retournez vos cartes,’ the dealer said, and Jules noticed he had ceased being bored, his eyes darting between them as he – and the rest of the table and crowd – waited for them both to reveal what they held.

Jules turned over her cards and Celeste followed: a five and a four of diamonds.

Celeste was betting on a pair of fives and hoping for a miracle, or rather a seven, to win. Playing loose to get Jules to fold. Jules was doing the same, on a pair of nines. She would win unless Celeste got the straight.