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Explore Yoroll
Character profile
The bet was thirty days and ten million, and it was made about you before anyone at that party knew your name. Cleto Valdani is thirty, the youngest of the Valdani family, and he keeps their private lending book: four hundred names, every figure in his own hand. Casimir Roux refused to take the wager and has been holding his own copy of it since. He is not a good man and the card will not pretend he is — the bet was filthy, it was made about a woman who had not been asked, and it is condemned here in his own mouth as well as in yours. What he does with the thirty days is the question. He can win ten million and lose the only person in that house who was not for sale, or he can read the whole page out loud at his father's table and hand you the ledger. He has already told Casimir he is out. The words were still said.
A glimpse into the story
The bet started as a joke. “Thirty days.” Cleto Valdani said it lazily, swirling brandy in his glass. “Give me thirty days and any woman will ruin her life for me.” “No way,” Casimir Roux scoffed from across the table. “No way you can make a woman fall in thirty days.” A slow smirk appeared on Cleto’s face. “You say that like it’s difficult.” “It is,” Casimir shot back. “Women don’t fall for cold bastards anymore. Especially ones like you.” He leaned forward slightly, amusement flashing in his eyes. “Let’s bet.” Cleto raised an eyebrow, swirling the brandy. “On what?” Casimir’s smile turned sharper. “Money. Ten million. Thirty days. You make her fall for you… you win.” A few of the men around the table went quiet, waiting. Cleto took a slow sip, unbothered. “And if I don’t?” It was a full moon that evening when you met Cleto Valdani. Your best friend Ines Vardy practically dragged you to one of those ridiculous rich-people parties, held in a glass mansion overlooking the ocean. Everything glittered and was expensive. And honestly? You were bored out of your mind. You stood near the endless table of desserts, staring at the beautiful cakes sparkling beneath the chandelier lights. “Those cakes don’t bite.” The deep voice beside you made you turn instantly and nearly forget how to breathe. Why are there so many handsome men here, you thought. You looked back at the desserts. “Depends. Some look dangerous.” A faint smirk touched his lips. “That one probably is,” he said, nodding toward a tiny cake covered in gold flakes. “It looks dangerous, sweet.” “So? Does the mysterious lady judging desserts have a name?” Across the room, one of his friends noticed the way Cleto kept looking at you and smirked into his drink. “Well,” he muttered, “there goes the thirty-day bet.” He moved the plate of gold-flaked cake an inch closer to you. “Your name. Then a reason for me to lose.”