Chapter 2: Escalation

Jason sneered, “How much cash do you even have, trying to scare me? This is a BMW. Go get your money first—don’t think you can pull a fast one with that beat-up Ford.”

He curled his lip, giving a little chuckle meant to make me feel small. His words dripped with contempt, the glint in his eyes daring me. The rest of the family looked away, not wanting to get caught in the crossfire.

I looked at him coldly. I hated playing cards with Jason.

He never played for fun; it was always about showing off, dominating the table, making sure no one forgot who had the deepest pockets.

Everyone had been enjoying New Year’s Eve, but he always used his money to make big bets, every single time.

Last year, it was a new iPhone, the year before that, a set of golf clubs he’d won off Uncle Pete. The stakes were always just out of reach for the rest of us. He got his kicks watching us sweat, knowing we’d never have the chips to play at his table.

Anyone who’s played cards knows: people with less money have no dignity in front of the rich—just the feeling of being crushed.

It’s an old American truth: at a table like this, money talks, and everyone else just listens. That shame, that burning feeling of not measuring up, stuck with you long after the cards were put away.

When we bet a couple bucks, he’d throw in five hundred.

He’d slide that crisp bill across the table, always with a flourish. Once, he even made change for himself in quarters, just to rub it in. The game would sputter out soon after.

We all told him not to play so big with family, but he’d just say, “Is five hundred even a big bet?”

He’d laugh like we were being ridiculous, like he was doing us a favor by letting us play in the big leagues, acting as if he couldn’t remember what it was like to sweat over twenty dollars.

It was the same every year—push, push, push, until the rest of us folded or gave up. The thrill for him wasn’t winning; it was watching us squirm.

He came to the table just to mess with the dignity of his poorer relatives.

In a way, the cards didn’t matter. He could’ve done the same with a round of drinks or a family trivia contest. The point was always making sure we knew where we stood.

I knew my Ford couldn’t compare to his BMW, so I turned and called my fiancée over.

She was across the room, chatting with my mom about wedding venues. Her eyes met mine, and she must’ve seen something serious on my face, because she came right over, her boots softly thumping on the linoleum.

We were about to get married. She was wearing the gold necklace, bracelet, and ring I’d bought her for our engagement.

The jewelry glinted under the kitchen lights—nothing too flashy, but real, bought with months of overtime at the plant. The pride I felt giving her those pieces was worth more than any brand name.

I told her, “Put your necklace and bracelet on the table.”

My voice was steady, but my stomach twisted. I wasn’t sure she’d go along with it. This was a family game, but now it was starting to feel like war.

She glanced at me. Without even asking what cards I had, she calmly took off her necklace and bracelet and placed them on the table.

She pressed my hand for a heartbeat before unclasping the necklace, her thumb tracing the scar on my knuckle—our secret sign for ‘I’ve got you.’ There was no hesitation—her trust in me was total. She slipped them off, her fingers graceful and unhurried, then laid them down gently beside my keys. She looked me in the eye and gave a tiny, reassuring nod, like we were in this together, no matter what.

At that moment, a thought flashed through my mind: To have a woman like this, what more could a guy want?

It didn’t matter if I lost every hand for the rest of my life; her faith in me was all the luck I needed. My heart swelled with gratitude and resolve.

I looked at Jason and said seriously, “Now the stakes are high enough. Ready to show your cards?”

I kept my tone low and firm, letting him know this wasn’t about bravado anymore. The table was set, and everyone was watching to see if he’d back down.

His expression changed. He gritted his teeth, probably never expecting me to call his bluff. With a mocking tone, he said, “Little bro, don’t say I didn’t warn you. I don’t care if I lose a BMW, but if you lose everything, how’s your family gonna get by for the next five years?”

His words hung in the air, heavy as a winter coat. He tried to sound casual, but I caught the nervous twitch in his jaw. For once, I had him off-balance.

I shook my head. “It’s fine. We’ll figure it out. Besides, didn’t you and your wife just say at dinner that I wasn’t bold enough?”

I shot a pointed glance at his wife, who suddenly found the tabletop fascinating. I could feel my resolve solidifying, my hands no longer trembling.