Jounieh Casino Fortune

حظ كازينو جونيه

The house always wins.

I've dealt cards at Casino du Liban for twenty years, watched millionaires become beggars, beggars get lucky. Nothing surprises me.

Then he sits at my table, knowing everything.

I'm Maya.

Forty-four, dealer, body built by standing eight-hour shifts. My face shows nothing. My hands never falter.

Samir Daher could count cards blindfolded.

"You're counting."

"I'm calculating. Different."

"You haven't bet on a single count."

"Counting is for proving I can. Not for profit." He meets my eyes. "Why do you stay?"

He's forty-seven.

Mathematics professor, gambling addiction he conquered through understanding, not avoidance. Now he watches without playing.

"Why do you come?"

"To remember I'm stronger than the games."

"That's unusual."

"So is a dealer who notices players not betting."

He comes every night.

My table, watching. We talk between hands—philosophy of chance, mathematics of loss, why people bet what they can't afford.

"You've never been tempted?" I ask.

"I'm tempted constantly. I just don't act."

"Isn't that exhausting?"

"It's practice. For everything."

His meaning lands later.

"Including me?" I ask the following night.

"You I don't resist. I just haven't acted."

"Why not?"

"Because I'm calculating. Whether you're worth the risk."

"Am I?"

"Every calculation says yes." He stands, leaves my table. "Finish your shift. I'll be at the bar."

"That's forward."

"I've waited three months. That's conservative."

The kiss happens at 3 AM.

Casino closing, parking lot lights. His mouth on mine is bet placed.

"Samir—"

"Inti el ribh el wahid." You're the only winning.

"You're certain?"

"The math is clear."

We make love in his apartment.

Sparse, mathematical, ordered. Except for us—disordered, abundant, surprising.

"Mashallah." He breathes. "You're—"

"Not a probability—"

"A certainty. The only one."

He worships me analytically.

Finding patterns, maximizing response. Mouth on my neck, my breasts, lower—

"Samir—"

"Let me solve you."

His tongue between my thighs.

I grip sheets, crying out. Pleasure calculated and delivered.

"Ya Allah—"

"Expected value exceeded."

When he enters me, I feel betted on.

We move together mathematically—his body and mine, equations balancing.

"Aktar—"

"Aiwa—"

The climax is jackpot.

We cry out together—against all odds, everything paying. Then silence, satisfaction, the kind of winning casinos can't provide.

Three years later

I leave the casino.

Samir's suggestion, my choice. We open a small restaurant instead—honest odds, no house advantage.

"Worth the gamble?" I ask.

"Never a gamble." He kisses me. "The math was always certain."

Alhamdulillah.

For casinos that teach.

For mathematicians who count.

For dealers who become certainty.

The End.