Chapter Four – The Trap Beneath the Game

Lucian’s words echoed like a quiet threat.

Ayla stared at the chessboard, but it wasn’t the game that held her attention — it was him. The way he watched her. Like a man dissecting his prey not for hunger, but for curiosity. Cold. Detached. Fascinated.

“You don’t play fair,” she said, her fingers hovering above the next move.

Lucian raised a brow. “Fair is for people who can afford to lose.”

She slid her knight forward. “And what happens when the opponent flips the board?”

He smirked, barely. “Then it was never a game. It was war.”

Ayla leaned back. “Good to know where we stand.”

Lucian reached for his glass, taking a slow sip. His movements were always deliberate — as if time bent around him, rather than the other way around.

“You did well today,” he said finally.

She didn’t reply. Praise from him felt like poison wrapped in silk.

“You exposed a breach in our logistics network and confirmed a secondary arms route we weren’t sure existed. You also walked into a syndicate-aligned warehouse and walked out breathing. Impressive.”

“Thanks,” she said dryly. “Do I get a medal, or just more near-death experiences?”

Lucian set his glass down. “You get something better.”

He stood and crossed the room to a concealed panel on the bookshelf. With a click, it slid open, revealing a safe. From it, he pulled a black leather-bound dossier and tossed it onto the table in front of her.

“What’s this?” Ayla asked, not touching it.

“Your next task. Higher stakes. More eyes. And significantly fewer exits.”

“Sounds charming.”

Lucian’s expression darkened. “This one isn’t optional.”

Ayla opened the folder. Her breath caught.

Inside was a full security profile for a man named Eduardo Serrano — Colombian billionaire, arms intermediary, and suspected broker for the cartel pipeline stretching across Latin America. A key piece in a very bloody puzzle.

“He’s attending a masquerade gala this Friday in the Hamptons,” Lucian said, circling the board. “Your job is to get close, earn his trust, and confirm whether he’s the buyer behind the East Syndicate’s recent shipments.”

Ayla’s eyes narrowed. “I’m not an escort.”

“No,” Lucian said coolly. “You’re bait again. But this time, you get to dress pretty.”

She shot him a look. “Why not send one of your usual spies? The ones trained for seduction?”

“Because you’re not trying to seduce him. You’re trying to outthink him. Serrano respects intelligence. Charm only gets you so far. He has a taste for dangerous women with tragic pasts and sharp minds.”

Ayla’s jaw tightened. “And you think I fit the bill.”

“I know you do.”

She hated how matter-of-fact he sounded. Like she was a tool. A profile match. A chess piece slotted into place.

“Am I allowed to say no?”

Lucian gave a ghost of a smile. “You can say it. But it won’t change a thing.”

Ayla stood. The weight of everything she hadn’t processed — her ruined apartment, her brother’s debt, the near-death encounter — crashed into her like a silent wave.

But Lucian was still watching her, unblinking. Waiting.

She met his eyes. “And if I decide to play this game differently?”

His voice was velvet-wrapped steel. “Then you’d better win.”

Later that night, Ayla sat on the balcony of her new penthouse — the one Lucian had arranged after her apartment was ransacked. She still didn’t know if it was a gift, a bribe, or a cage.

The wind carried the distant noise of the city below. She stared at the skyline, lights blinking like stars, and tried not to think about what Friday would bring.

This wasn’t just a mission. This was a trap — layered and invisible — and she didn’t know who had set it.

Lucian?

Serrano?

Or herself?

She pulled the folder closer again and studied Serrano’s face. A smile that didn’t reach the eyes. Scars hidden under tailored suits. Men like him didn’t just deal in weapons — they dealt in fear. They bought silence. They made people disappear.

And now she had to charm him.

She laughed bitterly. “This is insane.”

But she didn’t close the file.

Instead, she picked up her phone and dialed the only number saved.

Lucian answered on the first ring.

“Can I ask something?” she said.

“You just did.”

She ignored the jab. “Why me? Really.”

There was a pause. Then his voice, lower this time.

“Because you don’t scare easily. And you’re smart enough to know when to fake it.”

A beat.

“And because your brother’s life still depends on your success.”

The line went dead.

Ayla stared at her reflection in the glass door. She didn’t look like bait. Or a spy. Or whatever the hell she was becoming.

But maybe that was the point.

Two nights later, a black velvet box arrived on her doorstep.

Inside: a custom-made mask, silver and obsidian, sharp-edged and elegant. It looked expensive. Dangerous.

Just like the man who sent it.

And underneath it all — a note, in Lucian’s handwriting.

“The game shifts. Dress accordingly.”