Semua Bab The Devil's Game: Bab 91 - Bab 100

Back in her room, Ayra paced like a trapped animal.She could feel her thoughts clawing for clarity. What was the purpose of all this? The library? Was that really the battleground Lucian had picked today? What next? Would he lock the bathroom door? Remove her bedsheets?A slow, creeping realization settled over her: it wasn’t what he restricted—it was that he could. It was a test. To see how long she’d last without cracking.To see how much of her life he could chip away before she stopped fighting.And the worst part was—she couldn’t even hate him properly when he wasn’t here. There was no one to argue with. No confrontation to brace for. Just silence. Walls. Eyes behind mirrors.Later that afternoon, she leaned against the doorframe to her room, trying to shake the feeling of being watched.She opened the door slowly, testing the hinges—and noticed it.A faint creak.Barely audible.She opened it again. Slower. It creaked once more, about halfway through the motion.That had never b

The door creaked open. Darkness inside.She slipped in, shut the door behind her, and flicked on a wall switch.A pool of warm yellow light bloomed above the counters.The kitchen was pristine. Cold marble counters. Cast iron pots hanging from ceiling hooks. Jars of preserved fruits lined the shelves. Everything looked untouched since the afternoon—though Ayra could see someone had removed several labels from the storage jars. Odd.Her fingers moved quickly. She grabbed a skillet, a fresh onion, an egg, butter. Every movement was loud in the stillness. She didn’t care. Let them hear.She cracked the egg into the pan with a hiss of butter and started chopping. She found leftover rice in a sealed container and set it to fry.The smell of browning food filled the space. Her stomach twisted in anticipation.That’s when the door slammed open.Ayra froze.The cook stood in the doorway. A large man, bald, with stained sleeves and an apron still tied around his waist. His eyes widened when he

Lucian leaned back in the leather chair of the jet, a half-empty crystal tumbler of scotch resting in his hand. The tablet in front of him projected the latest figures from the Dalvani mining site in Korvenia, a small republic torn between crumbling governments and desperate investors. Profits were up. Labor compliance was down. The usual dance.Across from him sat Fernando Russo, his sharp features made sharper by age and wealth. He was dressed in his signature beige three-piece suit, as immaculate as always, even under the tremble of turbulence."They've secured the northern ridge," Fernando said, tapping a manicured finger on the graph. "Low yield, but the rock beneath is denser than the rest. Might hit silver if we go deeper."Lucian gave a distracted nod, then sipped. "And the southern passage?""A bust. Sand and clay. I've ordered the equipment shifted by next week. Logistics is handling the route through Belgrave to keep it off the books.""Good."The silence settled between the

He leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees, the smile sliding just a little too smoothly into a more serious line. “I’m not your enemy. You need to understand that.”“But you work for Lucian.”“And Lucian isn’t here,” he said, voice suddenly softer. “He left me in charge. And I have some… liberties, let’s say.”Ayra’s eyes narrowed. “What kind of liberties?”He shrugged, but didn’t answer directly. Instead, he stood and walked to the small phonograph in the corner. With a few clicks and turns, soft instrumental music spilled into the room. Classical. Something slow and rich with nostalgia.“I thought we might dance,” he said casually.Ayra blinked. “Excuse me?”“Just a moment. It might lift your mood.”She stood up, placing the teacup down. “That’s not why you came.”“No,” he admitted, stepping closer. “But it’s why I’m staying.”He extended a hand. Ayra hesitated, instinct screaming caution. But part of her—a lonely part—ached to escape the cold silence of her day-to-day. If

Ayra sat on the wide windowsill of her bedroom, her knees drawn up, the sky outside beginning its slow slide into dusk. For the last few days, a silent storm had been building within her—a quiet, pulsing desperation that she’d tried to ignore. The isolated breakfast, the locked wings, the way servants refused to meet her gaze—it was no longer just about control. It felt like exile. Quietly administered, but deliberate.Tonight, she would begin.With the satellite phone carefully hidden beneath her pillow, Ayra had waited until the surveillance shifts changed. The creak in her bedroom door, once just a mild annoyance, had become a marker. She now knew precisely when it groaned—one foot from the hinge, slight downward pressure, a pull instead of a push.She crept to her desk and retrieved a small notebook she’d been using to record every pattern, every gap in security she could find. Which hallway lights flickered and when, which servants worked which hours, when Boris usually came by w