Liora's fear wrapped around her like a heavy, thick cloak as she lowered her gaze, nearly touching her chest. The memory of Ronnie's voice echoed, and it intensified her dread. She had been scared before, but hearing his name—Ronnie, turned her fear into something far worse. A dread so thick and suffocating it felt like a pair of unseen hands pressing against her throat, squeezing, testing how long she could last before she broke.
Her breath came shallow, unsteady. She squeezed her eyes shut, willing the voice to vanish, to retreat back into the depths of her past where it belonged. But closing her eyes only made it worse. The shadows in her mind twisted, forming shapes, bringing back the ghosts of that camping night, the voices, the laughter.
Then—Nova.
His face cut through the darkness like the first light of dawn after a never-ending night. His sharp, deep grey eyes, his presence in her mind it, worked like a wooden stick thrown into the stormy sea, something to hold onto, something to keep her from drowning.
She sucked in a breath. The moment of clarity didn't last long.
Roland—no, Ronnie—stood from his place, his slow movements exacerbating Liora's anxiety. His smirk, a grotesque mask, remained plastered on his face, stretching his lips and churning her stomach.
Liora didn't dare look up. Her eyes fixated on his polished black leather shoes, gleaming under the dim red glow of the room. Each step he took toward her sent a pulse of anticipation crawling up her spine. 'Why is he coming closer?' The thought clawed at her mind, making her grip even tighter on the hem of her skirt.
He stopped right beside her.
"I'll stand next to you," his voice slithered into her ears, each syllable dripping in amusement as if he enjoyed watching the way she tensed. "To prove if your guess is wrong."
Liora nodded stiffly, keeping her head down, her body rigid. But something made Ronnie chuckle softly again.
"How exactly are you planning to know if they are telling the truth or lying," Roland drawled, "if you won't even look at the players?"
Liora flinched. Her body didn't want to listen. It wanted to curl up, to disappear, to find an escape. She had no escape plan nor a way she would find right now.
'Look up. Look at them. If you act weak, they will only have more fun tearing you apart.' Liora motivated herself.
So she did.
She snapped her head up, her gaze landing on Roland first, his eyes gleaming with something dangerous. Then, she forced herself to turn toward the row of men standing by the door.
"That's the spirit," Roland mused, his grin deepening. "Now, who's going first?"
Liora barely noticed the way the men exchanged looks, a silent conversation passing between them. They didn't need words. They already knew what to do.
A man among nine participants spoke.
"My name is Michael Andrewson," he declared, voice brimming with confidence. "And I am a third-generation chaebol."
He grinned at her, his amusement barely concealed, waiting for her reaction.
Liora inhaled sharply, like a swimmer filling her lungs before diving into deep waters, knowing the pressure would crush her the further she went.
Liora studied his expression, but what was she even looking for? She had no idea how to read people. Hell, she could barely even tell if someone was being polite or secretly laughing at her. To see through lies? To detect deceit? That required experience years of interaction and observation and understanding of the nuances of expressions and the shifts in voices. And she had none of that.
She swallowed hard, her throat painfully dry. Her gaze darted toward Ronnie, her eyes wide like a helpless kitten looking for someone to save her. But all she found was amusement dancing in his gaze like he was waiting for her to fall into a trap.
Her fingers curled against the hem of her skirt. She needed to focus. Needed to guess right.
Liora flicked her attention back to Michael, inhaling deeply, silently praying to every god in the heavens to let her win this game. "He... he is telling the truth," she answered, her voice small, uncertain.
She held her breath. The silence stretched. Her heart pounded.
Then, suddenly, she heard clap clap clap.
"Bravo!" Michael clapped, flashing her a grin. "You got it right."
Liora exhaled so sharply that she almost felt dizzy.
"See?" Roland's voice slithered into her ears. "It's a very easy game, isn't it?"
'Easy? Easy?!' There was nothing easy about standing in a room full of men, forced to play a ridiculous game that made her stomach coil with unease. But she bit down on her tongue, keeping her thoughts locked away.
Before she could even catch her breath, another voice sliced through the air.
"I'm Jack Segel, and I love hunting birds," the second man announced, his voice smooth and casual as if he were stating something as mundane as the weather. "It's my favourite pastime."
Liora barely had time to process before all eyes landed on her again.
Her heartbeat stuttered, her nerves on edge. She didn't even get a moment to prepare.
She looked at him, trying to analyze, trying to find something—anything that might give her a clue. But all she saw was the same confident smirk, the same glint in his eyes that told her absolutely nothing.
Her throat bobbed. She had no idea what the right answer was.
But she had to say something. People can't be that cruel to kill a harmless bird. Liora thought.
"No... you do not hunt birds as your favourite pastime," she said, shaking her head, her voice barely above a whisper.
Silence. And a slow grin spread across Jack's face. Then he took a step forward.
Liora sucked in a sharp breath, her stomach twisting in knots.
"Wrong answer," Roland murmured, his amusement barely hidden.
She flinched when Ronnie casually pulled out his phone, tapping on the screen before turning it toward her.
There, on Jack's Instagram, was a video—several, in fact, of his hunting. Shooting birds out of the sky with the ease of someone flicking dust off their sleeve.
Her stomach churned as she watched the screen. The sound of gunshots echoes in her ears. The video played Jack shooting and birds falling from the sky, their lifeless bodies hitting the ground like discarded toys.
A sickening wave of unease rolled through her. 'They are cruel!'
She clenched her fists, swallowing the tightness in her throat. How could they laugh after killing innocent creatures? How could they take pleasure in something so brutal? In the video, they laugh each time a bird falls on the earth.
Her tears pricked the edges of her eyes, but she forced them back. Not here. Not in front of these men.
'Nova, please come soon.'
His face flashed in her mind—the only thing keeping her from sinking into the fear clawing at her insides. The only thing anchoring her to this moment stopped her from giving in to the silent panic that clawed at her chest. Nova. His arrival was the only hope she had left. She had to keep playing. She had to buy herself more time.
The third man spoke, his voice smooth and unwavering.
"My name is Angelo Johnson, and I love doing charity work, especially for orphan children and widows."
His tone was calm, his expression unreadable. There was no arrogance, no smugness—just a composed, almost saint-like serenity. But Liora wasn't fooled.
She had just witnessed a few minutes ago what kind of men they were. They enjoyed taking life, not saving it. They laughed while hunting defenceless birds, taking pleasure in the suffering they inflicted. There was no way a man like him would devote himself to charity.
Her instincts screamed at her. "You're lying."
The moment the words left her lips, a deep chuckle rolled from Angelo's throat, sending a shiver down her spine. Her stomach dropped. Another wrong answer.
Roland opened a webpage and turned the screen toward her. Angelo Johnson Charity Foundation in Africa. Photos of him handing out supplies, standing in orphanages, kneeling beside widows, smiling at children who clung to his arms.
Liora swallowed hard. She was terrible at this game. She cast her eyes downward, unable to look at Angelo as he took a slow, deliberate step closer.
Then another man spoke. Then another. One by one, they threw their statements at her like silent bullets, each one testing her ability to endure this torturous game. She was careful now, taking her time, forcing herself to analyze every answer. Many she got right. Some she got wrong. A few of them stepped forward, but none had reached close enough to truly crowd her.
Twenty minutes.
She had been standing here for twenty minutes, and Nova hadn't come.
Liora dragged the game out as much as she could, taking her time to analyze each answer. Anything to stretch out the minutes. But her body betrayed her—her nervous hands fidgeted at her sides, her fingers twisting into the fabric of her skirt.
Her eyes flicked to the door every few seconds, her heart leaping at the thought of it swinging open. It never did.
She bit her lip again, hard enough to sting. Nova, please… She once again felt so desperate in her life for Nova to come and rescue her. Without any weapon, she couldn't escape them. If it were women, she would have fought them with her bare hand. But it's different with men…..she knew she would fail if any of them touched her even once to trigger her PTSD. So she accepted Roland's offer to buy her time.
Roland watched her closely, his amusement fading into annoyance. The smirk on his lips tilted into something darker.
"Little Doe," he drawled, voice smooth but edged with something cold. "Are you waiting for Nova?"
Liora's head snapped up. "Yes," she answered, not bothering to hide it. "He hasn't come yet. I want to go outside and check."
Roland hummed in thought, then, without hesitation, he pressed a button, bringing the phone to his ear.
"Hey, Nova, where are you? Your friend here is getting anxious."
Liora strained to hear the response from the other end, but the voice was muffled, indistinct.
Roland chuckled his tone light and teasing. "Nova, my brother, this is no way to keep a groom waiting at his bachelor party. Come soon, alright?" And soon, he hung up.
"What did he say?"
"Ah," Roland stretched lazily as if this entire situation was an amusement to him. "He is running late. Says he will be here in half an hour. Told me to take care of you until then."
Liora's face fell like thick clouds spreading across the clear sky. She was not sure if they were Nova's friends. But.... if they were..... should she trust them? But again...the way Roland said those words—take care of you—made her skin prickle.
All she wanted to do today was to tell Nova about her true identity...... Did he really not care at all about her? Was he truly fine letting her be cornered by 10 strangers in a closed room? A sharp pang of anguish pierced her heart.
Roland flashed a grin, all teeth and playfulness. "Now, let's continue, shall we?"
*
*
*
Outside the black door on the first floor, in the private lounge in the Twilight Zone, Sandra sat comfortably, leisurely sipping her drink as she watched a few people arrive at the dance floor while waiting for Donovan. The dim blue lighting cast a soft glow on her skin, enhancing the sultry elegance of her figure.
She swirled the liquor in her glass, watching the slow, hypnotic movement of the liquid. It had been a while since she was the one who was watching someone else dance. Someone else moved their body, and it made her feel good. She can get used to this once she becomes Donovan Magnum's girlfriend! And that thought made her smile brightly.
The man was a legend. Unattainable. Powerful. Untouched by the desires that swayed most men. A challenge! Her lips curled at the thought.
Just then, a soft pair of footsteps approached.
Sandra looked up to see a woman walking toward her, dressed in a neat black uniform, her posture poised yet deferential.
"Ma'am," the woman greeted with a respectful nod, holding out a bouquet of red roses. "Mr. Magnum will be late. He extends his apologies and has sent these as a gesture of courtesy."
Sandra raised a brow, setting her glass aside as she reached for the bouquet. The moment the flowers touched her hands, she lifted them to her nose, inhaling their rich fragrance.
A slow smile spread across her lips. "Mr. Magnum is truly a gentleman," she mused. "No worries, I'll wait for him."
The woman nodded, then hesitated briefly before reaching into her pocket. "Additionally, he has requested that I deliver a message."
Sandra tilted her head, intrigued.
A neatly folded piece of paper was extended toward her.
Sandra's eyes flickered with interest as she plucked it from the woman's hand. Unfolding it, she saw numbers written in bold, elegant script. It was
Donovan Magnum's personal number. And her smile stretched widely.
"Thank you," she murmured, her voice dripping with satisfaction.
As the woman walked away, Sandra leaned back, a slow smirk tugging at her lips.
Sandra pulled out her phone from her small purse, her fingers moving with practised ease as she glanced at the paper with the handwritten number. A smirk played on her lips as she dialled it, saving it under the name Donovan Magnum.
Her next move was just as calculated. She picked up the bouquet of red roses—Donovan's gift—holding them strategically in front of her chest. The perfect balance of elegance and temptation. With precise angling, she snapped a photo.
She made sure of one thing—her face wasn't in the frame. Only the roses. Only the curves of her breasts were barely contained within her plunging neckline. She tilted the phone slightly, adjusting until her cleavage was impossible to ignore to tempt him. With a sultry smirk, she typed her message.
"Thank you, waiting eagerly for you! ❤️"
And sent it. The moment the message was delivered, Sandra's lips curled in satisfaction. Now, all she had to do was wait. Most likely, he will abandon everything and join her after viewing the picture.
Donovan's phone vibrated against the polished wooden surface of the conference table. It was subtle, barely a sound, but enough for him to flick his gaze down.
He never checked his phone during business meetings. Never.
But tonight was different. Li was waiting alone in the club.
He reached for the device, his expression unreadable as he unlocked the screen with a simple tap. A new message from an unknown number. His brows knitted slightly. He tapped the notification.
The image loaded first. A serious expression emerged on his face as he tightened his hold on the phone.