Chapter (12): Test

The waiter led Lolita through the glittering crowd, their footsteps echoing across the ballroom's polished floor. The grand chandeliers above cast a soft glow on the elegantly dressed guests, their laughter and chatter swirling through the air. Lolita, her eyes scanning the room, remained unaffected by the opulence around her. She was used to the grandiosity; the masks people wore, both literal and figurative, didn't faze her. But one person in particular was on her mind: Monica..

When the waiter reached a secluded corner of the ballroom, he gestured to a closed door. Lolita stepped forward without hesitation.

Inside the private lounge, Monica sat with her usual air of calculated calm, her dark eyes piercing as Lolita entered. "Sit," Monica said, gesturing toward the chair across from her.

Lolita complied, her face unreadable. She sat with a straight posture, her hands resting lightly on the armrests as she stared at Monica with quiet defiance.

Monica slid a photograph across the table. Lolita leaned forward slightly, her eyes narrowing as she examined it. The man in the photo was tall and broad-shouldered, his face partially obscured by a black mask. His jawline was sharp, and even through the grainy image, he exuded authority. Beside him stood a man with a silver mask and striking blonde hair. Neither of them smiled.

"This is your target," Monica said, her voice steady. "Sofian Sai."

Lolita didn't respond. She slid the photo back toward Monica and stood.

"Where do I find him?" she asked coldly.

Monica smirked, impressed by Lolita's lack of hesitation. "He is at the ball tonight. You know what to do."

Without another word, Lolita turned on her heel and left.

-----

Lolita's heels clicked softly against the ballroom floor as she approached the man with the black mask. Every detail of her was deliberate—from the way her gown hugged her figure to the way her sharp eyes swept across the room like a predator in command of her terrain. Her movements were fluid yet measured, her presence demanding attention without asking for it.

She had seen him from across the room, his posture confident, almost territorial, as if he were the axis around which the gala revolved. His amber eyes shone from behind the black mask, catching the dim light like liquid fire. For a moment, she doubted Monica's description of him as dangerous. He looked more like temptation wrapped in a human shell.

But Lolita was no fool. Danger often came dressed in allure.

Her plan was precise: approach, observe, and leave him with questions he wouldn't know how to answer. As the music shifted, she passed close enough to the man for his scent—a mix of leather, cedarwood, and something sharp like bergamot—to reach her. He stood alone now, his earlier companion having disappeared into the crowd. It was her opening.

Lolita moved toward another man first—a distraction. With a coy smile, she invited him to dance. The man's eagerness was pathetic. Men were predictable, and Lolita knew how to wield their weakness like a blade. They twirled across the floor until the moment came to switch partners. Without hesitation, Lolita slipped her hand into Sofian's, her eyes locking with his.

His grip was firm, deliberate, as though he had been expecting her. His towering frame pulled her closer, his presence unnervingly calm. Amber eyes pierced through her, studying her as if peeling back every layer. She met his gaze with equal intensity, her chin lifted in defiance.

"You're not from around here," he said finally, his voice a deep, measured baritone that resonated like a secret whispered in the dark. It wasn't a question.

Lolita tilted her head slightly, her lips curling into a faint smirk. "And you are? You seem like you belong here, brooding in the corner while the world dances around you."

A flicker of amusement crossed his eyes, but it was gone as quickly as it appeared. "Perhaps I enjoy watching the world rather than joining it."

"That sounds lonely," she countered, her voice laced with feigned sympathy. "Or is it control you enjoy?"

His eyes narrowed slightly, and for the first time, his lips curved into a ghost of a smile. "Control is necessary. Don't you think?"

"For some, maybe," she replied, her tone light but her gaze unwavering. "But I'd argue that control is an illusion. It's chaos that makes life interesting."

"And yet," he said, his voice dropping just enough to make her breath hitch, "here you are, in the midst of this so-called chaos, trying so hard to remain in control."

Her smirk faltered for a fraction of a second, but she recovered quickly, her confidence unshaken. "Maybe I'm just good at playing the game."

Sofian leaned in slightly, his eyes never leaving hers. "Everyone who plays the game thinks they're good at it—until they lose."

Lolita's pulse quickened, but she refused to let him see it. "Losing isn't an option for me," she said, her voice steady. "But I suppose it's different for you. Men with masks tend to hide the most."

The corners of his mouth lifted again, this time in something closer to a real smile. "And women who confront masked men must be either very bold—or very reckless. Which are you?"

"Why not both?" she replied smoothly, stepping closer, her gaze challenging.

Their proximity crackled with unspoken tension, each daring the other to make the next move. Lolita was keenly aware of the weight of his presence, the way he seemed to fill the space without effort. His confidence wasn't arrogance; it was the kind that came from a man who had nothing to prove—only something to protect.

She tilted her head, breaking the silence. "I'm parched. Care to join me for a drink, or are you content being the lone wolf of the evening?"

Sofian studied her for a moment longer before nodding. "Lead the way."

They moved to the bar, where the air felt thicker, charged with the whispers of those watching them. Lolita ordered a glass of champagne, her fingers brushing the stem delicately as she turned to face him.

"So, what's the story behind the mask?" she asked, her tone casual but her eyes sharp.

"It's not a story," he replied, swirling the amber liquid in his glass. "It's a choice."

"A choice to blend in or stand out?" she pressed.

"Both," he said simply.

Lolita chuckled, the sound low and rich. "You're good at this—giving just enough to intrigue but never enough to satisfy. I'll admit, it's effective. But everyone has a weakness. Even men with masks."

"And what's yours?" he asked, his gaze piercing.

She leaned in slightly, her voice dropping to a near-whisper. "Weaknesses are like secrets. You never share them with someone you've just met."

Sofian's eyes darkened slightly, not with anger but with curiosity. "Wise words. And yet, here you are, sharing your presence with someone you don't know. Perhaps you're not as guarded as you think."

Lolita's lips curved into a slow smile, one that didn't quite reach her eyes. "Or perhaps I know exactly what I'm doing."

Their exchange hung in the air, charged and electric. It was a battle of wits, each word a carefully placed chess move. For a moment, neither spoke, the silence between them more telling than words ever could be.

Finally, Sofian broke the tension, his voice softer but no less commanding. "You're not like the others here. You don't just play the game—you rewrite the rules."

Lolita raised her glass in a mock toast. "And you're not the brooding loner you pretend to be. We all wear masks, don't we?"

He didn't reply, but the way his gaze lingered on her spoke volumes. She had intrigued him, challenged him, and in doing so, had slipped past the walls he had so carefully constructed. But she also knew she couldn't afford to linger. Not yet.

"I should get back," she said finally, setting her glass down. "It's been... illuminating."

Sofian's gaze followed her as she turned to leave, his expression unreadable. "Until next time," he said, the words carrying a weight that promised this wouldn't be their last encounter.

Lolita didn't look back, but the faintest hint of a smile played on her lips as she walked away. She had done what she came to do—plant a seed of curiosity in a man who didn't trust easily. Now, she just had to see what grew from it.