They don't announce the rules.
That's the first thing I learn.
No speeches. No dramatic reveal. No masked figures stepping out of the shadows. The party simply… continues. The music swells back into place. Laughter resumes, too loud, too fast, like everyone is overcompensating for something they refuse to name.
But the air has changed.
People look at me differently now—like they know something I don't. Like I've been marked.
The man in the dark suit steps away from me at last, creating just enough distance to remind me I was never free to begin with. The other man—sharp smile, polished cruelty—lingers a moment longer.
"You should drink something," he says, pressing a fresh glass into my hand.
"I didn't ask for this," I say.
His smile widens. "No one ever does."
Then he's gone, swallowed by the crowd like he was never real.
I stand there for a moment too long, my pulse loud in my ears, the glass sweating against my palm. I don't drink. I don't trust anything here—not the champagne, not the chandeliers, not the way the walls seem to listen.
My phone vibrates again.
UNKNOWN NUMBER:Rule One: Don't leave early.
I look up, scanning the room.
The woman in black is back—leaning against a column, watching me with lazy interest. When our eyes meet, she tilts her head, just slightly.
A warning.
I type back before I can stop myself.
ME:Who are you?
The response comes immediately.
Someone who already survived this.
My chest tightens.
I don't notice the man beside me until he speaks.
"You shouldn't answer messages like that," he says quietly.
I turn. Dark suit. Close again. Always close.
"You keep saying 'shouldn't,'" I reply. "Like it's a choice."
His gaze flicks to my phone. "It was."
"Past tense," I say.
Something like approval flashes across his face.
"Good," he says. "You're learning."
He gestures toward a side hallway—dim, carpeted, guarded by nothing but shadow.
"Walk with me."
That, at least, sounds like a request.
"I don't trust you," I say.
He leans in just enough that his breath ghosts my cheek. "You shouldn't."
And then he's already moving, confident I'll follow.
I hate that I do.
The hallway is quieter. The walls are lined with old photographs—men and women frozen in black and white, all of them beautiful, all of them powerful, all of them looking directly at the camera like they know secrets that ruined them.
"Those are past players," he says, noticing my attention.
"Past," I echo. "As in…?"
"Finished," he replies smoothly.
I stop walking.
"What happens when the game ends?"
He turns, blocking my path back to the party. His expression softens—not kinder, but more intent. Focused.
"That depends," he says, "on how well you play."
I cross my arms, suddenly very aware of the thin fabric of my dress, of how exposed I feel under his gaze.
"And what's the prize?" I ask.
His eyes drop—to my throat, my collarbone, the place where my pulse won't slow down.
"Control," he says. "Freedom. Answers."
"And the cost?"
He looks back up.
"You."
The word lands heavy between us.
Before I can respond, another presence fills the hallway—the sharp-smiled man again, leaning casually against the wall like he's been there all along.
"You're scaring her," he says mildly.
"I'm being honest," the first man replies.
The second man's eyes rake over me, slow and deliberate, like he's memorizing something he plans to use later.
"She deserves to know the rules," he says. "At least the first few."
My phone buzzes again.
UNKNOWN NUMBER:Rule Two: You can't refuse a direct invitation.
My breath stutters.
The sharp-smiled man pushes off the wall.
"Good timing," he says. "Come with me."
"I—" I start.
The dark-suited man's hand closes around mine—not pulling, not forcing. Just enough pressure to remind me he could.
"This is a direct invitation," he says calmly.
I look between them, my mind racing, my body betraying me with every shallow breath.
"And if I choose neither?" I ask.
The woman in black steps into the hallway behind them, sealing us in.
"That," she says softly, "would be refusing."
Silence stretches. Heavy. Expectant.
I realize then that this isn't about choosing who I want.
It's about choosing who I'm willing to lose.
"Fine," I say, my voice steadier than I feel. "I'll go."
The sharp-smiled man's grin is immediate—bright, triumphant.
The other man's grip loosens, but his eyes don't leave my face.
"Be careful," he says.
I meet his gaze. "Of what?"
"Of enjoying it," he replies.
The sharp-smiled man leads me deeper into the house, down a staircase hidden behind velvet curtains. The air grows cooler. Quieter. The walls here are bare.
"Where are we going?" I ask.
"Somewhere private," he says. "Somewhere honest."
We stop in front of a door—solid, unmarked.
He turns to face me, close enough now that I can see the calculation behind his eyes.
"One last thing," he says. "Once you walk in there, you don't get to pretend you're just an observer anymore."
My phone vibrates in my hand.
UNKNOWN NUMBER:Rule Three is the one that breaks you.
He reaches for the door.
"Ready?" he asks.
I hesitate.
Then I nod.
The door opens.
And the lights go out.