Playing games with Dorian Gray was like making a deal with the devil.
Did I realize how thin the ice was beneath my feet? Probably not.
But I felt it—that electric, dangerous thrill twisting low in my belly.
This game gave me a sliver of hope.
A way out.
And I wasn’t going to waste it.
I noticed his gaze had shifted—from disappointed to intrigued. I couldn’t afford to embarrass myself now. I had to answer those damn questions. He said they would be logic riddles, so I forced myself to breathe, to stay calm, to think clearly.
“So, Clara,” Dorian began, his voice a silky drawl, “ready? We’ll start with something easy. You’ve got seven seconds.”
“I’m ready,” I replied confidently. But he didn’t rush to ask. He was watching me, thinking.
“Tell me,” he said, “you’re not nervous at all,
