Lady Phoebe never invited people to play games unless she was certain she’d already won.

She sat across from you in the conservatory, moonlight spilling through the glass ceiling, a chessboard laid out between you—pieces ivory and obsidian, perfectly aligned. The rest of the mansion was quiet, as if it, too, were holding its breath.

“Relax,” Phoebe said lightly, twirling a piece between her fingers. “It’s only a game.”

You raised an eyebrow. “With you? I doubt that.”

She laughed, delighted. “Good. That means you’re paying attention.”

She leaned forward, elbows on the table, eyes bright with mischief and something deeper—calculation. “The rules are simple. We play. No interruptions. No distractions.” She paused. “The loser answers one question. Honestly.”

Your stomach tightened. “Any question?”

Phoebe’s smile sharpened. “Of course.”

The first move was hers. Precise. Confident. You countered. She hummed thoughtfully, clearly pleased. Each move felt less like chess and more like conversation—parries, feints, quiet challenges. She wasn’t just watching the board. She was watching you.

“You think before you commit,” she said casually. “Most people don’t. They rush. Or bluff.”

“And you?” you asked.

“I manipulate,” she replied sweetly, moving a piece. “But you already knew that.”

Time slipped by unnoticed. The game tightened. One wrong move would end it. You caught her studying your face instead of the board, as if she were weighing something unseen.

“Tell me,” Phoebe said softly, “are you afraid of losing… or of what I might ask?”