Still, she played her role beautifully. Once, she even brought Fredrich a sketch she did of the villa's garden. He didn't say much. But the next morning, she found professional sketchbooks and graphite pencils laid out in her room.
She thanked him with a shy smile and a flushed cheek. It was an art form, this delicate act of manipulation. A dance on a razor's edge.
She kept a notebook in her nightstand, documenting everything. His moods. What he ate. The books on his nightstand. The way he tilted his head when he was amused, or how his fingers always curled when he was angry.
It wasn't about attraction anymore. It was chess.
Because if she wanted to win—really win—she needed to know him better than he knew himself.
And while Lina played the perfect role by day, she trained her mind by night. Studied behavior. Psychological patterns. Emotional manipulation. It wasn't just about being good at games anymore.
This world wasn't a game.
