BENEATH HER LIES

The rain had stopped just before midnight.

Johannesburg's skyline shimmered in puddles along the sidewalk, and Troy stood outside the quiet café where he had agreed to meet her. Nia—a name whispered once by Sabrina when she didn't think he was listening. Nia, the elegant, soft-spoken girl from their Creative Writing seminar. The one Sabrina called a threat in red lipstick.

He never paid attention to her—until now.

She walked in five minutes late, in a fitted black trench coat and knee-high boots, her natural curls pulled up and skin glistening from the rain. Her perfume hit him before her eyes did—warm, citrusy, dangerous.

"Troy," she said, smoothing her collar. "You don't strike me as a coffee-at-midnight type."

He smiled. "And you don't strike me as someone who backs down from curiosity."

She paused. "Touché."

They took a quiet corner table. The air between them was taut, like someone had wound up a cord and waited for it to snap.

He leaned forward, voice low. "Do you always dress like you're about to ruin someone's life?"

Nia gave a slow smile, her gaze locked on his. "Only when someone gives me a reason."

He let the silence stretch just long enough to become intimate. The kind of pause that made you feel things in your chest—and lower.

She sipped her drink, deliberately slow. "So… why am I here, really?"

"Because I'm not like the others."

"You're definitely not," she said, licking a drop of coffee off her lip. "You're colder."

That made him grin. "And you're smarter than Sabrina gave you credit for."

Something flickered in her expression. Interest. Or maybe danger.

By the time they left the café, the streets were nearly empty. He offered her a ride.

She slid into the passenger seat like it was second nature, her coat falling open just enough to reveal her black slip dress underneath. It was silk. Barely-there. Intentional.

They said nothing as he drove.

When he parked in front of her apartment, she didn't move.

Instead, she turned to him. "You want to come up?"

Troy tilted his head. "That's not usually a question."

"I don't invite men who aren't dangerous."

"And I don't go upstairs unless I know I'll be missed afterward."

Her lips curled. "Then I guess you'll have to make an impression."

She got out of the car, walking away without looking back.

He didn't follow not yet. But he would. This wasn't over. It was just beginning.

The next morning, Serra was still tangled in his sheets, hair spread across the pillow, lips slightly parted. She stirred as he pulled on his hoodie.

"Mmh," she murmured, rolling over. "You're leaving early."

"Meeting," he lied. "Campus admin."

"You're not sleeping with someone else… are you?"

He paused by the door. "Do you care?"

Serra sat up, her voice cooler now. "No. But I like to know when the game changes."

He turned, eyes narrowing. "We're still on the same team, Serra."

She studied him for a moment. "Are we?"

He walked over, sitting beside her. "You knew from the start—I'm not healed. I'm building something out of the wreckage."

"Just don't forget who's helping you do it."

He leaned in and kissed her slow—on purpose, with heat. When he pulled back, her hand stayed on his jaw a second too long.

"I won't," he said.

But even then, part of him knew the storm was coming.

That evening, he got the text from Nia.

Nia: I'm still thinking about that look you gave me in the car.

Troy: Which one?

Nia: The one that said "I could break you in half if I wanted."

Troy: Would you let me?

Nia: Try me.

The next message came with an address.

Nia's apartment was modern, minimalist—black leather furniture, floor-to-ceiling windows, a glass bar cart in the corner. She handed him a drink, barefoot and wrapped in a satin robe.

"You don't waste time," he said.

"Neither do you."

They sat on the couch, closer than they needed to. The light from the city outside reflected in her wine glass. She curled her legs under her, the robe slipping just enough to show a strap of black lace.

"You want to use me," she said, sipping her drink.

Troy raised an eyebrow. "You're honest."

"And smart. I know your game. I know about Sabrina. Serra. The photos."

"Does that scare you?"

"No," she said, leaning in. "It turns me on."

He didn't respond. He didn't need to. His mouth found hers a second later—urgent, hot, and without apology.

She responded instantly, nails dragging across the back of his neck as he pulled her onto his lap. The robe fell. He didn't stop it.

They kissed like two storms colliding—uncontrolled, hungry, chaotic. His hands moved along the curve of her waist, hers tracing the lines of his jaw and down his chest.

Then she stopped suddenly.

"I don't want to be your distraction," she whispered. "If you take this further, it's not just for revenge. It's because you want me."

Troy breathed hard. She was sharper than most. Maybe too sharp.

"I do," he said. "But I also want to forget her."

Nia brushed her lips over his again. "Then let's make her a memory."

The next few days blurred. He was juggling fire now.

Serra came over almost every night. She was getting clingier. Possessive.

Nia, on the other hand, was cool, calculated. She didn't ask questions—but she noticed everything.

And Sabrina?

She was unraveling.

He saw her storm out of a class one day, red-eyed. He passed her in the hall and she flinched. She wasn't angry anymore. She looked… haunted.

Later that day, Tasha—the younger sister—cornered him near the campus café.

"She's not eating. She's not sleeping."

Troy shrugged. "Maybe she should've thought of that before Lennox."

"You've made your point," Tasha snapped. "You've hurt her."

"Not enough," he said coldly. "Not like she hurt me."

Tasha's eyes narrowed. "You're not a victim, Troy. You're a monster playing dress-up."

He laughed softly. "Tell her that next time she watches me with Serra."

That night, it all caught up with him.

Serra was in his bed again. Nia had messaged him that morning, hinting she wanted more than physical. And now Tasha was acting like she was emotionally involved too.

Too many threads. Too many eyes.

He stared at the ceiling, muscles tight, body tired. Not from the women. From the game.

"You're quiet," Serra whispered beside him.

"Just thinking."

"About her?"

He turned toward her. "No. About you."

She blinked. "Me?"

"You said you wanted to win this game, remember?"

She nodded slowly.

"Then prove it."

He pulled her into him, slow and deliberate. There was something new in the way they moved this time. It wasn't just revenge. It wasn't just sex.

It was power. But it was also fear.

Because for the first time, Troy realized… he didn't know who was playing who anymore.

The next day, Nia showed up unannounced.

He opened the door shirtless, eyes still heavy from sleep. She stepped inside, looking calm but her energy was sharp.

"I saw Serra leave your building this morning," she said.

Troy nodded. "And?"

"I told you I didn't want to be a distraction," she said, crossing her arms. "But I'm not going to be second place either."

He leaned against the door. "You came here to compete?"

She walked up to him, placing her hands on his bare chest. "No. I came to remind you what it felt like to be wanted for who you are. Not who you can destroy."

He searched her eyes. She wasn't lying.

And that scared him more than anything.

Later that night, alone in the shower, he stared at himself in the mirror. The steam curled around his face like smoke from the fire he'd started.

He had power. He had control.

But he had no peace.

The sex. The attention. The revenge—it was working. But it was also costing him.

He thought of Sabrina. Of the way she used to look at him like he was the only one in the world.

And then of Serra, her loyalty laced with poison.

And finally, Nia—who wasn't supposed to matter, but somehow did.

His phone buzzed again. Another message.

But this time, he didn't check it right away.

Instead, he whispered to himself in the fogged-up mirror:

"What are you becoming?