Page 55 of Love Is A Draw
Gail froze. The room narrowed until there was nothing but the man in the doorway, shadows etched beneath his eyes, his shoulders squared as if he carried the whole of yesterday still upon them.
“I couldn’t leave without saying goodbye,” he said quietly.
The words pierced her like an arrow. Goodbye.
They found a corner of the drawing room, away from Maia’s curious stare. Victor’s face was pale with exhaustion, but his eyes burned with something fiercer.
“You’re not leaving,” Gail said, before he could speak again. “I won’t let you.”
“Gail—”
“No.” She cut him off, voice trembling but firm. “You’ve given too much. I’ve seen it. Your notebooks, the hours, your very name on the line. You cannot walk away now.”
He exhaled, long and heavy. “I won’t drag you down with me if I lose against List. If I lose, I have to leave England. But you’re better than me, Gail. You hold the game in your mind—every line, every possibility. I need the ledgers to see what you carry easily.”
“That’s nonsense,” she whispered fiercely. “You think I don’t need you? You think knowledge alone wins a game?”
“I wanted to make Dmitry proud,” Victor said, the words raw, scraped from somewhere deep, and he briefly glanced toward Fave and Rachel Pearler, who were busying themselves with pulling on gloves and smoothing them over their fingers. Maia made no such pretense and stood so close to hear that she nearly stood on Victor’s feet. And he continued nonetheless as if the courage to speak would leave before the words could be said.
“But maybe my chance is not here. Not now. If I cannot win the title of the Black Knight, then I do not deserve you.”
Her heart jolted painfully. “Not deserve?—”
He lifted a hand, silencing her. “Listen to me. If I lose, List will see to it that I’m gone. He has sway in Parliament now. Don’t deny you know it. I’ll be gone from England before I ever have the chance to play again. If that happens, I must find another venue, another chance.”
“And if you win?”she demanded.
“Then perhaps I live. But even then, Gail—what if I fail today? What if my presence only casts a shadow over your light?”
“I don’t want List. I want love and family. It’s you, I’ve always wanted.” Her throat closed, her hands balling at her sides. She wanted to seize him, shake him, shout that he was wrong. But instead she reached out—just barely—and her fingertips brushed his sleeve. “You don’t run,” she whispered. “Not from me. Not from this round. Not from yourself.”
His eyes closed. For a long moment, he stood utterly still, as though her touch had rooted him in place.
“Gail…” His voice cracked. He opened his eyes, and the fire there nearly broke her. “I dreamed last night that I kissed you. That I held you and cherished you as I’ve wanted to since the day you first stood across the board from me. But if I cannot win this match, then I have no right to dream of you at all.”
Maia squealed somewhere in the background, and Gail heard Rachel mutter something. But all that mattered now was Victor here and now.
Her breath shuddered. “You don’t get to decide that. Not alone. Chess is my life, yes. But I will not let it dictate whether I live or die—or who I love.”
Silence fell, thick with everything neither dared say. He reached as if to take her hand, stopped, then let it fall.
The creak of a boot broke the spell. Fave Pearler stood in the doorway, polite but implacable. “If you two are finished proving who is more stubborn, the carriage is waiting. Greg expects us. Round Three continues in half an hour.”
Gail stepped back, her pulse still racing. Victor inclined his head, mask of composure returning, though his eyes betrayed him.
As they walked out together, Gail’s thoughts tumbled. Victory or ruin—she could not yet see which awaited. But one thing she knew, sharp and unshakable: whatever came next, she would not walk it alone.
The chamber had been paredto essentials—two tables set like altars under the chandeliers, score ledgers waiting, clocks wound, men already pretending this would be ordinary. It wasn’t. The table cards named what was left of the tournament in Round Three: Victor Romanov versus Baron von List on the right under the lights; Gail Tarkov versus the Baronesse Sofia von List on the left table. The arbiter rapped once and declared, in the careful way of men who misnamed caution for fairness, that the gentlemen’s game would conclude first; only in the case of a draw or stalemate would the ladies’ result determine who faced the Black Knight.
In his house.
Order, Victor thought, filing the word away like a piece he might need later.
Justice, he knew, was a utopia.
He took his seat without flourish. Collar snug. Cuffs straight. Board first. Man second. Crowd never. Across from him, Listarranged his coat with the serenity of a man for whom rooms had always behaved.
They continued where the previous day had left them, specifically Victor, without the queen and already at an enormous disadvantage.
