Page 25 of Love Is A Draw
“Yes.” But he didn’t rise.
Neither did she. The notebook sat open. The pieces waited. So did he.
At last, she stood. And so did he, because she made him want to remember how to be worthy.
Their eyes met—hers calm, composed. His... not.
“Good night, Victor Romanov,” she said.
“Avigail Tarkov,” he replied. “Would you?—”
But the words stopped. She didn’t.
She turned. Walked out. And Victor—silent, still—stood in the echo of everything they hadn’t yet said.
CHAPTER 11
The day of the second tournament round came quickly, and Victor found himself seated again at the Pearler’s house at the long mahogany table, hands loosely clasped before him to tether the tremor in his fingers. The room buzzed—footsteps, murmurs, the delicate click of pieces on the board—but to him, it formed a dense fog, pressing in. He had faced worse before. Stranger places. Harder opponents. But this… this wasn’t just a game.
Sir Anthony Forsythe sat across from Victor, composed in his tailored coat and embroidered waistcoat, the living portrait of belonging. He didn’t shift, didn’t tap. He smiled—easy in a way Victor could only mimic in private.
Victor’s pulse thudded in his throat because this wasn’t about victory anymore—not really. It was aboutright. About walking into a room built for men like List and taking a seat anyway. About making them watch as he played the game better. Smarter. His blood, his name, the threadbare coat on his back—none of it mattered here, not in chess. On the board, every truth revealed itself in black and white. No whispers behind closed doors. No weighty titles or birthrights. Only the geometry of conflict and choice, each square a silent reckoning.
And now that he knew whoshewas—Tarkov’s granddaughter—the weight of it doubled. Dmitry’s fire burned in her too. Which meant this wasn’t just his fight. It wastheirs.
He could not afford to lose. Not with her watching. Not with her legacy now folded into his.
The steward called time. Forsythe began with 1.e4—predictable, by design.
Victor’s response came automatically—Sicilian. He braced himself on Dmitry’s long-ago lesson: breathe in on the opponent’s move, breathe out on your own. Heart. Mind. Align. But the borrowed coat scraped at his resolve; the room’s scrutiny weighed upon him.
Gail’s thoughts drifted back:You react brilliantly. But your opponent defines the fight.
Not tonight. Tonight, he would define it himself.
He nudged his knight into place—the first shiver of a trap four moves deep, disguised as misdirection. He thought of Dmitry—aged, wasted brilliance, denied an audience.Am I redeeming his legacy, or writing my own?
Forsythe flickered in hesitation. Enough.
Victor seized the rook with a knight’s sacrifice. A murmur rippled. A rare sequence—Dmitry’s line. Subtle. Obscure. Brutal.
Let them see who taught me.Let them wonder how.
He glanced up, seeking her.
There she was at the perimeter. Arms folded, body still. Eyes locked on him. She saw it—not only the move, the show. She sawhim.
In six precise quiet moves it closed. Checkmate.
Forsythe blinked, lips tightening into a brittle smile. “Well played.” His words wobbled on the air like a restless pawn.
Victor didn’t respond. He let the official mark the game.
No applause followed. But something unspoken rippled—respect. A recognition.
He lingered a moment longer, palms steady on the wood. Then he stood—deliberate, not triumphant—and met Gail’s gaze again.
She was unmoving. Not proud. Butpresent. And for the first time in many nights, he felt seen as the chess player he always wanted to be.
