Page 27 of Love Is A Draw
She let him keep his grip. The qualifiers for Round 3 were secured—placing both Victor and Gail in the final round against List and Sofia. Now the battle was not just for titles, but for places, for rights, for belonging.
In that quiet moment, amid gaslight and shadows, something deeper threaded between them—a promise. And each held tightly to it.
CHAPTER 12
Two days until Round Three…
It was nearly eight o’clock, and on any other morning, Gail would be setting up Maia’s lessons—chess problems, letter writing, gentle laughter. But today, even as she brushed her hair in the mirror, her mind lay elsewhere.
The silver hairpins slid into place, securing the loose strands at her nape. Beyond that, her fingers reached for the unfinished braid—but the comb wasn’t there. That comb, carved and worn, had been her grandfather’s gift, an heirloom from her grandmother. It grounded her in every morning ritual. Now it was gone—taken—just when her life felt most unmoored.
She caught her reflection in the glass, her eyes sharp, alive. Yesterday, she’d seen Victor in the doorway, his gaze unwavering.
The title should go to the best player. Anything less would devalue what it stands for.
His words weren’t a promise. They were action. An assurance. He would do it. But what if he didn’t?
She gripped the brush. For a moment, guiltily, that flutter in her chest: need. Not just for the comb, but for him.
A knock at the door broke the spell.
“Miss ?Gail!” Maia sounded too eager, nearly breathless. She knocked again, impatient. “Miss? Gail!”
Gail laid down the brush and moved to the door. The lock clicked, and the lamp’s flame trimmed her reflection in gold.
Maia stood there, arms full of tulips—bright yellows, pinks, oranges—and wild flowers dusted with dew. A small folded note nestled at the center of the bouquet, sealed with plain wax.
Maia’s grin shone in the morning light. “For you!”
Gail blinked. “For me?” Her words caught slightly as she reached for the bouquet. The blooms were simple, wild, still cool with morning dew.
Maia grinned. “You never get flowers or letters. What does it say?”
Gail smiled faintly, but her heart raced. “One must open a letter to read it, Maia.”
She smoothed the parchment with careful fingers. The bold, cursive script was Russian.
You play in two days. Victory must not fracture the bridges. Choose only what builds.
—V.R.
Her breath snagged. Victor.
And beneath the words, the unspoken invitation—he would be waiting at the gardens where the balloons were. And she might dare take a ride with him.
Maia pressed closer. “Well?”
Gail didn’t answer. Her fingers hovered over the signature, heart thudding with something dangerously close to hope. Whatdid he mean—choose only what builds? The words were plain, but the weight behind them was not.
She stared at the note. If she beat Sofia von List, the Pearlers would rise, Greg’s legacy would be safe, and her grandfather—if he came—would be proud. But Victor…
If she won, he might leave. Because this tournament was about more than merit—it charted politics, survival, and allegiance—the right to stay where freedom was at least a possibility. Victor had always played for something greater than himself. And if she shattered the List strategy, it might fracture the fragile power keeping Victor in London.
She had wanted to play. Now, she wasn’t so sure she wanted to win.
As Maia stood on her toes to smell Gail’s bouquet, footsteps echoed. Fave and Rachel appeared, bright with morning chatter.
Fave lifted Maia. “No lessons today. We’re off to the shop—perhaps a pendant?”
