Page 45 of Love Is A Draw
Checkmate.
Silence coiled around the room. Then a soft cough, the shuffle of a shoe, the breath of realization breaking.
Sofia’s king toppled with the faintest clink.
Gail rose. Her chair scraped gently across the floor. She kept her voice steady. “Thank you for the match, Baroness.”
Sofia said nothing, just stared open-mouthed at the board.
Gail turned, walking away—not from the chandelier, or the board, or even the game. But toward something entirely her own.
She had been born from brilliance. But this—this was strategy.
And it belonged to her.
CHAPTER 20
After round two, the Boardsmen’s Tournament had broken for the night, its matches finished until morning. The men went home in their carriages, the women to their drawing rooms, but the air still carried the charge of what had been played.
And even though the Pearler’s house had begun to dim, a few last candles sputtered in their holders. A draft moved the curtains, low and steady, like the breath of something immense finally exhaled. Gail stood at the edge of the room, the last echoes of applause from the onlookers still warming the back of her neck.
Rachel hugged her quietly before heading upstairs to tuck in Maia. The Pearlers murmured their good nights, gently pressing her hand. Greg nodded, feeling proud and tired, then sank into an armchair. Fave Pearler stood by the window. One by one, everyone except them—Lady Hermy and Victor—had left. The key players remained.
But even though Fave, Greg, Lady Hermy, and Victor were there, Gail felt alone with the weight of what she’d done. Not only had she survived—forcing another draw with Sofia von List—but she had also won List’s open scorn. She had antagonizedhim, unsettled the room, and marked herself as an opponent not only to what List represented but to all his followers. She had become dangerous in a tournament where victory always came at a cost.
Gail sighed and drifted back toward the board. It looked smaller now. Harmless. But its silence thrummed. Her last configuration remained untouched—the trap, the move, the very proof that she had not come this far by chance.
She wanted to sweep it all into the velvet box and lock it away. To pretend she hadn’t just exposed herself—mind and heart—in front of a room full of titled men and careful women.
Then she thought of her grandfather, waiting across the sea. Of Maia, curled into Rachel’s lap, of Victor, who looked tired and disheveled. Her heart ached for him, and yet she feared the danger.
She didn’t move the pieces. She left them exactly as they were.
She just stood beside the thirteenth table—Sofia’s board, where her draw had been declared. The position still showed the trap she’d laid, proof that she could have ended it if she’d chosen to. Her fingers moved mechanically, returning pawns to their velvet-lined box. Precise. Calm. Numb.
A voice stopped her. “Don’t clean up this one, Gail.”
Fave Pearler stood by the window, coat on, tone quiet but firm. He had not moved since the last of the guests and players had gone. His gaze fixed on the board as if it carried more than pawns and queens—as if it carried the weight of tomorrow.
She glanced toward him, then down at the board. The final position still glinted with checkmate.
“Why?” she asked softly.
From near the hearth, Greg answered with a stare. He was seated in a high-backed chair, glass in hand, the line of his mouth drawn tight. Between them, Victor sat hunched slightlyforward, a teacup cradled in his hands. The steam curled beneath his eyes.
He hadn’t looked at her once. And that hurt more than any applause or silence from the hall.
Fave’s expression didn’t soften. “List expects the board to return to its start. He wants proof he still controls the game—even when he hasn’t won.”
Gail blinked. “Why do you let him?”
Hermy’s voice drifted from behind a silver tray. “Let him what?”
Here, behind closed doors at the Pearlers, they were equals: a countess, the Crown Jewelers, and the governess. But chess had changed.
She stared at the board—still set in the final position. “They weaponize the board,” she said quietly. “But the power isn’t in wood and ivory. It’s in us.” She stood. One by one, she gathered the pieces, then closed the case, her hand lingering on the queen. “Chess isn’t trapped in pawns and bishops. It’s in the mind that arranges them, the will that dares to see further than the next move.” She touched her temple. “That’s where it lives.”
“What do you mean?” Victor’s voice was quiet, uncertain.
