Page 66 of Love Is A Draw
Victor.
Satchel in hand. Coat buttoned high. Standing still as the ship at his back prepared to cast off.
Her breath caught like a hook in her chest. No. It’s too soon.
Greg stood near him, arms folded, jaw tense. And looming just behind— List—speaking with a customs officer like he was selecting wine from a list.
The gangplank to Victor’s ship was being lowered. He was minutes from boarding.
Gail turned blindly back to Dmitry. He was still coming. Still watching her. But he hadn’t seen the danger and couldn’t fathom…
Fave swore under his breath. “I didn’t realize List was moving this fast. He’s putting Victor on the first ship.”
“Oh, Gail!” Rachel rushed to her side. “He must have picked him up from… oh look, Greg’s there!”
The words slammed into her. Gail staggered.
Rachel’s hand gripped her elbow. “There’s List. If he sees us with Dmitry…”
Gail turned her head slowly, dread crawling up her spine.
Baron List stood no more than twenty yards away, one finger lazily pointing toward the ship’s manifest. The customs officer nodded.
“If he sees your grandfather,” Rachel said under her breath, “Dimitry won’t make it ten feet unless Victor leaves.”
Gail’s mouth went dry. Her heartbeat thundered in her ears.
She turned back again—Dmitry, walking steadily toward her. Alone. Brave. So near.
And Victor—her Victor—was walking away. Her fingers curled around nothing.
Two ships. One river. No time to calculate. No room to retreat.
The game had shifted. And this move—this single breath—was hers to make.
The wind slicedacross the quay, sharp with salt and coal smoke, biting through Victor’s coat as he stood by the gangplank. He didn’t flinch when the gull shrieked overhead or when the crate beside him dropped with a thud. He was too far gone for nerves now.
He told himself she wouldn’t come or that she couldn’t. But something inside him—some foolish, aching part—had waited anyway.
“Victor!” Her voice sliced through the crowd.
He turned. And the world stopped. She was there. Wild-eyed. Breathless. Beautiful. He didn’t believe it—couldn’t. But her eyes found his. And something inside him cracked open. Hope was the worst opponent; it always returned when it shouldn’t.
List’s voice cut through the fog like oil through water. “Too late. He’s boarding.”
“No. He’s not.” She grabbed his satchel.
He let her.
She opened it—only the chess set. Her eyes flicked to the Thames.
Victor followed her gaze. What remained of his work drifted, waterlogged, sinking beneath the tide. List had already thrown them .
List saw her expression shift. “What are you doing?”
“Setting the board,” she answered.
Victor caught the movement behind her—Greg’s wife, Fave, a child, and the man he’d once studied from. Dmitry Tarkov. Real. Alive. Watching.
