Page 78 of Twisted Empire: King's Gambit

Our glasses clink, the rich wine warm as it goes down. But after a while, something inside me shifts. It’s subtle at first—a sort of heightened awareness, as though my senses have been dialed up a notch. I can’t put my finger on it, can’t identify the source, but it throws my mind into a loop.

Did I have too much to drink already? I look down at my glass, half-empty now, and then at Lorenzo. Is it the conversation about Gabriette, about love? My mind spins, restlessly trying to anchor itself, but I’m awash in a sea of paranoia and a newfound alertness I can’t shake.

I try to tell myself I’m just being overly cautious. After all, paranoia is an occupational hazard in our line of work. But this is different. I feel anxious, cornered. My eyes dart around, half-expecting an ambush.

“Everything okay?” Lorenzo’s voice breaks through my internal spiral, and I realize I’ve been gripping my glass a little too tightly.

“Yeah,” I lie, setting my glass down. “Just a lot on my mind, I guess.”

Just then, a waitress walks over with a bottle of bourbon in her hands. “This is from the owner, sir, a gift for your birthday,” she says, her voice sounding oddly familiar, but I can’t put a finger on how I would know that.

“Thank you,” is all I say as I take the bottle and place it on the table.

Lorenzo tries to say something about it and I try to refocus on the conversation. But that feeling of dread, of inexplicable alertness, lingers in the pit of my stomach like a bad omen.

What the hell is going on with me?

* * *

I leave a few hours after that, sliding into the backseat of the SUV and feeling ready for bed.

The New York City air, usually a blend of exhaust, food, and indefinable urban scents, seems unusually potent tonight, but I barely notice. My mind is a jumble of questions and hazy suspicions, all of them centering around that inexplicable, nagging feeling that something isn’t right.

I haven’t felt this level of irrational paranoia in a long time, and it scares the hell out of me. Was it the discussion about love, about commitments? Is this what vulnerability does to me? I’ve been fighting battles for so long, I’m not sure I know how to handle peace.

My phone buzzes, lighting up the darkened interior of the SUV. I should ignore it—every rational part of me says to ignore it. But I’m already on edge; my nerves frayed. I snatch the phone off the leather seat beside me and look at the screen.

Unknown number. An attachment with the same untraceable number as before.

The screen flickers to life, showing a video that makes my blood boil in a way it hasn’t for a long time. The rage that courses through me is swift and acidic, filling every cell, every thought.

“Fucking piece of shit,” I hiss through clenched teeth. I can feel that this is a trick, someone wanting to get under my skin, but the fury boiling in my veins doesn’t care about logic. It doesn’t care about the rational explanations that should come next.

All it cares about is what I’ve just seen, how it can’t be explained away this time.

The SUV pulls up to the penthouse, but I barely notice. My mind is a tornado of confusion and anger.

“Wait for me,” I tell the driver tersely as I exit the vehicle with the bottle of bourbon in my hand. The elevator ride up to the penthouse feels like an eternity.

The doors finally open, and I step into the plush living area. The place is dark, save for the ambient lights casting soft halos around the room. It looks peaceful, a home that should be filled with love and trust. A mockery, my mind supplies bitterly.

And there she is—Gabriette, asleep in our bed, her face relaxed, innocent. She looks so serene, so peaceful, and for a moment, my heart wavers.

I stand there, staring down at her, my hands clenched into fists. The contrast between her tranquil beauty and the storm inside me is jarring. How did it come to this?

I’ve been around long enough to know when I’m being played, but the idea that it’s happening within my own home again, by the woman I’ve just opened up to, makes me want to destroy something. Or maybe someone.

I look at her again, this time as if seeing her for the first time. Is this who she really is? Or is it me? Am I the one unraveling, unable to tell what’s real anymore? But no, it can’t be. I’m too old, too fucking experienced to second-guess myself like this.

I walk away, my footsteps heavy but soundless on the thick carpet, leaving her to her dreams or whatever lies she’s living.

In my study, I pour myself a stiff drink from the bottle in my hand, watching as the liquid amber shatters the ice. I gulp it down, but the warmth it brings does nothing to quell the fire in my gut, nor the icy realization that things are about to change.

I sit in my chair, contemplating my next moves. The face of the man I used to be before Gabriette glares back at me from the dark corners of the room. If she’s playing a game, she’s about to learn that I’ve been a master at it for far longer than she knows.

She’s in for a rude fucking awakening.

GABRIETTE

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