Page 10 of Twisted Empire: King's Gambit

They leave and I look at my reflection in the full-length mirror when they’re done, but a stranger stares back at me; a beautiful, elegantly dressed woman ready for her wedding day. But my eyes are vacant, devoid of joy.

It’s the emptiness of a person who has been packaged, polished, and prepped for a role she never auditioned for.

This is Mikhail’s version of me, a decorative piece to complement his power, to be shown off and then shelved when convenient.

I search for some glimmer of my former self among the layers of lace and silk. But it’s like trying to catch smoke with my bare hands—elusive, frustrating.

Just when I’m convinced that I’m a stranger even to myself, the door softly creaks open again. This time, it’s my mother who steps in.

The moment our eyes meet, I can see the weight of years of silent suffering etched into her features. Her eyes are red and puffy, as if she’s spent a lifetime crying in just one day.

I gasp when I see her and turn around. “Mamma—”

“Gabrietta,” she whispers as she approaches me, her voice brittle. “I’m so sorry, Tesoro! I’m so, so sorry.”

“What happened to Sophia? When did she die? Why did Pappa do this?!” I find myself going off in rapid-fire Italian, each word laced with an emotional cocktail of anger, confusion, and deep-seated fear.

“She…” my mother trails off, tears spilling down her cheeks. “She’s gone, Gabriette! I still spoke to her the night before and she was fine, but now…”

I look at the heartbreak on my mother’s face and my heart breaks along with hers. Sophia was always her favorite. She never wanted me to leave, but Sophia convinced her.

This was the last image I saw of her when I left, weeping for me, and now it’s the first thing I see after I’m pulled back into this world.

“How could Pappa do this to me?” My voice rises with each question, tinged with a desperation I don’t want to feel but can’t suppress. “He promised me! He promised me I could … I could leave, after everything he allowed to happen!”

She wraps her arms around me and I inhale her familiar vanilla scent and it sets off my tears. Rubbing my back like she used to when I would cry in her arms, she whispers sweet comforting words in Italian, and I feel like I’m right back home again.

“Did you ask him not to do this to me, Mamma?” I sniff. “Did you tell him he promised me?”

“I didn’t have a say, you know we don’t,” she says and pulls back, hesitating as if the words are too heavy for her to lift. “I’ve been sick, Tesoro, very sick and Sophia … she was only going to marry this man because I asked, but—”

“Sick?” I ask, my eyes narrowing and my heart dropping. “What do you mean sick, Mamma?”

She looks at me as if she regrets saying anything, then she breathes out a long sigh and takes my hand in hers, patting it.

“It’s my heart, Amore,” she says and I watch her swallow. “I’m living on borrowed time and your father knew if I asked Sophia, she would do it.”

I feel the room around me blur and distort, as if I’m seeing everything through a cracked lens. My mind is an explosion of questions, accusations, and unspoken disappointments.

“How could you keep this from me?!” I exclaim, my heart breaking anew. “I would have come back! I would have—”

She places a finger to my lips and shakes her head, then she leads me back over to the makeup vanity and picks up a tissue to redo the mess I’ve made.

How could my own family shield me from the reality that the two most important women in my life—one gone, and one slowly fading—needed me?

“Your sister and I promised not to tell you,” my mother continues, her voice barely a whisper now. “We wanted you to have a chance at a life free from all of this chaos, this violence. But it seems even that was too much to ask for.”

My lips quiver, words forming and dissolving before they can make a sound. All I can do is sit there, encased in a bridal gown that feels more like a shroud.

When she’s done fixing my makeup, and reaches out to touch my face. It’s a simple gesture, but it unleashes a tidal wave of emotion, as if her touch has momentarily freed the dammed-up fears, regrets, and sorrows.

But I can’t cry again. I can’t let myself grieve, rage, or even process while I’m standing in Mikhail’s home.

“I love you, Gabrietta,” my mother says, her eyes never leaving mine, even as they fill with tears. “Please, try to understand. If not now, then someday.”

Her words hang in the air long after she leaves the room, leaving me alone once more, staring at a reflection that is both familiar and entirely alien.

Then the door swings open again, and this time, it’s my father who enters.

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