Page 31 of Twisted Empire: King's Gambit

This woman, this arrangement, it’s starting to get under my skin and I don’t like it. She’s not supposed to matter, not supposed to become someone I think about, worry about, want to impress.

Who the hell does she think she is, shifting the tectonic plates of my well-ordered world? And why do I let her?

I stop mid-pace, realizing the absurdity of blaming her for my own lack of control. My clenched fists uncurl slowly as I exhale, forcing myself to simmer down. There’s a problem here, yes, but it’s not Gabriette; it’s me.

When I finally re-enter the living room, she looks up and her eyes scan my face. For a moment, I worry she can read the internal upheaval I’ve just experienced, but she simply smiles and stands.

“Ready?” she asks, a word laden with more weight than she probably realizes.

I take a deep breath, meeting her gaze squarely. “Yes,” I say, offering her my arm once more. “Let’s go.”

MIKHAIL

The ride to the concert hall is tense, but not in a way that I’ve ever experienced before. In the back of the sleek black car, my men remain hyper-aware, ever vigilant, but tonight, it feels as though their attention is divided.

Of course, they’re still focused on the potential threats, the reason we even need an armed convoy to go to a damn concert. But there’s something else too, an unspoken awareness that the stakes have somehow changed.

We arrive at the concert hall, its grand facade illuminated in the soft glow of the evening lights, and are quickly ushered inside.

A private booth awaits us, far removed from the public but with a perfect view of the stage. As we settle into our seats, I see Gabriette’s eyes widen slightly.

“I didn’t think we’d be so close,” she whispers.

“I thought you’d appreciate this more,” I reply, but what I don’t say is that the private booth isn’t just for luxury; it’s easier to secure, to defend.

She looks at me, that unreadable expression back as she regards me. “Why are you being so nice to me, Mikhail? Aren’t you supposed to hate me?”

“Hate you?” I scoff, chuckling. “I don’t know you well enough to hate you, Gabriette. Friends, remember?”

Biting her bottom lip again, she looks over my shoulder as if to avoid my gaze and, for some reason, it pisses me off.

“You don’t have to treat me like I’m fragile, either,” she murmurs, turning that sliver of annoyance into fury.

But then the music starts, and I can’t bring myself to act on that fury.

When the symphony begins, I find it hard to focus on the music, though I usually enjoy it. Instead, I’m drawn to Gabriette yet again.

The way her eyes light up as the first notes float through the air is captivating. She’s entranced, her gaze not leaving the stage even for a second.

At certain parts, when the music swells into grand crescendos or softens into delicate, emotional notes, I see her eyes gloss over, nearly spilling tears. Her hand goes to her chest as if to calm her beating heart, then her hand lands on my thigh and she grips it unconsciously.

I grind my teeth, annoyed at myself. Why should her emotion bother me? Why should any of this bother me? She’s a means to an end, a pawn in a larger game. That’s all.

But even as I tell myself this, I know it’s a lie.

When a familiar Brahms piece starts playing, I notice how her relaxed posture suddenly stiffens up and her breathing becomes labored. I’m about to ask her what’s wrong when I see a tear slip down her cheek.

Something about her reaction doesn’t sit right with me, so I reach out to wipe the stray tear — only for her to jerk away from me. Her eyes are wide and filled with fear, as if she momentarily forgot where she was.

“Uhm, I … sorry,” she says, then turns back to the concerto. I file this reaction away for later, but I doubt she’d tell me what it was about.

Where did she go at that moment? And why does it seem like that song trapped her there?

Finally, the concert ends, the last note lingering in the air before being swallowed by rapturous applause. She turns to me, her eyes still a little misty, and for the first time since this all started, she looks truly happy despite her earlier reaction.

“Thank you,” she whispers, her voice heavy with sincerity. “This was … It was amazing, Mikhail.”

“You’re welcome,” I reply, though the words feel like shards of glass in my mouth.

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