Page 3 of Twisted Empire: King's Gambit

Emma wraps me in a hug that’s so tight I’m momentarily distracted from my internal freak-out. “Oh, cut the ‘what ifs,’ you’re going to kill it.”

Lucy pats my shoulder, and a ripple of disgust shoots through me. I hate having this reaction to being touched.

“Walsh is not an idiot and wouldn’t come all this way if you weren’t worth it, Bella. Stop doubting yourself. He knows talent when he sees it. Stop freaking out,” she says.

Hearing their sincere words makes me smile, genuinely this time. They have no clue about who I really am, yet they’re going all out for me.

It gnaws at me—the guilt, I mean. They don’t know Gabriette, and if I’m being honest with myself, they probably never will. No chance in hell.

“Speaking of guys who aren’t idiots,” Emma says, waggling her eyebrows, “will Damien make it tonight?”

I can’t help but grin like an idiot when Damien’s name comes up. “Nah, he’s caught up with some work. His boss has him on a tight leash,” I assure them before they can spin it into a Shakespearean tragedy.

Damien’s my rock, my first real friend when I landed in this city as Bella. He doesn’t know the full story either, but I think he knows I’ve got secrets. And even though he can’t make it tonight, knowing he’d be here if he could, comforts me.

As the night rolls on, the apartment fills with music geeks like me, toasting in my honor. It’s a warm feeling, but under my skin, nerves are jumping like live wires.

Fast forward to the party. It’s the kind of cozy get-together that should make you feel like a million bucks, only I feel like I owe someone a million bucks and the debt collector’s coming.

Friends from my music circle, people who really matter in the industry, they’re all toasting to my ‘bright future.’

After some wine and chit-chat, Lucy’s eyes light up like Christmas lights. “Bella, play that piece from last week!”

My cello’s over there, elegant and unassuming in the corner. I can’t say no. “Fine, one piece. Then I’m saving the magic for tomorrow.”

I can feel my pulse picking up as I grab the bow and start playing. The second I play that first note, it’s like stepping into another world.

Just me and the music. No lies, no secrets—just sound. But even as I lose myself in the melody, doubt sticks around like a bad smell.

The music is supposed to soothe me, but it doesn’t erase the doubt lodged in my gut like a splinter.

I finish, and the applause is instant, but so is the return of my jitters. Can I pull this off tomorrow? Do I even deserve to?

Emma and Lucy stay till the bitter end, offering a shield of positive vibes. “Tomorrow’s going to be great,” Emma assures me.

“You’ve worked so hard for this, Bella. You deserve all the success,” Lucy adds as well.

I love them for it, really, I do. But the pit in my stomach doesn’t go away.

I’m grateful, but even as they leave and I pour myself a glass of wine, my heart’s still racing like I’ve chugged a gallon of espresso.

Tomorrow’s a monumental day, my shot at changing my life as Bella. I just have to get through it without the world knowing I’m actually Gabriette.

I’m left alone in my apartment, wineglass in hand. I sit down on the couch and take a deep breath.

Tomorrow’s another day, another lie, another note. And who knows? Maybe tomorrow I’ll be good enough for all three.

So I take a deep breath, trying to push the worries to a corner of my mind. If only lying to everyone didn’t make this whole “new life” thing feel like walking a damn tightrope.

But this is my passion, this is what I live and breathe and nothing will ever feel more perfect than my fingers and bow meeting strings. I worked damn hard to get here all by myself, and I deserve this as much as anybody.

There’s a knock on my door just as I walk into the kitchen to wash out my wineglass, and I frown. It’s after ten pm, no one should be knocking on my door.

The only knocks you get at this hour are either bad news or, well, worse news.

I set my glass down and move cautiously to the door, feeling a chill crawl up my back. But as I peek through the peephole, my heart does this weird somersault thing. A mop of brown curls and a dimpled smile are staring back at me.

Ah, trust Jackson to vet late-night visitors.

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