Page 61 of Twisted Empire: King's Gambit

“Where were you?” His voice is low, almost a whisper, but laced with an undercurrent of menace.

“I was out,” I reply cautiously, toeing off my shoes and making my way further into the room. “Is something wrong?”

“With whom?” he presses, completely ignoring my question.

“I was alone,” I answered, confusion muddying my thoughts. “I went to watch Amaranthe’s old concerts, to immerse myself in her music. She was an extraordinary cellist, and I wanted to draw inspiration from her.”

His grip tightens around the glass but he says nothing, so I continue, “I got lost in time. I didn’t mean to worry you.”

“Why did you kill my call?”

I blanch at the venom in his voice. “I didn’t mean to, Mikhail. I silenced my phone before going in and I forgot to turn the ringer back on. As I’ve said, I lost track of time,”

For a moment, he just stares at me, as if trying to peer into the depths of my soul. “You think this is funny? Do you take pleasure in making a fool out of me?”

Taken aback, I reply. “What are you talking about? Why would you say that?”

His laugh is a harsh, bitter sound. “You tell me. Five hours in a theater with another man, ignoring my calls. Should I find that amusing?”

“Another man?” Confusion gives way to realization. “You’re talking about the pianist from the philharmonic? That was purely professional, Mikhail. Music, that’s it. Why would you jump to such conclusions?”

“Wouldn’t you, if the roles were reversed?”

His face remains an impenetrable mask, but his eyes... oh, those eyes seem to bore into my very soul. And I hate it. I hate that after everything we’ve been through, after the depth of the connection we’ve recently explored, he would even think for a second that I’d betray him.

“Do you think I cheated on you?” The words tumble from my lips before I can stop them, each syllable a blend of disbelief and hurt. “Do you think that little of me? Of us?”

He opens his mouth to speak, hesitates, and for a moment, I see a flicker of something—uncertainty, maybe, or regret—cross his features. But then it’s gone, replaced once again by that infuriatingly unreadable mask.

“Answer me, Mikhail,” I pressed, my voice tinged with an edge of desperation.

A heavy silence falls between us, each word left unsaid adding weight to it. The magnitude of what he’s implying finally hits me. Does he actually believe I would cheat on him?

I feel a pang of hurt, sharp and poignant. “You think I’d jeopardize what we’re still building, for a fleeting moment with someone else? After everything?”

His gaze softens for a fleeting second, and I see it—the vulnerability he hides so well.

“You have to understand, Gabriette, the life I’ve lived, the betrayals I’ve suffered—they’ve taught me to question everything, even the things I want to believe in the most,” he says, shaking his head. “Tonight was a big fucking deal to me, and I just wanted to hear your voice, only to be shut out.”

I walk over to him, take the glass from his hand, and set it aside. Then I sit next to him, forcing him to look at me.

“You’re not the only one who’s been hurt, who’s been betrayed. But if we’re going to make this work, this marriage, this life, we have to trust each other. There’s no other way.”

He stares at me for a while, pinning me with that gaze that always used to get my heart beating way too fast … now it’s doing it for all the wrong reasons.

“Trust is a fragile thing. Never make me question mine,” he says, finally breaking the silence that has stretched too thin.

And as I look into his eyes, the gravity of those words, the unspoken promise, and the veiled threat they carry, settles onto my shoulders. In this newfound world of ours, built on precarious pillars of power, responsibility, and yes, love—I realize how easily it could all crumble.

So, I take a mental step back, reminding myself that while we may have won battles, the war—the war for trust, understanding, and an everlasting togetherness—is still to be won.

“So, do you trust me?” I ask softly, needing to hear him say it, to dispel the thick air between us.

He looks at me for a long, weighted moment. “I want to,” he says, then he turns on his heel and walks away from me.

I stand there, stunned, watching his retreating back. It’s as if he’s drawn a curtain between us, one made of doubt and past wounds, and I can’t help but wonder if it’s a curtain we’ll ever be able to draw back.

After what feels like an eternity, I follow him. When I reach our bedroom, I find him in the walk-in closet, removing his shirt and trousers and neatly folding them before placing them in the hamper. His movements are mechanical, almost robotic, as if he’s trying to keep his emotions locked away.

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