Page 80 of Twisted Empire: King's Gambit

I look back at Mikhail from across the room. Despite being surrounded by people, he seems utterly alone. “To new beginnings,” I murmur under my breath.

GABRIETTE

As the night wears on, I find myself becoming more anxious. Every time Mikhail’s eyes meet mine, I don’t see warmth or love—only a steeliness that makes my stomach churn.

I clutch my little secret, wrapped up and hidden away, a surprise that, under normal circumstances, would be a cause for celebration.

But as Mikhail continues to keep his distance, I can’t help but wonder how this revelation will be received. Will it be the thing that brings us back together, or the final blow that drives us apart?

Gathering my courage, I set my glass down and make my way through the crowd toward Mikhail. As I approach, he disengages from a conversation with one of his lieutenants and turns to face me. But there’s no warmth in his eyes, only a chilly detachment that makes my skin crawl.

I smile and sidle up to him, but he steps away, and it feels like a literal slap to the face. “Mischa, can we talk?” I ask, trying to keep my voice steady.

He glances down at me, his gaze hard. “Now’s not a good time, Gabriette. I’m busy, as you can see.”

My heart drops and I swallow past the emotion in my throat.

“It’s your birthday and I’m your wife. When is a good time, if not now?” I press, unwilling to back down. “Please, if we could just—”

“I said not now,” he bites out, his voice tinged with a harshness I’ve rarely heard directed at me. “Is that so hard for you to understand?”

I’m left standing there, struck dumb by the coldness of his words. My cheeks flush hot, then pale, a mixture of anger and hurt swirling inside me. Without another word, I turn away, weaving my way out of the bustling hall as discreetly as I can manage.

Tears blur my vision as I slip into an empty ballroom, the silence a sharp contrast to the raucous laughter and chatter I left behind. I wipe away the moisture with the back of my hand, cursing myself for letting him get to me like this.

What did I do to earn this from him? Yesterday, things were amazing. Now this … this nothingness from him. Something must have happened to do this, and I have a feeling it concerns me.

And then I sense it as I feel the hairs on the nape of my neck stand on edge … the distinct feeling that I’m not alone.

I turn around and see him standing there, a silhouette framed by the dim light filtering in through the grand windows—Damien.

“What the hell are you doing here?” My voice trembles, a concoction of surprise and irritation. “I told you to stay away from me.”

Damien steps closer, his face becoming clearer. “I got an invitation. It’s a big event, and well, I thought—”

“You thought what?” I cut him off, my emotions too raw for any more surprises. “That it would be fun to show up and make everything even more complicated? You lied to me, knew who I was and continued to play me for a fool. I don’t want to hear a thing from you!”

He hesitates, then sighs. “I missed you, Angel. I wanted to see how you’re doing.”

“By ignoring my direct request for you to keep your distance? I don’t need this, Damien. Not tonight and you don’t get to call me that anymore!”

As I say the words, the weight of everything; my suddenly strained relationship with Mikhail, the emotional whirlwind of a gift I’ve yet to give. And now Damien’s inexplicable appearance—presses down on me, and I realize that I’m at a breaking point.

I don’t know how much more of this I can take.

Damien takes a step closer, his arms outstretched as if to envelop me in an embrace I neither want nor need. My vision’s a haze of tears, and I can’t think straight. Before I can stop myself, I’m swept into his arms, sobbing uncontrollably into his shoulder.

It’s not comfort I find in his embrace, but a momentary release for the pent-up tension, the emotional tempest that has become too much to bear alone.

But then a warm gush splatters against my face. It takes a millisecond to register the viscosity, the unsettling wetness.

My eyes snap open, and before me, Damien’s eyes roll back in his head, the wound on the side of his head making my stomach roil.

He staggers back, clutching at nothing, and then crumbles to the ground like a marionette with its strings suddenly cut.

Blood. So much blood, splattering the floor beneath him.

My heart thunders in my chest, and a scream lodges itself in my throat, but it never escapes. Because when I look up, standing there with a smoking gun in his hand is Mikhail. His face is a mask of fury, eyes narrowed to slits, jaw clenched so tight I can see the muscles twitching.

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