I pick it up and open it. The handwriting is elegant and confident in a way that feels almost arrogant.
Bold first move.
Let’s see if you can keep up.
I read it twice, then smile.
Someone wants to play.
I study the board for a long moment before moving my knight. I pull out my sketching pencil and scribble something on the opposite side. My handwriting is messier and more impatient than theirs.
I always do. Good luck.
You’ll need it.
I leave the note face down beside the board and walk away with a grin—because they’re going to lose.
4
LOUIS
The weeklong grand tour of disappointment ended exactly how I’d predicted, and now I have a little black book full of scores that don’t break forty and a hollowness that won’t fade, no matter how much whiskey I drink.
In Paris, a countess spent three hours describing her charity work without pausing to ask a single question about me. As I sat there, nodding along, my mind drifted to subway paintings and a conversation with my friend’s little sister.
The next day, a baroness laughed at everything I’d said, whether it was funny or not. Her giggles were so fucking shrill that I excused myself to the bathroom and left. I couldn’t stand another minute of her performance.
Munich was the absolute worst. A duchess pulled me aside after dinner and suggested I could marry one of her twin daughters, but enjoybothin my bed. I’d have a two-for-one deal. I couldn’t escape fast enough.
Seven candidates remain on the list, which means more chances to find someone who doesn’t make me want to fake my own death. The royal council expects an engagement announcement by the end of August, a wedding soon after, and a baby on the way before the new year. I’m losing hope that I’ll find anyone tolerable, which means my parents will select a wife for me like shopping from a catalog. The thought makes my skin crawl.
The same fresh flowers crowd every flat surface of the castle, and the curtains have been drawn open to allow the sunlight in. I breathe in the familiar scents, knowing I’ve returned to my beautiful cage. The bars feel like they’re closing in on me.
When I pass a hallway mirror, my reflection catches me off guard. The tailored navy suit I put on this morning in Paris is wrinkled, my jaw has stubble I haven’t bothered to shave in days, and circles have formed under my eyes from too many sleepless nights in foreign hotel rooms. I look like a man who’s running from his own future with nowhere left to go. I wonder why.
The manila folder under my arm is full of photographs, family histories, and net worth calculations that I can’t bring myself to open again, even though my mother will ask about my dating progress at dinner. I’ll smile and nod and try not to suffocate under the weight of it all.
I should be doing something productive, like answering letters or preparing for the diplomatic dinner on tomorrow’s itinerary. Instead, I’m wandering the palace because standing still makes everything seem worse. I turn the corner into the east wing, and the air shifts immediately.
The chessboard sits nestled in the nook at the end of the hall, positioned between two soft leather chairs that still hold the impressions of bodies that haven’t occupied them in decades.
My grandmother kept this hand-carved chessboard tucked away from the noise of the palace, where she could think in peace. She taught me to play on rainy Sunday afternoons when I was eight. Her fingers were always heavy with rings that clicked against the pieces when she moved them. Sometimes, she’d crack the window and smoke a few of those expensive French cigarettes while asking me to keep her secret. This was one of the places I used to get lost, growing up.
What I loved the most was that she never let me win because coddling kids made weak adults. When I finally beat her at fifteen, she cupped my face in her hands and told me she’d never been prouder of anything in her life. Two months later, she was gone. No one has touched the board since, and it’s been treated like a memorial. Even the staff knows to leave it alone.
When I arrived home late last night, after days of useless conversations, I found a white pawn sitting in a new position. I stoodthere for ten minutes, staring at that single piece, while a dozen emotions fought for dominance. I should’ve been furious at the audacity, outraged that someone had dared to touch something so sacred. Instead, I felt a spark of excitement that I hadn’t experienced since New York.
This morning, the knight was moved in an aggressive play that fights for control of the center and signals an intent to attack.
I pick up the folded paper beside the board and open it to find new words scrawled beneath mine. The letters are messy, but somehow neat.
I always do. Good luck.
You’ll need it.
Laughter escapes me before I can stop it, and the sound bounces off the stone walls. Whoever this is, I owe them a thank-you for doing this because no one talks to me like this. Everyone I interact with is so careful not to offend me that I’ve forgotten what it feels like to be treated like an actual person. This note drips with a confidence that borders on arrogance in a way I find oddly refreshing.
I sink into my grandmother’s chair, and the soft leather sighs beneath my weight. A faint hint of tobacco releases from the cushion. The aggressive style mirrors how she used to play, and for a moment, I wonder if her ghost has found a way to challenge me from beyond. Whoever I’m playing isn’t afraid of risks.
