“Does it matter?”
“Yes, it does,” I tell him.
“I didn’t let you win. I’m rusty. I haven’t played in over twenty years. So, thank you. It brought back a lot of incredible memories and things I’d forgotten,” he says.
“Honestly, thank you. I needed a distraction. I’ve been …” I shake my head. “I don’t know. Off.”
“Understandable. Now, let me act as your genie in a bottle and grant your wish.”
“Anything?” I confirm.
“Anything,” he says.
This is the moment I’ve been waiting for. The reason I proposed the stakes in the first place.
“I want to paint you.”
He tilts his head. “You don’t need my permission.”
“Yes, I do. In order for me to do this, I need you to sit for me for a few hours per week. I have to submit something that will make your parents proud, and, well, you’re their golden child.” I hold his gaze and don’t let myself look away. “I don’t want to paint the crown prince in formal regalia with medals and sashes and whatever else you wear. I want to paint the you that you share with me when no one’s watching.”
He’s quiet.
“I don’t think this is a good idea,” he finally says.
“You said anything, unless you’re going back on your word.”
He runs a hand through his hair and looks away from me. He’s fighting with himself about this.
“When?” he asks.
“When are you free? I know your schedule must be intense,” I say with a laugh. “I require good afternoon light.”
“I’m free each day between five and seven. I’ll meet you in the conservatory. We’ll have privacy there.”
“Okay.” I can’t help but grin. “Thank you so much. Oh, also, I don’t know how many sessions I’ll need. Sometimes, it takes one or two sessions, but I’ve had people sit up to thirty before.”
I stand, happy that I’ve finally found my inspiration. He stands as well. Suddenly, we’re facing each other with nothing between us. No chessboard. No table. Just a few feet of charged air.
Neither of us moves.
“What would you have asked for?” The question slips out before I can stop it. “If you’d won.”
His expression flickers. “Does it matter?”
“I’m curious.”
The air between us is still, and I swear I can hear every breath we take.
When he speaks, his voice is lower, rougher than before. “I thought about asking you to leave Montclaire.”
The words actually hurt, and I take a step back without meaning to.
“Wait, you’re serious about wanting me to leave.”
“Yes.” He runs a hand through his hair. “That’s the problem.”
“I don’t understand.”
