When I turn the corner, I spot the chessboard and see it hasn’t been touched. Every piece is in its starting position and perfectly aligned, like they’re waiting to begin again. The note that she left yesterday is still in place.
This ends now.
Addison was trying to protect herself, which I understand. Thesmart move is to retreat before this destroys us. But last night, in the clock tower, everything changed. It’s clear that we’re not walking away from one another without a fight. The two of us together are dangerous. We’re both too cunning, obsessed, and willing to take risks that won’t make sense to anyone.
The first time I found a move waiting for me on this board after years of not playing was exhilarating. I didn’t know it was her then. I knew someone was willing to challenge me and treat me like an opponent.
I start by replacing my pawns, then the knights, bishops, and the rooks. Move by move, I rebuild the game we never finished because I remember every position. It takes me ten minutes to restore the board exactly where we left it. When I’m done, I step back and look over it. The pieces are at war in the center. Both sides are committed, but neither is willing to retreat. It’s a mess, and it’s complicated, and there’s no clear path to victory for either of us.
I don’t know which of us will win, but it’s perfect.
I pull out my pen and write beneath her last note, hoping she stumbles across this soon. The thought has me grinning.
The game continues …
I tuck the paper under her queen and let my fingers rest on the piece for a moment. She told me to step into my power, and maybe this is what that looks like. It’s not grand gestures or dramatic declarations to each other publicly, but small, stubborn choices, taken one move at a time. Being with Addison is the only choice. Even though my life is a mess and seven women are waiting for me to choose one of them, all I can think about is the game that I refuse to let end.
Addison can reset the board all she wants, but I’ll put the pieces back.
We have to finish what we started. We have to see it through together. Maybe we both lose, or maybe we both win. Time will tell.
14
ADDISON
Imake my way to the palace before the sun rises. When I arrive at the chessboard to restart the game, I freeze. Every piece is exactly where they were. Our entire game has been restored. Every move and position are intact. Louis remembered.
His handwriting waits beneath my queen.
The game continues …
A soft laugh escapes my lips as I study the hook of hisGand how fancy hisSlooks. I pull out my pen and write beneath his words.
May we both win.
After making my move, I tuck the note under the board. The first time I found this board, I moved a piece as a joke to see if anyone would notice. Him being my secret opponent still doesn’t seem real.
The morning sun warms my arms as I head toward the portrait gallery instead of back to my cottage. I saw his grandmother’s portrait by moonlight, but now I have the urge to find all of Henri’s paintings of Queen Isabella II.
The gallery is empty, as it usually is this early. The air is dehumidified to help protect all the priceless, irreplaceable paintings inside. Henri painted the queennearly three hundred times over the decades, documenting her from a young bride to an aging monarch.
I stop in front of the first one, painted when she was in her twenties, and see it with fresh eyes. She’s wearing a formal gown with her hair down. On top of her head is a modest crown, but on her lips is the ghost of a smile. It’s a standard royal portrait that’s dignified, but I see the twinkle in her gaze. Her eyes are soft and full of life.
I move around the room, not able to scan each portrait fast enough. There’s one where she’s seated at a desk, and on top of it in the background is a stack of letters next to a book of poetry. I lean closer until my breath fogs the protective glass. The book appears in two other paintings I passed this week in the main atrium. The expression on her face is mischievous, like she’s learned to hide her love.
The next one hurts my heart to see.
In her hair is a flower, blush pink against the muted composition, and she looks so happy. I can almost imagine them meeting for paintings because Louis said Henri refused to take reference photos. Maybe that was his way of spending as much time with Isabella. The technology existed, especially for a royal.
I move faster now, hunting for more, trying to decode it all. In the background of one is a chessboard that looks similar to the one Louis and I play on. Maybe it’s the same one. But the positioning is stalemate; neither can win. Her expression is regal and untouchable. She’d learned to perform contentment so well that most looking at this would never know the reality.
The final portrait hangs at the end of the gallery, and it’s the one that breaks me. She’s maybe seventy, white-haired and lined, but her eyes sparkle. In her lap, almost lost in the folds of her dress, she’s holding a letter that’s unsealed and unread. The happiness is back. The flame kept burning, even after everything.
I note the date on the bottom of the painting and commit it to memory so I can do some internet sleuthing later. I study the scene and realize it was painted in the queen’s quarters. Behind her is a beautiful vanity—on top of it, more letters.
“You rekindled,” I whisper, staring at the painting.
I’m about to leave when a small landscape near the service entrance catches my eye. The composition is off because the focal point isn’t centered. I step closer and trace the brushstrokes down to theshoreline. There, in the rocks, barely visible, is a figure standing in a white dress.
