Page 102 of No Longer Mine

Don didn’t press me. He simply moved his next piece, waiting, giving me space to decide if I wanted to say more.

I stared at the board, at the pieces arranged in battle, and inhaled slowly. “I used to play,” I admitted, my voice quieter than I intended. “A long time ago.”

He didn’t look surprised. “You were good.”

It wasn’t a question, and I didn’t argue. Instead, I traced the edge of my rook with my fingertip. “I had to be.”

Don studied me for a long moment. “Had to be, or wanted to be?”

I let out a humorless laugh. “In Vanewood, they were the same thing.”

He leaned back on the couch, his expression thoughtful. “It must’ve been exhausting.”

My throat tightened at the unexpected empathy in his voice. I nodded once. “You have no idea.”

He didn’t respond right away. When he finally did, his voice was softer than before. “Maybe I do.”

I met his gaze, searching for the lie. But there wasn’t one. “I wasn’t good at anything. I had to be good at something. I thought when I left there I would find another thing that I enjoyed, but unfortunately, I didn’t. I’ve searched high and low, nothing has ever made me feel like this again.”

“Why do you think you were brought to Vanewood then if you weren’t good at anything? Isn’t that the place where the most talented orphans ended up?”

I swallowed hard, my fingers tightening around the rook. “I don’t know,” I admitted. “Maybe they made a mistake.”

Don didn’t look convinced. “You don’t really believe that.”

I let out a slow breath, staring at the board but not really seeing it. “They chose me because… of my looks.” There was nothing good about me. I wasn’t talented, I wasn’t special, and my family wasn’t rich. The only thing it could have been was my looks, and when they began touching me… It was only confirmed.

Don’s expression darkened, the easygoing amusement from before vanishing like smoke. His fingers stilled on the chess piece he’d been toying with. “Scarlett…”

I shook my head sharply. “Don’t.” I wasn’t looking for pity. I wasn’t looking for sympathy. I had spent too many years burying that truth, locking it away so deep that even I barely acknowledged it anymore. But saying it out loud—admitting it—felt like ripping open an old wound that had never really healed.

For a long moment, Don didn’t speak. He just watched me, his gaze unreadable. And then, quietly, he moved a piece.

“Your move.”

I blinked. That was it? No forced apologies, no uncomfortable reassurances?

Slowly, I exhaled, my shoulders easing the tiniest fraction. I studied the board, forcing myself to focus on the game instead of the weight in my chest. My fingers hovered over a bishop before changing course.

I moved my knight.

Don nodded slightly, as if I’d passed some kind of test. “Better.”

And just like that, the conversation shifted. The past didn’t disappear, but it wasn’t suffocating me anymore. Not with the board between us, not with the pieces waiting to be played.

For the first time in years, I wasn’t running away.

“Thank you,” I whispered.

His head cocked to the side in question. “For?”

“For giving me a piece of myself back that I thought was stolen from me.”

We played in silence for a while, the steady rhythm of the game settling something deep in my bones. I focused on the pieces, the strategy, and the anticipation of Don’s next move. It was familiar, grounding in a way I hadn’t felt in years.

“Do you ever miss it?” he asked suddenly, breaking the quiet.

I kept my eyes on the board. “Miss what?”