Page 15 of Love Is A Draw (Check Mates #2)

Two days until Round Three…

I t was nearly eight o’clock, and on any other morning, Gail would be setting up Maia’s lessons—chess problems, letter writing, gentle laughter. But today, even as she brushed her hair in the mirror, her mind lay elsewhere.

The silver hairpins slid into place, securing the loose strands at her nape.

Beyond that, her fingers reached for the unfinished braid—but the comb wasn’t there.

That comb, carved and worn, had been her grandfather’s gift, an heirloom from her grandmother.

It grounded her in every morning ritual.

Now it was gone—taken—just when her life felt most unmoored.

She caught her reflection in the glass, her eyes sharp, alive. Yesterday, she’d seen Victor in the doorway, his gaze unwavering.

The title should go to the best player. Anything less would devalue what it stands for.

His words weren’t a promise. They were action. An assurance. He would do it. But what if he didn’t?

She gripped the brush. For a moment, guiltily, that flutter in her chest: need. Not just for the comb, but for him.

A knock at the door broke the spell.

“Miss ?Gail!” Maia sounded too eager, nearly breathless. She knocked again, impatient. “Miss? Gail!”

Gail laid down the brush and moved to the door. The lock clicked, and the lamp’s flame trimmed her reflection in gold.

Maia stood there, arms full of tulips—bright yellows, pinks, oranges—and wild flowers dusted with dew. A small folded note nestled at the center of the bouquet, sealed with plain wax.

Maia’s grin shone in the morning light. “For you!”

Gail blinked. “For me?” Her words caught slightly as she reached for the bouquet. The blooms were simple, wild, still cool with morning dew.

Maia grinned. “You never get flowers or letters. What does it say?”

Gail smiled faintly, but her heart raced. “One must open a letter to read it, Maia.”

She smoothed the parchment with careful fingers. The bold, cursive script was Russian.

You play in two days. Victory must not fracture the bridges. Choose only what builds.

— V.R.

Her breath snagged. Victor.

And beneath the words, the unspoken invitation—he would be waiting at the gardens where the balloons were. And she might dare take a ride with him.

Maia pressed closer. “Well?”

Gail didn’t answer. Her fingers hovered over the signature, heart thudding with something dangerously close to hope. What did he mean— choose only what builds ? The words were plain, but the weight behind them was not.

She stared at the note. If she beat Sofia von List, the Pearlers would rise, Greg’s legacy would be safe, and her grandfather—if he came—would be proud. But Victor…

If she won, he might leave. Because this tournament was about more than merit—it charted politics, survival, and allegiance—the right to stay where freedom was at least a possibility.

Victor had always played for something greater than himself.

And if she shattered the List strategy, it might fracture the fragile power keeping Victor in London.

She had wanted to play. Now, she wasn’t so sure she wanted to win.

As Maia stood on her toes to smell Gail’s bouquet, footsteps echoed. Fave and Rachel appeared, bright with morning chatter.

Fave lifted Maia. “No lessons today. We’re off to the shop—perhaps a pendant?”

Rachel met Gail’s gaze. “You’re free, then. If something calls.”

Gail stiffened slightly, the letter still clutched.

Rachel smiled knowingly. “Victor delivered them himself. Looked as though he’d staked everything on your answer.”

Fave smiled. “He’s not a man who endangers you, Gail. He wants to court you.”

The words struck like a match in her chest. She glanced again at the note and tucked it into her apron.

The comb was gone. But the game… the choice… was still hers.

She lifted her eyes. “Perhaps I shall go. He will be waiting.”

Victor stood a few feet from the great oak tree, hands clenching and unclenching at his sides.

The damp grass crunched beneath his polished boots, and the faint scent of morning dew mingled with the unusual tang of heated metal and coal.

His eyes darted toward the gates, overgrown with ivy and hedges, then flickered back to the wide trunk of the tree, as if it might somehow relinquish its secrets before she arrived.

If she arrived.

His heart hammered furiously, a relentless rhythm that seemed to echo in the quiet that hung over Vauxhall at this early hour. Even the breeze is a judgment. The stillness stretched, brittle and tight.

Would she come?

Behind him, the balloon pilot muttered under his breath, his Hackney accent rough-edged but practical, slicing through Victor’s racing thoughts. “Hold that edge straight there, sir. Can’t have the envelope all bunched up now, can we? She’ll never inflate like that.”

Victor turned and stooped, his hands brushing against the coarse fabric of the deflated balloon.

Bright orange with painted stripes of yellow and blue, it should look striking.

The colors stood vivid against the muted grey-green of the morning landscape, yet here on the ground, the envelope looked more like an enormous, crumpled sail than the grand, sky-bound marvel he had envisioned.

It didn’t gleam or impress the way he had hoped.

“I wanted her to see something extraordinary,” he muttered, more to himself than to the pilot.

“Eh, it’ll look better aloft, it will. All balloons do.” The pilot straightened his back and wiped his hands on a rag stuffed into his belt.

A stout man of perhaps fifty, his broad shoulders, despite his small stature, gave evidence of a life spent hauling and maneuvering these great flying contraptions.

The wooden basket rested nearby, sturdy but unadorned, anchored to the ground with ropes as thick as Victor’s wrist. A burner unit sat atop it, gleaming faintly and connected by copper tubing to a heavy iron valve.

“Is the basket secure?” Victor asked, a thread of unease slipping into his question.

The pilot shot him a toothy grin. “Aye, tight as a vice and double-checked. We’ll set the burner goin’ proper soon, just as soon as she’s straightened out nice-like. Gotta be patient, sir.”

Patience had never been Victor’s strong suit.

He crouched again, barely noticing the dew soaking into the knees of his trousers or the faint tang of coal and soot wafting from the burner as the pilot tinkered with the valves.

The hiss of gas followed by the occasional pop of ignition made Victor flinch every time.

This was about her. About proving he could be more than a memory. That she was more than the charity of his affection, that together, they could defy expectations—his own included. He glanced toward the tree again. Would she come?

The entire enterprise had seemed brilliant in the heat of inspiration.

A symbol of freedom, of boldness, of reaching heights to which others could only aspire.

Special. Original. Just as he had planned every move on the chessboard, he had mapped this out.

The timing, the place, the details—all tailored to her.

And yet, doubt gnawed at him now, sharp and persistent.

Was it rash? A careless sacrifice of practicality for the sake of flair? He had seen it before on the board, the moment an overconfident move sacrificed the bigger strategy. Was this the moment for him?

The pilot’s announcement broke through his thoughts. “I’ll start the burner now, sir. Best keep your coat clean—we’ll have some soot flying.” He reached for the lever, and soon the rhythmic whoosh of the flame filled the air, rippling the orange envelope as it began to rise.

Victor stood and stepped back, brushing at his dark frock coat. The fabric was still spotless, meticulously cared for, but he suddenly felt exposed. He checked his pocket watch. Only half past eight. The breeze stirred the trees. He glanced again toward the gates, unable to stop himself.

He watched the edges of the fabric lift. “What if the wind picks up?”

“Oh, a bit of wind’s normal, sir. Keeps it interesting, that does. Nothing like a shift in direction a mile above ground to spice things up, ey?” The pilot shook his head with what seemed like blissful indifference.

Victor, however, felt no such ease. He wanted every movement, every moment, firmly in hand.

And then he saw her—a figure in the distance, her form unmistakable in its lightness, graceful yet deliberate. She was walking toward the tree. Toward him.

Time seemed to halt. Air stilled around him, quiet except for the burner’s rhythmic exhale. His breath caught, and his heart slammed to a stop before resuming a wild, erratic gallop. She had come. She was truly here.

Victor’s hands clenched as a sudden wave of emotions overtook him, rushing past strategy and deep into something unguarded and real.

Anticipation and relief mingled with a vulnerability so raw, he seemed laid bare.

Every plan, every detail, seemed to vanish in her presence.

She underscored his bold strokes and upended the careful calculations all at once.

He feared she was already the better player. The one with the nerve to play for a draw just to stay in the race without overstepping her station. And he admired her all the more for it. Admiring her so deeply, it terrified him.

This wasn’t a move. This was a surrender. If this had been the board, she had just placed him in checkmate without so much as moving a piece.