Page 24 of Love Is A Draw (Check Mates #2)

A fter round two, the Boardsmen’s Tournament had broken for the night, its matches finished until morning. The men went home in their carriages, the women to their drawing rooms, but the air still carried the charge of what had been played.

And even though the Pearler’s house had begun to dim, a few last candles sputtered in their holders.

A draft moved the curtains, low and steady, like the breath of something immense finally exhaled.

Gail stood at the edge of the room, the last echoes of applause from the onlookers still warming the back of her neck.

Rachel hugged her quietly before heading upstairs to tuck in Maia.

The Pearlers murmured their good nights, gently pressing her hand.

Greg nodded, feeling proud and tired, then sank into an armchair.

Fave Pearler stood by the window. One by one, everyone except them—Lady Hermy and Victor—had left. The key players remained.

But even though Fave, Greg, Lady Hermy, and Victor were there, Gail felt alone with the weight of what she’d done.

Not only had she survived—forcing another draw with Sofia von List—but she had also won List’s open scorn.

She had antagonized him, unsettled the room, and marked herself as an opponent not only to what List represented but to all his followers.

She had become dangerous in a tournament where victory always came at a cost.

Gail sighed and drifted back toward the board. It looked smaller now. Harmless. But its silence thrummed. Her last configuration remained untouched—the trap, the move, the very proof that she had not come this far by chance.

She wanted to sweep it all into the velvet box and lock it away. To pretend she hadn’t just exposed herself—mind and heart—in front of a room full of titled men and careful women.

Then she thought of her grandfather, waiting across the sea. Of Maia, curled into Rachel’s lap, of Victor, who looked tired and disheveled. Her heart ached for him, and yet she feared the danger.

She didn’t move the pieces. She left them exactly as they were.

She just stood beside the thirteenth table—Sofia’s board, where her draw had been declared. The position still showed the trap she’d laid, proof that she could have ended it if she’d chosen to. Her fingers moved mechanically, returning pawns to their velvet-lined box. Precise. Calm. Numb.

A voice stopped her. “Don’t clean up this one, Gail.”

Fave Pearler stood by the window, coat on, tone quiet but firm. He had not moved since the last of the guests and players had gone. His gaze fixed on the board as if it carried more than pawns and queens—as if it carried the weight of tomorrow.

She glanced toward him, then down at the board. The final position still glinted with checkmate.

“Why?” she asked softly.

From near the hearth, Greg answered with a stare. He was seated in a high-backed chair, glass in hand, the line of his mouth drawn tight. Between them, Victor sat hunched slightly forward, a teacup cradled in his hands. The steam curled beneath his eyes.

He hadn’t looked at her once. And that hurt more than any applause or silence from the hall.

Fave’s expression didn’t soften. “List expects the board to return to its start. He wants proof he still controls the game—even when he hasn’t won.”

Gail blinked. “Why do you let him?”

Hermy’s voice drifted from behind a silver tray. “Let him what?”

Here, behind closed doors at the Pearlers, they were equals: a countess, the Crown Jewelers, and the governess. But chess had changed.

She stared at the board—still set in the final position.

“They weaponize the board,” she said quietly.

“But the power isn’t in wood and ivory. It’s in us.

” She stood. One by one, she gathered the pieces, then closed the case, her hand lingering on the queen.

“Chess isn’t trapped in pawns and bishops.

It’s in the mind that arranges them, the will that dares to see further than the next move.

” She touched her temple. “That’s where it lives. ”

“What do you mean?” Victor’s voice was quiet, uncertain.

She turned to him, full and fearless. “Strategy is a language. And I’ve learned it.

From my grandfather. From you, when I was on the other side of the wall.

From everyone who thought I didn’t belong.

” She stopped next to him. “I’ve loved chess all my life.

And I’ve loved you since the moment you played me without knowing me.

But I’m not hiding behind the wall anymore.

” Her voice didn’t waver. “I’m not afraid to be seen anymore. I’m not afraid to say it.”

Victor looked up at her then. Really looked. Something flickered in his eyes—recognition, maybe pride, but deeper too, as if he had been waiting for this move and she had finally made it. “Then let them see,” he said softly.

His silence after was not refusal—but reverence.

Fave nodded. “It’s like a writer and a pencil. Doesn’t matter what it’s made of. Oak, ivory, or gold. It’s just a tool.”

Gail smiled. “The genius isn’t in the object. It’s in the mind that commands it.”

Victor hushed. “Or in yours.”

Every sound drained away until the quiet pressed like glass.

Greg rose, speaking solemnly. “This only happens in very rare cases.”

She stood taller beneath their gaze. She would not be erased. Not by List. Not by anyone. She was no longer just a player. She was the one making the next move.

And it wasn’t just hers, but one for all of them.

The house had emptied, but fury coiled beneath Victor’s skin.

Night pressed close around the Pearlers’ drawing room, the tournament suspended until morning, yet nothing in him rested.

Every step echoed the sting of memory—each stolen line from Tarkov’s notebooks, each counterfeit sacrifice performed under List’s smirking gaze.

And Gail’s face. The way she’d risen, quiet but unwavering, as if the board had never been theirs to begin with. She had stood for more than herself. For him, for Tarkov, for everyone, List tried to erase.

Greg leaned against the mantel, swirling amber liquid in his glass. “You see it now, don’t you? List isn’t just trying to win a tournament. He’s telling a story: that Jewish brilliance is borrowed. That your work—Tarkov’s, yours, Gail’s—was never real. Just mimicry.”

Victor stilled. The truth of it hit like a blow to the ribs. “He’s rewriting history.”

Greg nodded. “And if he wins, he gets the final word.”

Across the room, Fave stood still, a silhouette against the window, arms folded.

“White’s already owns the narrative. Their men walk in with titles and walk out with laurels.

But if List wins, it becomes gospel: talent is inherited through bloodlines, not forged in hardship. Another myth in fine print.”

Victor turned to him.

“But if a Jew wins? One of us?” Fave asked.

“Then we prove brilliance can’t be bought,” Victor said quietly. “Or buried, exiled, killed… whatever they try to do with us over and over.”

Greg pushed off the mantel, setting down his glass with a soft click. “My time as the Black Knight is coming to an end. But I won’t let List mock what I built and what you all built. I hope to sit across from one of you tomorrow.”

“List is dangerous, for us more than for you,” Victor said.

Hermy lowered her gaze, but Greg held Victor’s attention. “You still have time. But if you step aside now, you hand him the legacy you swore to protect.”

Victor’s jaw tightened. Gail’s face rose again in his mind, trembling but unbowed as she saw her grandfather’s work used against her. “I’ll face him. Not in whispers. Not in back rooms. On the board. Openly.”

“Then we fight,” Greg said.

Victor spoke to Fave. “Who’s left?”

Fave straightened. “List. You and me. One of us plays you next. Then the winner faces Greg.”

Victor’s chest tightened. The bracket was narrowing—every move now counted, every misstep fatal. But his blood stirred—not from fear, but from purpose. Fire returned to his limbs. He was ready.

Footsteps creaked above. Rachel Pearler appeared from the hall, wrapped in a dressing gown, her hair down and her eyes sharp. “That’s not entirely true.”

All heads turned.

Rachel’s voice was clear as flint. “You forgot someone.”

Greg blinked. “Who?”

“Gail,” Rachel said. “She’s played every round. She’s earned her place. She’s in the final too. I read the rules, and they speak of players, not me. So she’s a player in the final round.”

A hush fell, broken only by the low pop of the fire.

Victor’s breath hitched. Gail. Not just a prodigy. Not a footnote. A force.

Victor eyed the scattered pieces on the chessboard.

They were nothing but shapes—ivory knights, dark pawns, a king chipped at the base—yet each carried more than position.

They carried him. He saw not wood, but the pulse of everything he had fought to claim.

Awe struck him. Love followed, fierce and unbidden. She had always been more than he saw.

And now he’d fight beside her. Not to save her. But because she believed he was still worth saving, and he wanted nothing more than to be everything for Gail and worthy of her.