Chapter Text
The wheels rolled smoothly along the carpet. She sat on her knees in a prim posture, her hands on her lap and her back straight. The glass walls around her were so polished, she could almost forget she was trapped. The steaming room-sized meal on the plate beside her kept her from forgetting entirely, though. With each door the waiter wheeled the cart past, she braced herself. He didn’t come to a stop until the last door on the right—room 3218. A luxury suite.
The waiter knocked. “Room service!”
Footsteps thudded on the other side. The door swung open to reveal a man with dark hair, dark clothing, and an even darker look on his face. How curious for someone to look so inconvenienced by the arrival of a gourmet meal they ordered.
“Good evening, sir,” the waiter said.
“Make it quick,” the man muttered, stepping back to allow the cart to pass through the door.
This gave her a full view of the suite. The first and only thing she noticed was the chessboard set up by the window, illuminated by a single lamp and the moonlight glowing through the panes. This man was here for the tournament. No wonder he looked so irked by the interruption.
Her eyes went glassy. Trinkets were supposed to be anonymous once they went through the facility, stripped of their past identities before they were sent out to whatever random bar, hotel, brothel, or business they were assigned. Since the beginning of the tournament that week, she had no doubt that her placement at this hotel was intentional, designed to taunt and torture her until she drew her last breath.
Tearing her eyes away from the chessboard, she looked up at the man as he spoke. She wondered if she had met him at some point, in her other life. He didn’t look familiar.
“I did not ask for a trinket,” the man said, barely looking at her. He had an accent that suggested Spanish or Portuguese as a first language. An international player.
“She’s complimentary, sir,” the waiter said. “A token of congratulations for your victories today.”
The man didn’t blink. “I don’t want her.”
“Would you like me to bring one that suits your preference?”
He sneered. “I am not interested in spending my night with a felon.”
The waiter cleared his throat. “Well, you can simply leave her in the case. Should you change your mind, your room key has a sensor to open it. Please ensure you place her back inside and shut it properly before leaving the room or setting the tray outside. Though, I can assure you our trinkets are well-behaved.”
The guests were less so. Twice now, she had been sampled by other people on the way to their rooms after she’d been sloppily left on the tray outside the door.
“Fine.” The man whisked the tray off the cart before the waiter could, setting it on the coffee table in front of a lounger. All the while, she held perfectly still and kept her eyes trained up at him, trying to figure out if she’d met him before.
“Have a lovely night, Mr. Soto,” the waiter said with a nod, pulling the cart out of the room. “And best of luck tomorrow.”
Soto. The name made her jaw clenched. Andres Soto. A 30-year-old champion from Argentina, visiting the U.S. for the first time. There was no way they could have met before, but they certainly would have crossed paths at some point, had things turned out differently.
She continued to stare at him as he grabbed the plate of food from beside her and took it over to the chess table, ignoring her entirely. Just when she thought that was the end of that, Andres returned to the tray.
Fear. She couldn’t stop it from coming, but she had long since learned what to do when it showed up. Even before she was a trinket. Imagine your spine turning to steel, Kate would tell her. And look your opponent in the eye.
She wet her lips and willed her spine to turn to steel, certain that he did intend on toying with her despite his disgust toward her. However, when his rattling steps paused in front of the coffee table, he merely reached down to grab the glass of red wine across the tray from her.
Again, he made it clear that she was beneath his notice.
“Is that a chessboard?” she blurted before he could walk away.
He turned back, his dark eyes locking on her. What a stupid thing to say. Why would she draw his attention when everything was in her favor? A night of being ignored was a blessing she could not have dreamed of, and here she was throwing it away. She could be like the poor trinkets that had been gathered downstairs in the dining hall, being used as game pieces by drunken tournament losers.
“Obvio,” Andres said simply, starting toward his board again.
“May I see?”
Another pause. Frustration mounted in his stance. He walked back to the coffee table with heavier steps. He loomed over her and stared down. She couldn’t be sure if he was purposely trying to intimidate her, or if it was a side-effect of him trying to figure her out. Chess players had a particular look about them, the way they tried to analyze the person before them. Which meant he viewed her at least somewhat like a person. Fascinating.
“I’m studying,” he growled out. Intimidation. No doubt. “I have no time to entertain you.”
“I’m not asking for entertainment,” she said. “Only to see the board.”
“You are bothersome.” He filled more of her vision as he bent down to pick up the tray. He started for the door. “Shall I toss you into the next room? Perhaps they will enjoy you more.”
“I want to play,” she informed him calmly. But on the inside, her heart felt like it was ripping to bloody pieces with each step that carried her away from the chessboard. She needed to see it.
Andres stopped in his tracks, making her waver in her seat only slightly. “You?” he asked skeptically.
“Me.” She shrugged and cocked her head at him. “Or I can help you study. You’re replaying today’s games, aren’t you? That’s what I’d be doing. I didn’t like it when they brought me trinkets, either.”
He lifted the tray higher and narrowed his eyes at her, his stare on the tipping point between intrigue and dangerous aggravation. “Who are you?”
“I’ve been told that my name is Queenie.”
He didn’t take the bait and ask for her real name. Some pathetic and silly part of her wanted to tell him herself without prompting. A talented player like him would recognize her name—for better or for worse. But she kept her mouth shut. For all she knew, he’d go on a power trip knowing he had a former chess champion at his mercy.
Setting the tray down, he swept up the case and carried it over to the chess table. He used the sensor on his room key to open the door for her. She stood slowly to accommodate the soreness of her knees, then stepped out onto the table. She admired the board with a fluttering heart, hiding a smile. It was a fancy one—the squares lit up where the pieces were put. Half the pieces were set aside, while the ones on the board were in active play.
Andres took a seat and picked at his food with a fork. “Here you see the twenty-second move from my last match this afternoon,” he told her. “I was black. It was her turn.”
Folding her hands behind her back, she strolled around the outside of the board, weaving around discarded pieces. She tried hard not to think about the fact that the king and queen were taller than her.
“You know,” she said. “There’s an app that can sync with this board. It allows you to record the moves of your previous games. It sets up the pieces for you, turn by turn.”
He scoffed. “You think I am not aware? I find that doing it the old-fashioned way is better. Keeps the mind sharp.”
“I agree.” She examined the placement of the pieces on the board and felt a tingle of familiar exhilaration, able to see different avenues of victory for Andres. He had his opponent cornered by this point. “How many moves left until you beat her?”
“Six, counting her next one.”
“Hm. You could have done it in three.”
He raised his eyebrows, more surprised by her impudence than annoyed. “Imposible,” he murmured in his mother tongue as he eyed the board to find what she meant. Then he shook his head. “I don’t see it.”
She gestured at the board. “May I?”
Waving his hand dismissively, he sat back and took a sip of wine. Against all odds, she was not garnishing a drink or plate tonight. For that moment, she was in the past—simply having a conversation with a rival, trying to outdo one another and pick each other’s brains. The illusion was lost when she had to actually climb onto the board. The squares lit up beneath her feet as she stepped on them.
“Let me guess,” she said. “She moved the bishop here?” The piece was only slightly shorter than her. Pushing it in a diagonal line, she gave Andres an expectant look.
“Good guess.”
Tapping her chin, she turned slowly to examine the slightly altered layout. In her mind’s eye, she could see the pieces moving and track the placement of each turn that created the five remaining moves leading to Andres’ victory. Without having to ask, she knew precisely what he and his opponent had done.
“May I show you how you could have put her away quicker?”
“Do it.” Andres watched in silence as she moved a black piece, then white, then black again.
“Checkmate,” she announced, planting one hand on her hip.
Andres set the wine glass down so hard, she thought it would shatter. He dropped his elbows on the table, rattling the board beneath her feet. Steepling his fingers, he scoured the board with his eyes and muttered to himself. Finally, his eyebrows quirked up again when he looked at her.
“Insightful. I will study this strategy.” He did not thank her, but then again, players rarely did under normal circumstances. She did sense a begrudging sense of gratitude lurking somewhere underneath, particularly when he spoke up again. “Let’s play.”
Not an offer. Not a suggestion. An order.
“I am yours tonight,” she told him just to see the faint disgust on his face at the reminder that he was spending the night with a felon.
Piss off your opponent when you can, Kate would say. Makes ‘em more likely to fuck up. Oh, and if you manage to stay classy while pissing 'em off? Honey, you're golden.
He gave her no time to move out of the way as he began to arrange the pieces into their starting positions. She was forced to stay in the middle of the board, lest he bump her with his quick movements. Although she tried to appear as calm as ever, there was a tightness to her mouth as his hands flew over her, fingers and chess pieces narrowly missing her head. Months ago, she arranged boards just as effortlessly. Now she needed both arms to move a single piece.
“Black or white?” she asked when he was finished.
“Your choice.” He plucked up a black and white pawn, one in each hand. His hands vanished under the table as he shuffled the two pieces out of her sight. Then he held his closed fists in front of her. She shuffled two steps back; he moved so quickly, she couldn’t be sure he would stop. “Choose,” he said when she stayed frozen for all of two seconds.
She pointed to his right hand, and he opened it to reveal the black piece. He placed it in front of her, and she slid it over to its spot.
And then the game began.
Andres made the first move, nudging a pawn from its place on the front line. The surreality of the situation almost left her breathless. It had been so long since she played, but all at once she felt herself fall back without a second thought, as if she hadn’t missed a single day. She was able to move the pieces on her own, up until she wanted to move a knight that was still nestled among the other pieces with no clear pathway out.
Just as she was considering carrying it around the outside of the board, a massive hand filled her vision. She flinched to the edge of the board and nearly fell off, staring up at Andres with wide eyes and a clenched jaw. He picked up the knight and weighed it in his hand.
“Where do you need it?” he asked matter-of-factly.
“F6,” she croaked.
The spike of fright did not derail the strategies that unfolded in her mind. The game went on. When she began taking some of his pieces, he did not hesitate to help her out, setting them aside without waiting for her to struggle or ask. He was just as focused as her, eager to keep the game flowing—all the more so as the game entered its thirtieth move.
She paced up and down the edge of the board, rubbing the back of her neck thoughtfully. He was good. But she knew she was better. The problem was a stark disadvantage with her size.
“I need to see the whole board,” she realized aloud. “It’s frustrating to gauge it like this.”
Laser-focused on her plight, she didn’t see Andres’ hand coming. In the forty-five minutes they had been playing, she had gotten used to him plucking up pieces and avoiding her. A fresh thrill of fear closed around her heart as his fingers pinched her waist and swept her up. She gave a choked cry, her hands digging into the sides of his fingers as her legs dangled over empty air. She was perfectly accustomed to being held like this, but amid the game, she had forgotten the reality of her life.
“You said you wanted to see the board,” he said to her reaction, and she was surprised to hear the slightest note of apology.
She looked across at his face, the way his eyebrows were furrowed in faint concern. Wetting her lips, she swallowed hard and focused down at the board. Her breathing calmed as her world began to make sense again. She could see several pathways to victory for both of them—which meant she knew exactly how to thwart him.
“Thank you,” she said when she was done, squirming slightly in his pinched grip. He put her back down with more care than he did the pieces.
Three moves later, doubt began to creep in. Not doubt that she could beat him—doubt if she should. He was a champion. She used to be. Now she was nothing but a trinket—even less important than a pawn on a chessboard. Even if she was superior in commanding the game, he held all the power over her the moment it was over.
If he was a sore loser, he could quite literally kill her.
Pursing her lips, she analyzed the board and spotted a trap he was obviously setting up for her by using his last rook and bishop. A lesser player would fall for it easily. She took the bait, pretending to be sure of herself.
“Check,” he said upon his next move.
She moved her queen, protecting her king while sealing her doom. “Right back at you.”
A little smirk lifted the corner of his mouth. He took out her queen. “And that’s checkmate.”
Sighing, she tipped her king over with both hands. It clattered and rolled a short distance. “Guess I’m out of practice,” she said.
His accursed hand moved for her again, and for a second, she thought she had thrown the game for nothing. He was going to torment her anyway. A part of her was royally ticked off—she should have let herself beat his ass if things were going to end up like this anyway. But his hand stopped just short of her, finger extended.
“Good game,” he said. “Tough game.”
She released her caught breath, looking from his finger to his face and back again. She pressed her hand to his fingertip. “Tough game,” she agreed.
“It went on longer than any of the others I played this week.” He examined her once again. It was more overwhelming when he looked at her with a multitude of things other than disgust and detached interest. “Chess is clearly close to your heart. A shame this happened to you.” He gestured vaguely at her miniature stature.
She shrugged. “Chess saved my life. And then ended it.”
He nodded as if he had any clue what she meant by that. In a way, she supposed all serious players at least understood the first half.
Andres’ hands flew around her again as he began picking up pieces and setting them back into their starting positions. “Again?” he asked. And this time it was undoubtedly an offer.
She eyed the squares on the board, the white team forming in front of her in a whirlwind. There would never be another opportunity like this again. Despite all odds, she had returned to her haven of sixty-four squares. A distraction from the real world, just for tonight.
“Again,” she said, smiling for the first time at him.
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The next night, she couldn’t decide if she was surprised to be requested back in the same room. She did not allow herself to win the night before. It was enough just to come close and know she could decimate Andres’ strategies if she wanted to. Perhaps he wanted another night of analyzing his games of the day.
One night of bliss was lucky. Two was unheard of.
Andres wasn’t any friendlier with the waiter tonight, and strangely, the moment the door shut, his hardened expression didn’t become any less guarded with her. He set the tray down and lifted the glass case before his eyes. Maybe he always needed time to thaw out.
“Congratulations,” she said, noting the gold trophy by the window. “You should be out celebrating.”
“I’m not the celebrating kind.”
She snorted. “I never would have guessed.”
The slightest smile touched his lips—obviously involuntary. His eyes did not move from her, seeking something. “When I finished my opponents early today, it gave me the time to think. And the time to replay our games from last night. You see, something was bothering me.”
Goosebumps rose along her arms, but she said nothing and kept her expression neutral.
“Anyone who plays an entire match like that would not fall for those endgame strategies so easily. Certainly not five times in a row.” He brought her closer to his face. There was nowhere to hide. He knew. He knew everything. “You threw the games. All of them.”
She played dumb. “A smart man like you should understand why a trinket in my position would do that.”
Scoffing, he reached into his pocket to pull out his room key. He opened the case, and rather than reach inside to grab her, he tilted it and made her slide out onto his palm. She couldn’t breathe for a second, scrambling to sit up and redeem what little dignity she could. Her heart thundered like a galloping horse as he carried her over to the chess table and gruffly dropped her on the middle of the board. When he took a seat, he leaned down and propped his chin on the backs of his fingers, putting himself nearly at eye level with her.
“I studied your moves,” he went on. “I researched female players with the same playing style.”
He knew.
Shuddering, she started to back away.
“I found someone who matched,” he said. “And she vanished from the chess world four months ago.”
“Andres…”
He straightened, touching the top of the queen piece on his side with his fingertip, toying with it. “Lorelei Weaver. The night after you came in second in the U.S. Championship, you were arrested for first-degree murder.
Her voice started to rise. "You don't understand—"
"You pushed the champion, Kate Miller, in front of a subway train in New York.”
“She was my friend!” she shrieked. “You don’t know shit! I was framed!”
He cocked his head. “Sentenced to be a trinket.”
She collapsed onto her knees and covered her face, shoulders wracking with sobs. She had not cried since she was human. For a moment, she was gone. All she could hear was the roar of the train. The screaming. Her own screaming. It echoed so loudly in her ears, she was surprised she wasn’t doing it in front of Andres. He said nothing, merely observed her as she cried herself out and gathered her bearings again.
“Louis Mclean came in third,” she went on in a thin voice, dropping her hands to her knees. “I humiliated him in the semi-finals. I beat him in less than ten moves because he was cocky. Just like that, in ten moves, all of his training was shot down and meaningless.” She swallowed hard, feeling tears brim up again. “Then Kate beat me. Oh, I was pissed. But she was my friend. And Mclean wasn’t done playing.”
She sniffled, flinching when Andres’ hand appeared beside her. He touched her shoulder with his fingertip, his expression unreadable as he regarded her.
“Go on,” he said.
“One, he invited us out to eat the next night. Two, he made sure we were standing in a blind spot while we waited for the subway. Three, he pushed her. Four, he jumped back while I tried to catch her. Five, he screamed that I killed her. In half the number of moves it took me to put him away in the semi-finals, he eliminated us both. Six moves, if you count him puking when he looked down at Kate’s blood on his clothes.”
Her words hung in the air like falling snow, until it settled.
Andres did not speak for a full minute. Then he gave a slow nod. “I see.”
She wiped her eyes. “You believe me?”
“Whether I believe you makes no difference, does it? That game is over.” He folded his arms on the table in front of the board, looking down the bridge of his nose at her. “But I vowed not to leave this place until I beat every worthy competitor. It would be an honor to play you again, Lorelei Weaver. And this time, don’t you dare go easy on me.”
She stood slowly, her body and mind still deciding whether to fall apart or put itself back together. Then she straightened her back, turned her spine to steel, and looked up to meet her opponent’s eyes.
“Black or white?”