Chapter 4
LOUIS
The weeklong grand tour of disappointment ended exactly how I’d predicted, and now I have a little black book full of scores that don’t break forty and a hollowness that won’t fade, no matter how much whiskey I drink.
In Paris, a countess spent three hours describing her charity work without pausing to ask a single question about me. As I sat there, nodding along, my mind drifted to subway paintings and a conversation with my friend’s little sister.
The next day, a baroness laughed at everything I’d said, whether it was funny or not. Her giggles were so fucking shrill that I excused myself to the bathroom and left. I couldn’t stand another minute of her performance.
Munich was the absolute worst. A duchess pulled me aside after dinner and suggested I could marry one of her twin daughters, but enjoy both in my bed. I’d have a two-for-one deal. I couldn’t escape fast enough.
Seven candidates remain on the list, which means more chances to find someone who doesn’t make me want to fake my own death.
The royal council expects an engagement announcement by the end of August, a wedding soon after, and a baby on the way before the new year.
I’m losing hope that I’ll find anyone tolerable, which means my parents will select a wife for me like shopping from a catalog. The thought makes my skin crawl.
The same fresh flowers crowd every flat surface of the castle, and the curtains have been drawn open to allow the sunlight in. I breathe in the familiar scents, knowing I’ve returned to my beautiful cage. The bars feel like they’re closing in on me.
When I pass a hallway mirror, my reflection catches me off guard.
The tailored navy suit I put on this morning in Paris is wrinkled, my jaw has stubble I haven’t bothered to shave in days, and circles have formed under my eyes from too many sleepless nights in foreign hotel rooms. I look like a man who’s running from his own future with nowhere left to go. I wonder why.
The manila folder under my arm is full of photographs, family histories, and net worth calculations that I can’t bring myself to open again, even though my mother will ask about my dating progress at dinner. I’ll smile and nod and try not to suffocate under the weight of it all.
I should be doing something productive, like answering letters or preparing for the diplomatic dinner on tomorrow’s itinerary. Instead, I’m wandering the palace because standing still makes everything seem worse. I turn the corner into the east wing, and the air shifts immediately.
The chessboard sits nestled in the nook at the end of the hall, positioned between two soft leather chairs that still hold the impressions of bodies that haven’t occupied them in decades.
My grandmother kept this hand-carved chessboard tucked away from the noise of the palace, where she could think in peace.
She taught me to play on rainy Sunday afternoons when I was eight.
Her fingers were always heavy with rings that clicked against the pieces when she moved them.
Sometimes, she’d crack the window and smoke a few of those expensive French cigarettes while asking me to keep her secret.
This was one of the places I used to get lost, growing up.
What I loved the most was that she never let me win because coddling kids made weak adults.
When I finally beat her at fifteen, she cupped my face in her hands and told me she’d never been prouder of anything in her life.
Two months later, she was gone. No one has touched the board since, and it’s been treated like a memorial. Even the staff knows to leave it alone.
When I arrived home late last night, after days of useless conversations, I found a white pawn sitting in a new position.
I stood there for ten minutes, staring at that single piece, while a dozen emotions fought for dominance.
I should’ve been furious at the audacity, outraged that someone had dared to touch something so sacred.
Instead, I felt a spark of excitement that I hadn’t experienced since New York.
This morning, the knight was moved in an aggressive play that fights for control of the center and signals an intent to attack.
I pick up the folded paper beside the board and open it to find new words scrawled beneath mine. The letters are messy, but somehow neat.
I always do. Good luck.
You’ll need it.
Laughter escapes me before I can stop it, and the sound bounces off the stone walls.
Whoever this is, I owe them a thank-you for doing this because no one talks to me like this.
Everyone I interact with is so careful not to offend me that I’ve forgotten what it feels like to be treated like an actual person.
This note drips with a confidence that borders on arrogance in a way I find oddly refreshing.
I sink into my grandmother’s chair, and the soft leather sighs beneath my weight.
A faint hint of tobacco releases from the cushion.
The aggressive style mirrors how she used to play, and for a moment, I wonder if her ghost has found a way to challenge me from beyond.
Whoever I’m playing isn’t afraid of risks.
My grandmother used to tell me to think three moves ahead, to anticipate my opponent’s strategy, and to plan accordingly. It’s something I’ve never forgotten.
I slide my knight forward and keep my options open. Before I leave, I pull out my pen and write something below the previous message.
Who are you?
I fold the paper and leave it beside the board, already counting the hours until I can return and hopefully find an answer.
The rest of the morning dissolves in meetings I can barely focus on, and I nod along while my father drones about trade negotiations and ceremonial duties.
I’m forced to plan my schedule with my father’s secretary, and then I review documents that require my signature and scribble my name across paper until my hand cramps.
After lunch, I sit through a briefing on agricultural policy that makes me want to gouge my eyes out with the fountain pen I’m holding.
Through it all, the chessboard tugs at my attention like a thread I can’t stop pulling.
Eventually, I enter the sunroom that’s hazy with afternoon light.
I find my sister curled up on a chaise with a book and a glass of iced tea that I’m almost certain is whiskey.
Condensation beads on the outside of her glass while she reads.
She looks so relaxed that envy pricks at me.
Delphine has no idea how lucky she is to be the spare instead of the heir.
When I enter, her expression shifts into something unreadable. “Oh, you’re back so soon. I heard a rumor you’d eloped with a countess.”
“I wish that were true because it would mean I’d actually found someone worth talking to.”
“They can’t all be terrible.” She sets down her book and pats the space beside her. “Come tell me everything.”
I sink into the chair across from her instead because sitting beside Delphine means she’ll try to hug me, and physical comfort isn’t something I can handle right now. I want to be left alone.
“I’ve rejected several women since I returned from New York. It’s not going well.”
“Mother said there were more. When will you meet the others?”
“Soon. And I’m honestly afraid I’ll run out of candidates before I find anyone tolerable,” I admit, and it comes out like a confession.
Delphine wrinkles her nose. “And then?”
“Mom and Dad will decide my fate.”
“That won’t happen,” she offers, though her voice lacks conviction. “You’ll find someone.”
“I hope you’re right.”
She studies my face for a moment. “You look like shit.”
“I feel like it too,” I say.
She slides a bookmark inside her book and closes it. “On a scale of one to ten, one being miserable and ten being happy, where are you?”
“Truthfully?”
She nods.
“Zero.”
My answer sits between us, and she doesn’t try to fill the silence with positive bullshit, which I appreciate. I can tell it makes her sad though.
“Have you noticed anyone wandering around the east wing lately?” I ask, steering the conversation away from that.
Something flickers behind her eyes. “No. Why?”
“Things seemed different when I returned from my travels.” I keep some details to myself because I want the chess game to stay a secret for now.
“I haven’t noticed anything unusual, but I’ll keep an eye out if you want.”
“I’m sure it’s nothing.” I stand and stretch. “Great chat. I’ll let you get back to your porn.”
“Shut the fuck up,” she says with a laugh. “Go find a wife or something.”
“I’m trying.” I head for the door, and I wish this conversation hadn’t felt so heavy.
The rest of the afternoon I spend in my study, staring at a flickering fire while documents pile up on my desk. Reports sit untouched because every time I pick up my pen to sign something, I find myself replaying the conversation I had with Addison Cross at the gallery.
By seven o’clock, I’ve given up trying to be productive. I move toward the east wing again because I need to know if my mystery opponent responded.
The hallway is still, the air cooler as the day fades toward evening, and when I approach the board, I see a new piece has moved. I unfold the note with steady hands.
Someone who’s going to beat you.
A grin spreads across my face.
“Arrogant asshole,” I say while enjoying the words more than I should.
The ivory bishop has moved into a position that threatens my knight while opening up the diagonal for their queen. They’re not playing for a draw. They’re playing to destroy me.
I consider my options and know I could play defensively, but that’s not the game I want with someone who’s literally declaring war. I move my bishop in response because it puts pressure on them, and then I pull out my pen.
You’ve met your match.
I leave the paper face down beside the board and step back to admire the position, pieces tangling in the center as we both refuse to give an inch.
That night, dinner is served in the small dining room my parents use when there are no guests to impress. The table is set, and candles flicker between us while I push food around my plate without interest.
“How was the trip?” my mother asks.
“Educational,” I say, taking a bite of grilled fish.
“That’s not an answer.”
“I didn’t connect with any of them.”
She exchanges a look with my father that I pretend not to notice, then speaks in the careful tone she uses when she’s trying not to apply pressure. “Louis, the council is expecting—”
“I know.” I set down my fork. “It will be done.”
“It will.” My father’s voice isn’t angry, which somehow feels worse. “We will choose for you if necessary.”
“I’m aware,” I say, not needing the reminder again.
“You seem distracted tonight,” my mother says while cutting open a potato. “Something on your mind besides the obvious?”
“Nothing worth mentioning.”
“You’re a terrible liar, darling, and you always have been.”
I think about New York, subway paintings, tilted handwriting, and a chessboard in a quiet alcove. “I’m tired from traveling. A good night’s sleep will cure it.”
She must hear something final in my voice because she lets it go.
After dinner, I return to my quarters and change into loose pajama pants. I open the windows to let in the sound of the waves below. The bed has been made with fresh linens that smell like lavender and sea salt, and I slide between them while the manila folder sits unopened on my desk.
I stare at the ceiling while moonlight shifts across the room. The water crashes against the rocks in a rhythm that usually puts me to sleep, but tonight, it does nothing. I shift onto my side, then my back, then to my other side because my mind won’t stop spinning.
The women who I’ll meet have all been vetted and are ready to commit to an eternity with me.
I should be grateful. I should be studying their backgrounds and preparing thoughtful questions for our dinners.
Instead, I’m lying here, obsessing over a stranger’s handwriting and the cocky promise that they’re going to beat me at chess.
I throw off the covers and walk to the window, gripping the stone ledge. The sea stretches into the dark.
My grandmother would tell me to focus on what mattered and to stop indulging in distractions. She was training me to be king. I wish I could ask her what the fuck I’m supposed to do now.
I wait for an answer, but one never comes.
Instead of crawling back into bed, I return to the chessboard and add another note under my previous one, then move my piece back to where it was. This is now a stalemate, physically.
I return to bed and stare at the ceiling until my eyes burn. Somewhere between three or four in the morning, I fall asleep, and somehow, I’m already dreading the day.