Chapter 11 #3
“Alright, then…” Her tone shifts, covered in honey and a costume of love.
“I’m not mad, Ella. I have been too harsh with you lately.
You are valued here. I know it is not always…
easy. In fact, I wanted to offer to take you shopping with me today.
Just us girls.” Does she…mean it? Is she really sorry for how she treated me?
Would it be dishonest to refuse her olive branch?
“So?” I look down at my feet, unsure, before offering the slightest nod.
“Good,” she states. “We’ll leave after lunch, once you are done with your morning tasks. Is that clear?”
“Yes,” I say without a sound. She gives a little hum of approval, then walks away.
An afternoon. Just her and me. I longed for it as a young girl, but now, things have changed so much.
Can I put the sand back in the hourglass?
Is it possible for me to forgive all those years of neglect in the hope of mending our relationship?
Or at least try?
I get ready, sliding into my clothes slowly, reminding myself of Tristan’s presence and protective nature yesterday.
How his wound affected me to my core and how worried he was about my safety.
Did he feel our two desperate hearts beating in unison, or was it me alone, in my head once again, tormenting myself with a game made for higher players, ones used to women wearing silk gowns and swimming in diamonds?
Life has never been easy, nor kind. Pressure has been eating away at my happiness, year by year.
The pressure to be good, to be kind and humble, and to be there for everyone.
To let the crumbs of me chip away, so that everyone could take the part of me that fit them most. All those versions of me I cannot seem to perform well enough no matter how hard I try.
Good daughter, diligent stepsister, obedient stepdaughter, maid.
I peek outside, my finger tracing shapes on the glass, my breath turning into smoke on the translucent surface.
Caged. Trapped in a place parading freedom before me like a lottery win without the ability to buy a ticket.
I press my finger against the window. Harder.
Noticing a slight flinch of the glass, given the poor structure of the last floor’s wooden windows.
And I know that if I pushed more, I could almost, almost shatter it.
I stop, remembering a book I once read on the making of diamonds.
They weren’t built by accident. It turns out that diamonds are built under immense pressure.
Pressure. Thick and heavy on my shoulders.
Everywhere, left and right, coming from all angles, making me want to scream a loud scream, one that could shatter a window like this one.
Diamonds are built under pressure.
So perhaps not all is lost then.
Tristan
Retaliation was expected. Thick blood drips all over my chess set, coating the handmade marble pieces in crimson liquid.
Had each piece not taken two months to craft by hand by an artist in a small town near Verona, perhaps I would not be in such a displeased state.
But pile onto that the realization that Ella was sitting right here a few hours ago, and now I can feel wrath settling beneath my fibers, spreading like cobwebs.
Who is Ella to me now? Is she still a stranger?
I will admit, on my part, she has already taken place in my mind, probably more than she should have, but the thought of her, vulnerable and shaken, hours away from whoever came here to commit this act, is deeply, deeply unsettling.
Nate stands beside me, sharp and calm in his black suit, a fresh razor cut on his jaw, the thing all too common ever since having Maddie and having to juggle it all by himself. Without a word, I unlock my screen, and right as I am about to call Ella, I realize how idiotic my action is.
Me: Where are you? Are you safe?
I text. She does not answer right away, and I tap my leather shoes on the floor repeatedly, listening as Nate talks about possible entry points and cameras we could check, my mind drifting to the young woman who was here yesterday.
Will she be safe now that I have paid a visit to her stepmother?
Will she be safe coming here tonight again, given the situation?
“My bet was on your car getting the brakes cut, but this is, well, much different.”
“We knew they’d warn us back,” I say calmly.
“Yeah,” he runs a hand on his chin, “but the Vodianovs are not the most subtle, usually.”
“You’re right. They don’t waste time with subliminal messages.”
“Perhaps they have a new brain. Someone who is a better player.”
“No. That’s Cole. Look.” I point at the dark king, fallen while all the other pieces are still standing. “He did not appreciate our encounter last night and wanted to strike back. Pressure us.”
“Chess. How odd.”
“His father taught him. It was in his report.”
“You mean the file you learned by heart.”
“As you should too.”
“It did not occur to me that I had to learn all our enemies’ hobbies as well,” he snaps back.
“By the way, he entered his first tournament when he was twelve, lost to a man called Smavlov, then took private lessons with a grandmaster for four consecutive years. Should I go on?” His delivery is sharp, with a flair I would qualify as a tight-ass British investigator, but I suppose that is just Nate.
He’s always been the observant kind. I would smirk if I were not trying to figure out a way through this mess.
Think.
I have played all the moves in my head. It was a possibility. It was inevitable. Cole Vodianov wants war, and he has just signed a treaty by covering my chess set with what I gather, from the consistency, is most likely pig blood.
“Cancel all our appointments today. Reinforce security in the building and add more on our floor. Make sure we are guarded cyber-security-wise and track down all Cole’s movements since his men found him last night. I will call Brenton, Matt, and Saoirse.”
“Saoirse won’t answer.”