The Chess Master's Final Deadly Move

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o abruptly leave for Paris, but they understood the depth of my hurt, even if they didn't know the full, ugly truth. They'd promised to handle the transfer applications t

eclaim wha

lcove across the street, my heart pounding a frantic rhythm against my ribs. At 7:58 AM, the lobby door opened, and there he was-Alden Sco

ast wa

branding iron, searing my palm. The lock clicked, and I pushed the door open, stepping into the apartment that had once fel

camera, the one he' d used to record our most vulnerable moments. It

gtails, and her smile was wide and innocent. Her eyes, however, held a hint of something fragile, something delicate. Krissy. This was Krissy. The girl he claimed my father h

videos, and I needed to leave. I started searching frantically, tearing through drawer

s bookshelf. Alden was methodical, precise. He would have built a hidden compartment. My fingers fumbled, tracing the outline. A faint

it. My gaze fell on the hard drives. He had multiple. How many "intimate moments" had he recor

what was on them, but I knew I couldn' t leave them here for him to use. My eyes darted around t

all table in the corner. His grandfather' s, he' d told me. His most prized possession. It was beautifu

ies. My hand reached for the black knight, its carved mane sharp under my trembling fingers. I lifted it, feeling

t stop. I picked up another piece, then another, smashing them against each other, against the table, until the intricate carvings turned to dust

n my face. It wasn't enough. It would never be enough to erase the

. I recorded the destruction, panning slowly over the splintered board, the broken figures.

this our f

retched out before me, indifferent and vast. I was leaving it all behind. The pain, the lies, the charad

y in my bag, a constant reminder of the violation. I wondered what Alden's reaction would be. Rage

istic aspirations in a city I loved, my family. My family, who had been so kind, so understanding. They had a

w Al

g my lungs. No going back now. My past was a shattered chess set, and my

gain. A text from an unknown number. "Alondra,

ded, but this time, it wasn't fear. It was a cold resolve. He wa

ew York behind, I felt a strange mix of sorrow and fierce determination. I looked down at the shrinking city lights, each one a tiny burning ember of a past I was desperate t

hilling thought pricked at the edges

image of his vengeful face, his cold, perf

my defiant strokes. But even as I dreamed of paint and freedom, a

f a different kind of game. A game I didn't kno