Page 47 of The Knight (Endgame 2)
“We still have a week left.”
The final week he won in the auction. “What does that have to do with this?”
“You can have it back when we’re done. Unless you find it on your own.”
Red flashes across my vision. “Why do you play games?”
“Why do you assume it’s a game?”
“Because you have no reason to keep it from me.”
“So you say.”
I close my eyes, taking a deep breath. Does it matter? In the large scheme of things I’ve gone years without reading the diary. I can go a few more days. “One week.”
And like we’re signing a treaty: “One week.”
What will happen after that? Will he send me away or ask me to stay?
Is he even capable of asking something? All he knows how to do is purchase me. Once the escrow transfers to me, I won’t be for sale anymore—I won’t need money. I won’t need Gabriel.
After hanging up, I call Harper. She tells me that she returned to New York City with Christopher, that they’re locked in some kind of battle, neither willing to give in.
She’s fuming. “He’s doing this just to piss me off.”
“I know the feeling,” I say drily. “Except…”
“Except what?” she snaps, her voice rich with warning.
“As your friend I want the best for you. I want you to be happy.”
She sighs. “This is one of those tough love situations, isn’t it?”
“I’m just saying it seems like he’s trying to do right by you. And it kind of feels…” I clear my throat. “I mean, is it possible you’re spending more just to make him angry?”
“It’s my money!”
“Right, but he was tasked with managing your money.”
“My money, not managing me. He’s ridiculous. And horrible. And did I mention ridiculous?”
“Well, sure. Yes. But you know he takes his job seriously. It was in your dad’s will. It’s not like he can question what exactly the man’s intentions were. He looked up to your dad. He wouldn’t want to fail him in his last request.”
“Stop being reasonable,” she huffs. “He’s horrible.”
“Horrible,” I agree.
“I can’t believe you’re siding with him after what Landon Moore did to you. He trashed your trust fund! You lost your house because of him! He should be behind bars. He’s the one who should be bedridden. I’d kick his ass for you. If, you know, I weren’t five foot nothing.”
“I appreciate that, but Landon stole from me. You don’t think Christopher’s messing with your money, do you?”
She sounds more aggrieved than ever. “No, he actually made it bigger with his investments. And don’t you dare say that’s a good thing. Chicks before dicks. We agreed.”
“I’m pretty sure I never agreed to that, much less heard you say it. But for what it’s worth, I’d kick his ass for you. If, you know, I wasn’t stuck being the not-quite-virginal sex slave of a rich asshole.”
The asshole and I live the next few days in a sex dream, never leaving the house, barely leaving his large four-post bed. There’s an urgency to our lovemaking, an unspoken awareness that the end is near.
In the mornings he works from his office, and I explore the house—searching for the diary. It’s a half-hearted search, fueled more by curiosity than any real desire to end this. Because the end is coming soon enough. I don’t need to hurry it along.
The gaps in my knowledge loom outside these four walls, waiting, watching. They’ll find me soon enough, but for now I’m safe in Gabriel’s arms.Chapter Twenty-EightBy the last day I’m certain I’ve looked everywhere for the diary. It still eludes me. I even checked outside the house, almost getting lost amid the tall hedges shaped into an elaborate maze. I’m actually more impressed that Justin made it through that during my last stay.
I wake when the moon is high, suddenly alert. Did I hear something? Or is it only my anxiety, wondering what tomorrow will bring? This might be my last night in this bed. I know that Gabriel cares about me, but I’m not sure he’s capable of having a regular relationship. Not sure he wants to try.
On a whim I pick up the pawn from the side table.
Slipping from the bed, I walk barefoot through the empty halls. The air still smells faintly of the fresh biscuits Mrs. B. made for dinner. I turn sideways into the library, the fireplace dark in the middle of the night. There’s a small lamp on the table with the chess set.
I put the pawn in its place.
We never did play, not with the set, but we played our own version—the instinctive waters of middlegame. Openings are strategic, mapped out and named. Analyzed with strengths and weaknesses. But middlegames contain infinite combinations, too complex to define. Both fighting for control of the board, trading with the fervent hope that we’ll come out on top.
