Page 63 of The King's Pawn
His eyes drop to them.
Surprise flashes first, then panic. But then, just as quickly, it’s gone. The practiced confusion slides into place like a mask he’s worn so long, it fits better than his own face. He lifts one brow, sitting back down in his chair as if mildly inconvenienced rather than caught red-handed.
“What is this?” he asks calmly.
My voice trembles, but it’s not from weakness. It’s fury vibrating so hard through my chest, I’m afraid my sternum might crack under the pressure. “I’m not here to confirm or deny the truth. I already know what happened. All I want to know iswhy.”
His throat bobs as he swallows. “Where did you get these?”
“Why did you have her killed?” I spit the words out.
For a moment, the room is perfectly still. Even the hum of the computer seems to fade into the background.
“I didn’t—” he starts.
I cut in, my voice rising despite myself. I don’t care if anyone hears. I don’t care if the entire house comes running. “Don’t lie to me. You paid for it. I have the proof. Sasha confirmed it.”
“That’s absurd,” he sneers, a brittle laugh following.
My hands curl into fists at my sides. My nails bite into my palms right before I slam one of them down onto the desk with enough force to make the things on top of it rattle. “Stop lying! I saw the money transfer order, your name right next to his! You killed her! For what? Because she found out about your dirty deals?”
His expression slips. Only for a heartbeat, just long enough for the truth to surface before he can drag it back under, but I see it clearly this time. It’s fear, raw and unguarded. Not for me, that would never be the case. But of being caught, of losing control and the exposure that will come of it. Of the carefully constructed narrative unraveling right in front of him.
Then comes the rage.
It rolls in fast and ugly, tightening his jaw and hardening his eyes. It’s a fury born not out of grief or guilt but from inconvenience. Of being challenged and confronted by the one person he never thought would look too closely.
And then, with terrifying ease, the mask snaps back into place.
The politician returns.
He’s now the man who knows how to weather scandals, bury bodies—literal or otherwise—and smile through any storm no matter the consequence. His posture straightens, his shoulders square, his face smooths into a cold and impassive frown. Thesame one, one I’ve come to recognize intimately, worn every time he steps behind a podium.
“You don’t understand how politics works, Alina.” His voice is flat, rehearsed. “There were threats.Enemies. People waiting for an excuse to dismantle everything we’ve built.”
We.
As if my mother had ever been part of thatwe.
He continues, his tone sharpening, “Asking questions, digging into matters that never concerned her… she had become a vulnerability they would have used against us.”
Against you, I think wildly.Against your career. Against your ambitions and your power and your precious public image.
The words feel unreal, like they’re echoing down a long hallway I can’t quite reach the end of. My chest tightens so painfully, I can barely breathe.
“She was mymother!” I scream, the sound tearing out of me raw and broken. The sound of my own voice startles me. “She loved you,” I choke. “She loved me. She believed in you. She stood beside you while you climbed over everyone else to get to where you are now. While you sold pieces of your soul one deal at a time, and youkilled herfor it!”
“She was a liability!” he snaps.
I stagger backward, my heel catching on the edge of the rug. For one terrifying second, the room pitches hard enough that I’m certain I’m going to collapse right there at his feet. My hands fly out instinctively, grasping for balance, but there’s nothing solid to hold on to. The walls feel too far away, too out of reach.
My stomach twists violently, a sick, wrenching spiral that drags bile up my throat. I swallow hard, fighting the urge to vomit, my vision blurring at the edges as my pulse roars in my ears.
A liability.
Not a wife. Not a mother. Not even human. That’s how he’s always seen her.
Just… an obstacle. Something inconvenient that threatened the narrative he was building, the image he was selling, the career he was desperate to protect at any cost. Something to be removed and disposed of like a stain that couldn’t be scrubbed out of an expensive piece of furniture.
