Chapter 29 — The Queen's Gambit
POV: Lyra
The morning after NexaTech's little circus, New York looked hungover.Rain clung to the glass walls of the conference room, turning the skyline into a watercolor someone had carelessly smudged. The streets below were veins of yellow cabs and damp impatience. I didn't mind the blur. Some cities were prettier when you couldn't see all the teeth.
I sat at the head of the long obsidian table, fingers wrapped around my coffee like it was the only crown worth keeping. The steam curled up, slow and deliberate, matching the rhythm of my breathing. Across the room, Kieller stood near the floor-to-ceiling windows, one hand in his pocket, the other holding his phone to his ear.
His voice was low — the kind of low that makes glass vibrate and people instinctively lean in without realizing why.He'd been like that all morning: coiled, sharp, watchful in that quiet way predators get right before they decide if you're dinner or a threat.And every so often, his eyes cut to me.
Not the I'm checking if you're okay kind of look.The I know you're hiding something kind.
And he wasn't wrong.
Because while the board meeting droned on about merger clauses, competitive advantages, and market shares like they were holy scripture, my mind kept slipping sideways — away from the polished table, away from the eager suits, away from the illusion of control.
Back.To last night.To the break-in.
Flashback — Hotel, Previous Night
The lower suite was supposed to be empty.It wasn't.
The door was open just enough to be insulting — a silent, unapologetic dare.I stepped inside first. Not because I thought I was safer, but because I refused to give Kieller the satisfaction of shielding me like some porcelain doll.
The air was wrong. Too warm, too lived in.Perfume over metal. Champagne over something darker — rot, maybe, or the stale aftertaste of fear.
The first thing I noticed was the lipstick-smudged champagne flute, perched on the balcony railing like it had been waiting for a toast that never came. The lipstick was a deep scarlet, almost black at the edges. Not mine.
"She's been here," I'd said, my voice sharper than the edge of the glass.
Kieller didn't ask who.Which told me more than if he had.
We moved deeper into the suite.The bedroom was too neat — staged, like someone had just stepped out for a moment and might return any second.On the bed: a silk scarf, half-folded. And in the exact center of the mattress, a small silver box.
Inside: a black flash drive.And a Polaroid.
The photo was of me, taken two nights ago.My balcony. My glass. My profile. The image was framed from above, the angle just high enough that I could see my own reflection in the window — and behind me, blurred but unmistakable, was a figure holding the camera.
Not a stranger.Someone I knew.
My skin prickled, my throat went dry, but before I could say the name out loud, the lights went out.
Total blackout.
The sudden dark swallowed the room whole. My heartbeat was loud enough to hurt."Stay behind me," Kieller said, voice steady as granite.
I didn't.
Somewhere below us, on another floor, glass shattered. Then — a scream. Short. Muffled. Gone in seconds.
We ran.Two flights down, the hallway was deserted except for one thing lying dead-center on the carpet. Another Polaroid — this time of Kieller, sitting in my suite, drinking my wine, his gaze on something just out of frame.
Across the bottom, in neat, deliberate handwriting:The queen moves last.
It should have felt like a threat.Instead, it felt like a promise.
Present — NexaTech boardroom
"…Ms. Vance?"The CFO's voice cut through my thoughts like a dull blade."Do you agree to these terms?"
I smiled. Slow. Sharp. The kind of smile that made lawyers nervous."Not yet."
He shifted uncomfortably, glancing at Kieller, who had turned away from the window but said nothing.The meeting dissolved soon after, the suits scattering like pigeons after a car horn.
Kieller stayed behind, still murmuring into his phone.I didn't wait for him.
The elevator ride up to the penthouse floor was empty. My heels echoed against the marble as I stepped out into the hallway. The carpet was thick enough to swallow sound, but something in the air felt off — the way it does just before lightning hits.
My suite door was ajar.Again.
I pushed it open.
The place was immaculate, every surface in its exact, perfect place. But there was a weight to the air, the subtle wrongness that comes from someone breathing your oxygen without permission.
On the coffee table sat a single white card.
Blank on one side.On the other:
Look behind you.
I turned.
A hand clamped over my mouth before the scream could leave my throat. The smell hit me first — leather gloves, laced with something sharp and chemical that made my vision flicker at the edges.
I twisted hard, driving my elbow back. It connected with something solid — ribs, maybe — and I heard a grunt. But then another pair of hands caught my arms, pulling them behind me.
There were two of them.
My heels scraped the floor, a frantic staccato against marble. I tried to anchor myself on the edge of the sofa, but they lifted me clean off it. My glass of coffee hit the floor and shattered, the scent of bitter roast flooding the room.
I kicked. Hard. Caught one of them in the thigh.The one holding me hissed in my ear, voice low, foreign, and cold:"Quiet, queen. You'll ruin the game."
The chemical bite in the air grew stronger. My eyes watered, my lungs felt heavy. My movements slowed — not because I wanted them to, but because my body was betraying me.
The last thing I saw before the black spread over my vision was the suite door bursting open.Kieller.
Too far away.Too late.