In chess, a gambit is the sacrifice of a pawn to gain control of the center. In life, sometimes you must lose everything to be free to move.
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Anastasia's fingers trembled around the stem of her water glass. The ice had long melted, but she clung to it anyway, her knuckles white against the crystal.
Across the table, Mrs. Wesley's lips moved, calm and practiced, delivering the words that severed Anastasia's future with the precision of a scalpel.
"Blacklisted."
The Aurum Palace's chandeliers blurred. The murmur of Seattle's elite faded into a distant hum.
"Eight dollars for this water", she thought numbly. Eight dollars for liquid that now tasted like ash.
"I'm sorry, Ana," Mrs. Wesley said, and the maternal gentleness in her voice was worse than cruelty. "You know I'd help if I could. But my hands are tied."
Anastasia's pulse roared in her ears. She forced her voice steady. "Is there really nothing you can do?"
Mrs. Wesley's briefcase snapped shut with a sound like a gunshot. "You crossed someone with power that dwarfs mine. No one in Seattle will touch you now. Not even me."
The truth was a fist to the ribs. Mark Caldwell.
The smirking heir to the firm she'd poured three years into, the man who'd sabotaged her cases, stolen her credit, and now, with a few well-placed whispers, erased her from the city's skyline.
All because she'd refused to let his hands wander in the dark of his office.
Mrs. Wesley slid a keycard across the table. "I got you a room. Rest. It's all on my tab."
Charity.
The word curdled in Anastasia's throat. Pride surged, hot and fierce, but it was a luxury she could no longer afford. Not when eviction notices loomed and tomorrow promised only uncertainty.
Though her entire body screamed to shove it back, she pocketed the card.
She watched Mrs. Wesley depart, heels clicking sharply against the marble like retreating gunfire, her figure dissolving into the lobby's opulent haze.
For a heartbeat, Anastasia felt hollowed out, her spirit scraped raw. But she lifted the card, fingers curling around it possessively. If this was Mrs. Wesley's salve for her guilt, a night's reprieve in this cathedral of wealth and velvet settees, then Anastasia would seize it.
Rising with deliberate calm, her mask of impassivity firmly in place, she glided through the lobby like a shadow among the privileged.
The lobby's marble floors reflected her like a funhouse mirror, elegant and untouchable, a lie. Men still stared as she passed, their gazes snagging on the defiant set of her shoulders, the curve of her neck. Her astounding beauty and poise. They saw mystery. Glamour.
They didn't see the cracks.
The elevator doors closed, and Anastasia's breath came in sharp, silent gasps.
The numbers climbed: 20, 30, 40, carrying her higher, further from the ruin below.
Then, a collision.
A woman in a fur-trimmed coat barreled into her, barely glancing up from her phone. "Watch it," she hissed before striding away.
Anastasia's clutch hit the floor, spilling its contents. Lipstick. A single credit card. And her stomach dropped; the keycard.
She crouched to gather them, her fingers freezing over another card left behind—Presidential Suite. Gold embossed, still warm from the woman's grip.
Her own card was gone, swallowed by the crowd trailing the woman like a wake.
No one noticed. No one cared.
Anastasia stood, the card burning in her palm.
No one would even know.
The thought slithered through her, dark and sweet.
For the first time in her life, Anastasia didn't step back.
She stepped into the elevator.