The King's Move and the Queen's Gambit

ROMAN

I stared at the half-empty wine glass before me, ignoring the perfectly cooked steak going cold on my plate. The 1982 Bordeaux—a wine worth more than what most people made in a month—tasted like nothing on my tongue tonight.

My mind was elsewhere, dissecting every lie Seraphina had fed me over the years. The fabricated pregnancy was merely the final insult in a lifetime of manipulation.

"Is everything to your satisfaction, Alpha Vance?" The restaurant manager hovered nearby, his anxiety evident in the slight tremor of his hands.

"The wine is excellent." I took another deliberate sip, watching the restaurant over the rim of my glass.

Several patrons were stealing glances in my direction. Good. Let them look. Let them wonder. Let them talk.

The manager shifted his weight nervously. "Sir, I noticed you haven't touched your meal. Perhaps I could have the chef prepare something else?"

"That won't be necessary."