Checkmate

Tessa:

I stand very still, spine straight, hands loose at my sides, the way I was instructed. The way compliance is supposed to look.

Around me, the other women do the same. We’re spaced evenly across the board, placed strategically. Black and white dresses brush our ankles, identical cuts, identical lengths. No one speaks. No one looks at anyone else. It feels intentional, this silence, like we’ve been stripped even of the comfort of shared fear.

My heart is pounding so hard it hurts. Each beat slams against my ribs, frantic and uncontained, and I’m certain someone must hear it.

This is not what I agreed to.

The thought lands sharp and undeniable.

I try to trace it back, to pinpoint the moment where consent slipped through my fingers and turned into this. Somewhere between the elevator ride and this room. Between the soft reassurances and the doors closing behind us with that final, echoing sound. Somewhere between being told I was taking part in a beauty contest and realizing this… whatever this was was no beauty contest and safety was never part of the bargain.

I don’t know what I agreed to anymore.

Only that whatever it was, fractured, cleanly, violently, leaving me standing here, on display, pretending my body isn’t screaming to run while my face remains perfectly still.

The room is enormous and impossibly quiet. Crystal chandeliers hang overhead, their light muted by heavy velvet drapes the color of dried blood. They soften nothing. They only make the shadows deeper.

I remember minutes ago my stomach dropping, my skin prickling with something hot and unbearable, humiliation curdling into terror, we were held in a smaller room at the back. Pure concrete, fluorescent lighting, and the sound of crying that wouldn’t stop. Some of the girls were already shaking.

The men laughed. Then, casually, almost kindly, one of them explained we would be playing chess and we would be the pieces.

I remember thinking I must have misunderstood, because no one could agree to this. Because no one would walk into that room willingly if they knew.

But… Here I am.

My eyes move left. The girl beside me has blood in her mouth.

It glistens dark against her teeth, a thin line trailing from the corner of her lip where she’s bitten down too hard, too long. Her jaw trembles like she’s trying to hold herself together by force alone. Her eyes dart wildly around the room, frantic, searching, walls, doors, shadows, as if a safe way out might suddenly reveal itself if she looks hard enough.

There isn’t one.

Every doorway is guarded. Every path out is sealed by men who don’t look at us like people, but inventory. The realization hits her a second later. I see it in the way her shoulders sag, in the way her breathing turns shallow and uneven.

Two spaces down, another girl is shaking.

Not quietly. Not gracefully. Her entire body trembles as if fear has loosened something fundamental inside her. Her hands twitch at her sides, fingers curling and uncurling like she might run if her legs would only remember how. Her eyes are glassy, unfocused, already somewhere else, already breaking.

The urge to reach out, to say something, anything, burns in my chest.

I don’t.

We were warned about that too.

I force my gaze forward again, nails digging into my palms hard enough to ground me. I can’t afford to look like them. I can’t afford to unravel.

Not for me.

For Owen.

The name settles the chaos just enough to breathe. Just enough to stand here and endure the weight of what this really is. Whatever happens next, whatever move they decide to make with me, I will take it.

Because leaving was never an option.

And because somewhere far from this room, a boy I love more than my own life is counting on me not to fall apart.

“Tonight,” a man says, stepping forward.

His grey suit is meticulously tailored, the kind that costs more than most people make in a year. It marks him immediately, not a nobody, not background noise. Someone important in this room. Someone accustomed to being obeyed.

If not for the pure evil radiating off him, I might have thought he was handsome.

He spreads his arms wide, satisfied, triumphant, as though this, us, is a gift he’s unwrapping at his own leisure.

“I present to you a game,” he says smoothly. “My game.”

A pause. Deliberate. Enjoyed.

“A human chessboard.”

The words land like a verdict.

Something cold coils in my stomach, tighter and tighter, until breathing feels like a conscious act. My mind scrambles, rejecting the phrase even as it understands it. Human. Chessboard. Pieces. Moves.

Us.

If this is his game, fine, but, he doesn’t get my terror for free.

“As you can see, ladies and gentlemen,” the man continues smoothly, “our charming… participants are the pieces. Black and white. Simple enough.”

Participants.

The word makes my skin crawl.

He turns slightly, angling his body toward another man standing near the edge of the room. This one is older. Broader through the shoulders. His face tugs at something in my memory, a recognition I can’t quite place, like a name caught just out of reach. I know I’ve seen him before, but my mind refuses to give me the context, as if it’s protecting me from something worse.

“Since you’re our guest of honor tonight, William,” the younger man says, smiling like a blade catching light, “you get to choose your color. It’ll be you and me playing.”

The older man, William straightens, clearly wrong-footed, then masks it quickly, swagger sliding into place like armor. The room watches him, measuring.

“And the stakes,” the younger man adds, spreading his arms again, indulgent, theatrical, “are just as simple.”

My chest tightens.

“Whoever wins gets to fuck any woman from his team. Dealer’s choice.”

The room erupts.

Laughter, low, eager, obscene. It rolls through space like a living thing. It scrapes against my ears, against my spine. Around me, women begin to shake. Not subtly. Not quietly. Full-bodied terror that can’t be contained.

I’m shaking too.

I lock my knees so it doesn’t show.

My breath fractures, sharp and shallow, and I have to fight to keep my face still, to keep the panic from spilling out of me like blood from an open wound. This can’t be real. It can’t be what this is.

Janet wouldn’t have known.

She couldn’t have known.

I refuse to believe she knowingly signed me up for this, for this. The image of her face flashes in my mind, her voice, her careful reassurances, the way she avoided my eyes when she told me it would be quick, discreet, safe. Necessary.

Necessary for Owen.

My stomach twists violently.

The younger man turns his head to the right, his attention drifting toward the observing crowd.

I follow his gaze.

There, just beyond the edge of the board, stands a woman in black lace.

She is elegant. Beautiful in a way that feels measured, controlled. The dress clings to her, sheer and dark, the lace revealing enough to be intentional without being careless.

Her face is tight with restraint, her jaw set, eyes sharp with something dangerously close to fury. Mortified. Watching. Trapped in stillness.

I expect resentment to rise in me. Envy. Bitterness.

It doesn’t.

Instead, something heavier settles in my chest.

She stands on the other side of the board, yes, but the distance feels meaningless. I know whatever power she appears to have, it is conditional. Fragile. Granted by men who could revoke it with a word.

I am a piece in this game.

But so is she.

We are not equal, no. I know that. I feel it in my bones, in the way my body is exposed to choice while hers is exposed to consequence. Still, the truth presses in on me all the same:

We are standing on different sides of the same storm.

And the storm does not care what part you play. I know it will swallow us both with equal cruelty.

“But,” the younger man continues lightly, as if he’s correcting a minor inconvenience rather than dangling lives in front of him, “since Claire didn’t enjoy me spending time with whores… and since I fucked up quite badly yesterday…”

His gaze never leaves her. It clings, oily, dripping with manufactured charm.

He clicks his tongue, a sound of false regret.

“I think it’s best I don’t upset her again for now.”

Laughter rolls through the room.

Low. Amused. Predatory.

It crashes into me like a physical blow.

The woman in black stiffens whose name I know now is Claire. Whatever composure she’s holding fractures by a hairline crack. Her lips press together harder, her shoulders tightening as though she’s bracing for impact. Mortification seeps into every line of her posture, deepening with each second he keeps her in his sights.

“She’s very pretty, yes,” the asshole in the grey suit continues, his voice casual, indulgent, “but if anyone in this room has the balls to kill me, it’s her.”

More laughter follows.

Louder this time. Cruel. Satisfied.

It echoes off the concrete walls, ricocheting through my skull until my stomach churns violently. My hands curl at my sides, nails biting into my palms as something sharp and unfamiliar flickers beneath my fear.

I hope she does kill him one day.

“So if I win,” he says cheerfully, like he’s offering dessert instead of deciding a fate, “I’ll give my turn with one of these lovely gems to someone else. Generosity is important in partnerships, after all.”

The words settle.

They don’t land all at once, no, they sink in slowly, like poison spreading through water. For half a second, my mind refuses to understand them. It rejects them outright. Then comprehension snaps into place, brutal and undeniable.

A sound ripples through the room. Not quite laughter. Not quite applause. A low buzz of anticipation, of men leaning forward in their seats, suddenly invested.

The game begins.

A voice calls out a square. I don’t know whose. I don’t know which side. All I know is that a woman somewhere to my right jolts as if struck, then moves. Her steps are stiff, uneven, her heels catching on the edge of the rug as she crosses to a marked position.

She doesn’t look up.

None of us do.

My pulse roars in my ears. My throat tightens until swallowing feels impossible. I force my shoulders back, my chin level, because fear here is not private. Fear is entertainment.

I think of Owen. The memory hits hard enough that my vision blurs for a split second.

I lock it down.

This is why I’m here.This is why I can’t fall apart.

Whatever this is, whatever I’ve been dragged into, I will endure it. I will stand. I will move when told. I will not give them the satisfaction of watching me break.

And as another command is spoken, another woman steps forward, and the room hums with approval

It is at this point that I understand with sickening clarity that my life will never be the same after today.

My mind drifts even as my body stays rooted in this hell.

I go somewhere else.

There is a lake, clear and still, its surface catching the light like glass. It’s spring. Everything is green and alive, bursting at the seams.I’m sitting on the ground on a blanket, the air warm, the sun gentle on my skin. We’re having a picnic.

Owen is laughing.

I hand him his favorite sandwich, peanut butter and jelly, he grins like it’s the best thing in the world. He looks… right. Not pale. Not fragile. There’s color in his skin, warmth in his cheeks. He’s healthy. Safe.

A future that almost feels real.

My chest aches with the sweetness of it, with how badly I want to stay there. A tear slips down my cheek, not from sadness, but from the overwhelming relief of seeing him like this. Alive in the way I’ve been praying for.

The tear reaches my jaw.

Cold.

The sensation snaps me back.

To reality or to hell, I wasn’t sure anymore.

My body remembers where it is even if my mind didn’t want to. My heart stumbles, then races, trying to outrun the truth.

I lift my gaze.

The woman in the black lace dress is watching me.

Her face is controlled, composed, but her eyes betray her. I know that look. It’s the look of someone who understands exactly how wrong this is and how powerless she is to stop it.

She wants to end this.

I know she does but I also know she can’t.

“White queen to F3,” the younger man commanded, his tone casual, as if moving his piece were the most natural thing in the world.

Up until that moment, I’d managed to blur the edges of what was happening, to turn the board into shapes, the voices into noise. A survival trick. Distance. Denial.

But I knew.

That call was for me.

Every muscle in my body screamed to resist. To run. To collapse. To do anything but move. I hesitated, just a fraction of a second, but what was the point? Resistance here wasn’t bravery. It was a liability.

Obedience was survival.

My heels struck the rug as I stepped forward, the sound sharp, obscene, echoing through the silence like small gunshots. Each step felt irreversible.

I didn’t look at anyone.

I couldn’t.

I moved because I was told to.

Because stopping was not an option.

As the game dragged on, I began to sing in my head.

Soft at first. Almost unintentional. A melody slipping in through the cracks where panic threatened to swallow me whole. It was a song my mother used to sing when I was little, when the world wasn’t too loud or cruel.

I could almost hear her voice now. Gentle. Sweet. Wrapping around me like arms I no longer had. For a moment, she felt close. As if she were standing just behind me, her hand warm against my back, keeping me upright.

“Little girl with eyes so bright,

Dancing in the morning light.

With a giggle and a tiny hop,

Your happy heart will never stop.”

“White queen to H5…checkmate.”

The words of the younger man landed like a verdict.

For a heartbeat, the room went utterly still, as if even the chandeliers were holding their breath. Then the sound came. Not applause. Not laughter. Something worse.

The women in white crumpled.

Knees struck the rug in dull, hollow thuds. Bodies folded in on themselves as if the strength had been ripped straight from their bones. Hands flew to mouths. Shoulders shook. Soft, broken sobs filled the space, raw and uncontrollable, the kind that came from somewhere too deep to restrain.

I didn’t move.

I couldn’t.

The air thickened, heavy with the stench of fear and humiliation, with the sharp realization that the game was over, and the consequences were about to begin.

This was the moment I had been bracing for without knowing it. The moment all the pretending fell away.

My skin prickled, every nerve ending screaming. My stomach twisted so violently I thought I might be sick right there on the board.

I was still standing.

And somehow, that felt worse.

Around me, the men exhaled, a collective release, like spectators at the end of a match. Somewhere, glass clinked. A chair scraped. Life continued, casually, monstrously.

The song in my head faltered.

My mother’s voice faded beneath the weight of reality pressing in from all sides.

“As promised,” the younger man in the grey suit said, voice dripping with mock civility, “I won’t be taking any of these women myself.”

I closed my eyes instinctively, trying to block out the sight of their eyes, the sobs, the trembling figures around me. But even with my lids shut, I could hear him moving among us. Our fear was almost palpable, thick in the air, like a weight pressing down on my lungs.

The sound of his steps stopped.

“You? You’re pathetic,” I heard him sneer at one of the girls. The girl sagged with relief as he moved on, crumpled and shaken but relieved.

He continued walking amongst us, and then stopped.

In front of me.

I opened my eyes.

I could feel my body trembling violently, every muscle taut, every nerve screaming, but I refused to let him see me break. My gaze did not fall. If his twisted mind wanted to relish in my terror, I would not give him the satisfaction. This, the tiny sliver of power and control I still held, was mine alone.

Tears streamed unchecked down my face, but my eyes held my dignity.

His hand shot out suddenly, gripping my neck in a possessive, invasive hold.

“You,” he said, low, almost reverent in its menace, “will be the chosen one.”

A cold wave ran through me from head to toe. My stomach turned. I wanted to scream, to run, to beg, but I held my ground. I could feel the pressure of his fingers, the heat, the smell of him, the violation.

“Hot, feisty… should be fun for one of my… friends here.”

He paused, letting the weight of his words settle, his hand still pressed against my neck, and then, with a perverse flourish, he asked the silent group of spectators.

“Well, gentlemen… who volunteers?”

My stomach heaved. I felt like throwing up. The room spun. My heart pounded as if it wanted to shatter my ribs. Fear, shame and rage.

“I’ll take her.”

A new voice sliced through the room like a blade, sharp, impossible to ignore.

Every head snapped toward him.

The man standing there, mid to late twenties, dark brown hair combed neatly back, sharp and polished; striking green eyes, perceptive and intense; light skin, healthy; very tall, broad-shouldered, in a black tailored suit. A presence I couldn’t ignore radiated off him. His expression was utterly emotionless, even bored.

The man in the grey suit, whose hands were still wrapped around my neck, smirked wickedly.

“Ivan,” he drawled, amusement dripping from every word, clearly enjoying the moment, “I knew you had it in you.”

He released my neck and shoved me forward toward my new hell.

I stumbled, choking on a breath, my legs trembling. This was not salvation but a shift from one monstrous control to another.

And then Ivan’s hand shot out.

He yanked me upright with a single, sharp pull and turned me without a word.

I froze for a heartbeat, terrified, my mind spinning, my stomach twisting. I was moving from one hell to another, shoved from the hands of one monster to the grasp of another equally or more evil than the first… that was to be determined.