The Chess Master's Final Deadly Move

Gavin

Modern | Completed

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My boyfriend, a chess prodigy, planned to publicly humiliate me at our graduation. He'd spent three years faking our relationship, even secretly filming us, all to get revenge for a lie he believed about my father. I overheard his entire twisted plan just before it was set to happen. So I fled to Paris, leaving him with the wreckage of his prized antique chess set and a video of me smashing it to pieces. I built a new life, found real love with a kind man named Kolton, and my art began to flourish. I was finally healing, finally safe. Then, one morning, my ex shattered my apartment door, holding a black rose, his eyes burning with a terrifying declaration: "I was wrong. I love you. And I'm not leaving until you're mine again."

Betrayal Revenge Comeback Revenge Personal growth

Chapter 18

11-21 09:43

Chapter 1

So I fled to Paris, leaving him with the wreckage of his prized antique chess set and a video of me smashing it to pieces.

I built a new life, found real love with a kind man named Kolton, and my art began to flourish. I was finally healing, finally safe. Then, one morning, my ex shattered my apartment door, holding a black rose, his eyes burning with a terrifying declaration: "I was wrong. I love you. And I'm not leaving until you're mine again."

Chapter 1

My world shattered the moment I heard Alden Scott' s voice, not in the gentle murmur he reserved for me, but sharp, venomous, outlining my public humiliation. In that instant, everything I thought was real dissolved into ash.

Alden Scott was a force of nature. Everyone at NYU knew his name. He was the chess prodigy, the future MIT genius, the one who walked through campus like he owned it, and in a way, he did. His brilliance was undeniable, his intellect a sharp, gleaming blade. Girls clustered around him like moths to a flame, drawn by his aloof mystique, his cold, perfect features. He never seemed to notice them. He never seemed to notice anyone, except for the chess board in front of him. He was a god on campus, untouchable, admired from a distance.

That was his public persona.

I was the only one who saw the other Alden. The one who laughed, who traced patterns on my skin, who promised me forever. For three years, I' d been his secret. His passionate, hidden love. I believed every word. Every touch. Every whispered dream of a future we would share in a quiet corner of the world, far from the prying eyes of NYU.

Our relationship was a clandestine affair, hidden in plain sight. We met in secluded libraries, late-night coffee shops far from campus, or in his sterile, immaculate apartment. He was always careful, always cautious. He said it was because he wanted to protect what we had, to keep our love pure and untainted by the judgment of others. I, naive and deeply in love, believed him. I cherished our stolen moments, the way his cool, analytical mind softened when he looked at me. The way his hands, usually poised over a chessboard, became gentle and possessive on my body.

He' d talk about our future, about moving to Boston when he went to MIT, about finding an art studio for me there. He' d hold my face in his hands, his thumbs caressing my cheekbones, and tell me I was the most beautiful thing he' d ever seen. His eyes, usually so guarded, would gleam with an intensity I mistook for adoration. I was his, completely. And I thought he was mine.

Just last week, he' d suggested we take a short break, a week apart before graduation. "Just to focus on our respective final projects, Alondra," he'd said, his voice smooth as silk. "We'll need all our energy for the convocation. And then, we'll be free. No more secrets." He' d promised me he would finally tell the world about us after graduation. I had been so excited, so full of hope. It was a lie. All of it.

I was walking past the university's old clock tower, the one he always said reminded him of me – "timeless and artistic," he'd called it. I was early for my final critique, my portfolio clutched tight, my mind buzzing with anticipation for our future. I heard voices from an open window, his voice, unmistakable, and another I didn't recognize. I paused, a strange flutter in my chest. He rarely spoke so openly, so loudly, especially not in a public space.

"It' s almost over," Alden said, his tone devoid of the warmth he reserved for me. It was cold, clinical, like he was dissecting a problem. "Three years of this charade, and it's finally time for the grand finale."

My breath hitched. Charade?

"Are you sure about this, Alden?" The other voice, a woman' s, sounded hesitant. "It's... extreme."

"Extreme?" Alden scoffed. "You think nearly losing Krissy wasn't extreme? You think my beloved Krissy, fighting for her life because Alondra Pittman' s father manipulated the transplant list, wasn't extreme?"

My blood ran cold. Krissy? My father? The transplant list? This was a story I knew, a nightmare from three years ago. My brother, Ethan, had received a heart transplant then. My father, Dr. Ferrell Pickett, a renowned surgeon, had been hailed as a hero.

"He's a respected surgeon," the woman said, her voice barely a whisper.

"Respected?" Alden's laugh was sharp, bitter. "He' s a manipulator. He pulled strings, got his son a heart, while Krissy, my Krissy, withered away. Her father, Dr. Lara, told me everything."

A chill enveloped me, colder than any winter wind. What was he talking about? My father was a man of integrity. He wouldn't... he couldn't.

"So, what's the plan for the convocation?" the woman pressed, a morbid curiosity in her tone.

"Humiliation, pure and simple," Alden replied, a wicked satisfaction in his voice. "I' m going to project our 'intimate moments' onto the big screen. For everyone to see. Her parents, her friends, the entire university. They' ll all know what kind of girl Alondra Pittman really is. And then, I'll dump her. Publicly. It will be glorious."

Intimate moments? My stomach churned. The little camera he sometimes set up, claiming it was for "artistic expression," for "capturing the raw beauty of our love." He' d said it was our secret, our special way of documenting our journey. He' d promised to delete them. He' d promised.

My heart felt like it had been ripped from my chest, still beating, but no longer mine. It was Alden' s, to crush. The world tilted on its axis. All the tender touches, the whispered endearments, the shared dreams-they were all meticulously crafted lies. Designed to lull me into a false sense of security, to create a perfect victim for his twisted revenge. I was a pawn. A tool. A means to an end.

I stumbled backward, the sound of my portfolio clattering to the ground echoing in the sudden silence of my mind. My legs felt like jelly. I couldn' t breathe. I had to get out. I ran, blindly, the sound of his cruel laughter chasing me down the hall.

My mind replayed our first meeting. Three years ago, fresh-faced and wide-eyed at NYU, clutching my sketchbook like a shield. He had approached me in the campus gallery, his presence a cool shadow in the sunlit room. "Your use of color is... intriguing," he' d said, his voice low, a contrast to his sharp, handsome features. "But your lines lack conviction."

I, a timid art student, had been both intimidated and captivated. He was Alden Scott, the chess genius, already famous for his analytical prowess. He was out of my league. But he kept coming back, offering critiques, then conversations, then late-night study sessions that turned into whispered confessions and stolen kisses. He' d said I opened his eyes to a different kind of beauty, a chaotic, emotional beauty he hadn't known existed. He made me feel seen, cherished, unique.

He'd told me he was tired of the superficiality, the constant performance. He wanted something real, something deep, something hidden from the world. And I, so eager to be chosen, so desperate for that kind of intense connection, had given him everything. My heart, my trust, my body. My future.

He' d painted a picture of us, building a life together, challenging each other, growing. "You push me to feel, Alondra," he'd said, his fingers intertwining with mine. "And I give you structure. We're a perfect balance." He' d talked about leaving New York for Boston, about our art and his chess, our little world. It was all a lie. Every single word was a deliberate stroke in his masterpiece of revenge. A cold, calculated act, designed to hurt me, to hurt my father.

My father. Dr. Ferrell Pickett. The man who had devoted his life to saving others. How could Alden believe such a monstrous lie? My brother, Ethan, had been so sick. The transplant had saved his life. Dad had been meticulous, ethical. It was impossible.

I burst through the door of our apartment, gasping for air. My mother, Helen, looked up from her painting. "Alondra? Honey, what's wrong? You look like you've seen a ghost."

Tears streamed down my face. "Mom, Dad... I need to leave. I need to leave New York. Now."

My father came in from his study, his brow furrowed with concern. "Leave? What happened, sweetheart?"

I couldn't tell them. Not yet. Not the public humiliation part. Not the videos. "It's... it's Alden. He... he betrayed me. Our relationship. Everything was a lie. I just can't be here anymore." The words tumbled out, raw and broken.

My parents, seeing my distress, didn't question further. They just held me, their warmth a painful contrast to the icy betrayal that had just consumed me. "Where do you want to go, sweetie?" my mother murmured, stroking my hair.

"Paris," I choked out, a faint image of the École des Beaux-Arts flickering in my mind. "I want to go to art school in Paris. I need to start over. Completely."

My father, ever the pragmatist, nodded. "Alright. We'll make it happen. You don't have to face anything here if you don't want to."

Later that night, as I packed, my phone buzzed. A message from Alden. "Missing you already, Alondra. Just a few more days, and then we can be ourselves, no more hiding. Can't wait for our future."

I stared at the words, a cold, hard knot forming in my stomach. He was still playing the part. Still acting. My fingers hovered over the keyboard. I wouldn' t give him the satisfaction of a response, of my pain. A new resolve hardened in my chest. He wanted humiliation? He wanted to destroy me? He wouldn't get the chance. I would disappear. I would become someone he couldn't touch. Someone he couldn't hurt again.

I deleted the message. Then I blocked him. And then, I started planning my escape, not just from New York, but from the person I used to be. I would never be his pawn again.