The chandeliers in the Grand Mariposa Ballroom glittered like they knew everyone's secrets. From beneath their crystal droplets, a hundred aristocrats danced, toasted, and pretended not to be watching her.
Isabella Chen stood at the top of the grand staircase, the embodiment of old money and ancient grudges. The scarlet silk gown hugged her figure like it had been poured onto her, every inch of it whispering that she was the crown jewel of the Chen dynasty. And tonight, she was being bartered like one too.
Her lips curved into a smile, elegant and practiced, as hollow as the champagne flutes clinking below.
The ballroom smelled like lilies, perfume, and pretense.
Below her, Maxwell Zhou stood near the orchestra, laughing with a cluster of politicians and financiers, dressed in sleek black-on-black. His smile was camera-ready, but the mischief in his eyes belonged to a wolf in silk.
He looked up. Their eyes met.
He raised his champagne flute.
She raised an eyebrow.
The heir to the Zhou fortune. The enemy. The childhood rival who once pushed her into a koi pond at a garden party, and who smirked as she climbed out soaking wet, her tiara sinking like a lost ship.
Now he was the man she was supposed to marry.
Disgust curled in her stomach.
"I'd rather marry a corpse," she muttered.
"You're glowing, darling," her mother said, suddenly appearing beside her, her own gold-embroidered gown stiff with tradition. Her diamond necklace could fund a small nation. "Now go greet the guests. The Zhou patriarch is watching."
Isabella fought the urge to gag.
With every step down the staircase, her pulse picked up. Not with excitement—with dread. Cameras flashed. Socialites smiled like sharks. This wasn't a celebration. It was a public auction.
Her father nodded to her from a distance, flanked by a row of suited men who traded companies the way children traded stickers. Her mother followed with a string of whispered reminders: posture, grace, don't wrinkle the fabric.
She didn't hear them.
All she could focus on was the sound of her own breath, tight and shallow.
She had to get out.
Maxwell approached.
"Miss Chen," he said, with that perfectly condescending bow.
"Mr. Zhou," she returned, voice saccharine.
He smiled. "Beautiful dress. Pity you look like you're plotting a war."
"Only the one where I reclaim my freedom."
"How revolutionary of you."
He leaned closer. "Smile wider. Your mother's glaring holes into your back."
She smiled. He winked. And she hated him for being the only person who saw through the spectacle.
She needed a moment. Just one. And then she saw it—the perfect opening.
A waiter carrying a tray of oysters passed by.
She timed it just right.
She turned sharply, her clutch slipping from her hand with theatrical flair. It hit the ground, scattering pearl clasps and lipstick tubes with a dramatic clatter.
Gasps. Heads turned. Cameras clicked.
In the chaos, she vanished.
Through the crowd, behind a curtain, down the service hallway. Her heels clicked like gunfire. She didn't stop until she was out the side door, the cool London air hitting her like a slap.
She didn't even glance back.
The streets were slick with recent rain. Her gown swept the pavement as she kicked off her heels and ran, barefoot and breathless, into the night.
Isabella turned corner after corner until the Mariposa was a memory. She didn't know where she was going. Only that she had to get there fast.
That's when she saw it.
A quiet little bar tucked between a dusty tailor and an antique bookstore. Its sign hung crooked. Its windows glowed a warm amber.
Perfect.
She pushed the door open.
Inside was dim and unpretentious. A jazz record played low in the background. The bartender, a woman with tired eyes and a nose ring, glanced up and blinked once.
"Whiskey. Neat," Isabella said, sliding onto a stool.
"Rough night?" the bartender asked.
"Something like that."
The drink was placed in front of her. She downed half.
And then—
"Well, well. If it isn't my blushing bride-to-be."
Her spine stiffened.
She turned slowly.
Maxwell Zhou sat two stools down, sleeves rolled, jacket folded on the seat beside him, tie loosened like he owned the entire city and decided tonight he'd wear it casually.
"You followed me?"
"I had a hunch you'd flee. You always were the dramatic one."
"You ruined my escape."
"You left a trail of pearl hairpins and rage. Hard to miss."
She groaned. "Go away."
He ordered his own drink. "Or what? You'll throw another clutch at me?"
She glared.
He leaned closer. "Let's play a game."
"Maxwell, I swear to God—"
He pulled a small travel chess set from his coat pocket and unfolded it on the bar.
She stared. "You brought a chess board to a ball?"
"You never know when you'll need to outwit someone."
"I hate you."
He smirked. "Play me."
"Why would I?"
"Because you're bored, furious, and stuck marrying me. At least beat me at something."
That lit something in her.
She slid onto the booth seat across from him.
"Fine. But if I win, you have to tell me something real. Something no one knows."
"And if I win, I get to make a bet. One you can't back out of."
She narrowed her eyes. "Deal."
He moved his white pawn. She countered.
The game unfolded quickly—he was good. Better than she remembered. But so was she.
They played in silence, save for occasional bar chatter and the clink of glasses.
"Why chess?" she asked finally.
"It's like us," he said. "Calculated. Brutal. Occasionally noble."
She rolled her eyes.
"You didn't learn to play at business school, did you?" she asked.
He raised an eyebrow. "No. My grandfather taught me. Said if you understood chess, you understood war."
She hesitated. "Mine taught me too. Said it teaches patience."
They exchanged a glance. A rare, fragile moment of something close to shared humanity.
It didn't last.
He cornered her bishop with a knight. She took his rook in return.
He smiled. "You're not bad. Reckless, but clever."
"You're infuriatingly composed."
"I know."
The tension thickened. The bar faded. It was just the board, the moves, and the unspoken words between them.
And then she made the wrong move—knight to e5.
His grin sharpened. Within three turns, it was over.
Checkmate.
She stared at the board.
"Well?" she said.
He leaned in.
"I bet six million dollars," he said, his voice calm, "that we will never love each other."
She blinked.
"That's not a bet. That's a curse."
"Call it insurance."
She wanted to slap him. Scream. Something. Instead, she downed the rest of her whiskey.
"One day," she said, "you're going to regret betting against me."
Maxwell leaned back with that infuriating calm.
"Then give me a reason to lose."
She rose from the table, head held high.
"Good night, Mr. Zhou."
"Good night, future Mrs. Zhou," he replied with maddening cheer.
She stepped out into the night, the chill biting through the silk. Her bare feet hit the pavement again. Somewhere, her parents were panicking. Somewhere, the ball continued.
But in this moment, Isabella Chen felt alive. Angry. Free.
And for the first time, she realized something else: this wasn't just a game anymore.
It was a war.
And she had every intention of winning.