Chapter 6 The Queen's Gambit

The moment hung, suspended in the silent aftermath of a shattered fantasy. Tarkan moved instantly, stepping in front of Mia as if to physically shield her from a blade. His bronze skin was taut with fury, his dark eyes blazing, the tailored lines of his suit accentuating the rigid, protective set of his shoulders. At twenty-two, he was every inch the Klbasian Crown Prince, his features hardened into a mask of regal anger.

"Mother," he said, his voice tight with a dangerous calm, "this is a private conversation."

"Private?" Queen Faya's voice was not loud, but it cut through the lamplit office like a shard of glass. Her silver gown gleamed like frost. Her dark eyes, ignoring her son completely, sliced across the room to pin Mia to the spot. "You forget your station, Tarkan. And you, Miss Ritchard, have clearly forgotten yours. You should know better than to trespass where you are not only unwelcome but entirely inappropriate. This office is for matters of state, not for... sordid indiscretions with the staff."

The insult, delivered with such surgical precision, struck Mia like a physical blow. Her crimson gown, which had felt like a banner of confidence in the ballroom, now felt like a brand, marking her as an audacious fool. Her blond hair, still luminous, framed a face drained of color, her blue eyes wide with a mix of fear and acute humiliation. But beneath the fear, a spark of defiance flickered. She lifted her chin. "I was just leaving, Your Majesty," she said, her voice steadier than her trembling hands.

"See that you do," the Queen replied, her tone as cold and unforgiving as Klbasian marble. "And in the future, you will restrict yourself to the events you are explicitly invited to. The Crown Prince has no need for... distractions of this nature."

"Enough!" Tarkan roared, his fists clenched, his composure finally cracking. "Mia has done nothing wrong."

The Queen's eyes narrowed, a venomous warning flashing between mother and son. "We will speak of this later, Tarkan. In private." Her gaze was imperious. "For now, Ramzi will escort Miss Ritchard to the staff exit. The press still lingers outside, and I will not have your recklessness tarnish the night of your return."

Mia didn't wait for Tarkan to argue. She needed air; she needed to escape the suffocating weight of the Queen's judgment. Brushing past him, her shoulder grazed his arm, and she felt the warmth of his bronze skin through the silk of her gown, a fleeting, forbidden connection that burned. "I can find my own way," she said, her voice clear and proud despite the ache in her chest.

Ramzi, his lean frame tense with conflicted loyalty, stepped aside. As she passed, he murmured, his voice low enough for only her to hear, "Be careful, Miss Ritchard. His feelings for you are true, but the Queen will not yield. You will be the one to bear the cost."

Mia didn't look back, not at Ramzi's pitying gaze, not at the Queen's icy triumph, and certainly not at Tarkan's anguished, furious dark eyes. The heavy oak doors closed behind her with a soft, final click, like a trap snapping shut. She hurried down the long corridor, her crimson gown whispering against the marble, her blond hair catching the flickering torchlight. Tarkan's confession echoed in her mind, a torturous pulse against the Queen's scorn: Every woman, every city... meant nothing because they weren't you. Her beauty, once a quiet pride, felt like a curse, a beacon drawing a kind of danger she could neither fight nor outrun.

At the edge of the ballroom, Princess Myar spotted Mia emerging from a side corridor, her bronze complexion paling with immediate concern. Her emerald gown shimmered as she rushed over, her dark curls bouncing. "Mia! What happened? You look like you've seen a ghost."

Mia's blue eyes glistened with unshed tears, her porcelain face flushed with shame. "I... I need to leave, Myar," she whispered, clutching the crimson skirt of her gown. "It was a terrible mistake coming here."

Myar's hand gripped hers, warm and steady. "Tell me what's wrong. Was it Tarkan? I saw you two dancing-he couldn't take his eyes off you. You were radiant, Mia, a flame in that gown."

Mia shook her head, her blond hair swaying. "It's not just him. Your mother... she found us. Talking. She was furious, Myar. She threatened me, my mother's job, my scholarship... everything."

Myar's eyes widened, her Klbasian warmth turning to a hot flash of guilt. "Oh, Mia, I am so sorry. I was just trying to help, to give you two a chance to sort things out. I never meant to put you in her line of fire." She paused, her voice dropping, fierce and loyal. "But don't believe her lies. Tarkan isn't playing games. I have never seen him look at anyone the way he looks at you-at your eyes, your spirit. He is still the boy from our library days, I swear it."

Mia's throat tightened, her sapphire eyes brimming with tears. "That boy is gone, Myar. He is a prince now, and I'm... nobody. I have to go."

Myar pulled her into a fierce, protective hug. "You are not nobody," she whispered into Mia's hair. "You are my friend. And you are Tarkan's heart. Go home. Rest. But know that we will fix this. I promise you."

Mia nodded, pulling away, her crimson gown a bleeding trail as she slipped toward the staff exit, the weight of Myar's promise battling the chilling certainty of the Queen's threat.

In a shadowed alcove near the office, Tarkan faced Ramzi, his bronze skin flushed with a rage that had nowhere to go. "She did not deserve that," Tarkan growled, pacing like a caged panther. "My mother treated her like an intruder. She was shaking, Ramzi."

Ramzi's voice was calm but firm, his loyalty stretched taut. "Your Highness, I warned you. The Queen has spent years planning your match with Lady Lamar. Seeing you with Miss Ritchard alone, after that dance; was a direct threat to her entire strategy.

Tarkan stopped, his fists clenched. "Mia is not a strategy. She is not a threat. She's..." He faltered, the anger collapsing into raw, unguarded truth. "She's everything."

Ramzi's gaze softened, but his words were blunt. "Then you must choose your Highness either duty or desire. The Queen will not permit you to have both. And if you fight her, Miss Ritchard will be the battlefield."

Tarkan's jaw tightened, his resolve hardening into cold steel. "Then I will protect the battlefield. Whatever it takes."

Ramzi nodded, a wary resignation in his eyes. "Then prepare yourself, Your Highness. The Queen has already summoned you to her study. She means to end this tonight."

The Queen's private study was her war room, a fortress of power paneled in dark, imposing wood that absorbed the light from a single bronze lamp. Heavy crimson tapestries embroidered with Klbasian falcons hung on the walls, their golden eyes seeming to watch, to judge. Queen Faya sat behind her vast mahogany desk, her silver gown austere, her hands folded like a general before a battle.

"You disappoint me, Tarkan," she began, her voice deceptively calm, laced with steel. "After four years of education, I expected clarity. Maturity. Instead, you revert to a childish infatuation with your former nanny's daughter."

Tarkan stood before her, refusing to be intimidated. "Mia is not an infatuation," he said, his voice low and defiant. "And I am not a child to be scolded."

"Then cease acting like one!" she snapped, rising from her chair, her presence suddenly formidable in the lamplight. "You are the Crown Prince of Klbas. Your choices have consequences that ripple through this entire kingdom, affecting alliances, stability, and our very future. Miss Ritchard is a liability. Her mother is a mere servant, her status nonexistent. She has no place in our world."

"Mia's worth is not defined by her status," Tarkan growled, stepping closer. "And it's certainly worth more than your political games."

The Queen's lips thinned into a bloodless line. "You will need my 'games' when you wear the crown. Lady Lamar is your perfect match. Her family's influence secures the northern trade routes and guarantees the council's loyalty. She has been groomed for this role, for the duties of a queen. Unlike that girl, who would crumble under the weight of public scrutiny." She paused, letting her words sink in before delivering the killing blow, her tone shifting to one of venomous, feigned sympathy. "Or is that what you imagine? Elevating her? Dragging her into a life where her every move, every word, every breath is judged? A life that would ruin her? Is that your love, Tarkan? Her destruction?"

He faltered. The first crack in his armor. Her words sliced deep, conjuring an image of Mia's trembling hands, her sapphire eyes masking terror with defiance. Could he truly shield her from the relentless, cruel machine of the court? From his mother's machinations? Doubt, cold and insidious, crept into his heart.

Sensing his hesitation, Faya pressed for her advantage, her voice softening into a weapon of cold reason. "Think, my son. Your father's health is failing. The throne is nearer than you believe. Your duty is to Klbas. To its future. Not chasing fantasies. Lady Lamar is your ally, your strength. Miss Ritchard is a weakness. A fleeting, romantic dream that will end up costing you both everything." She leaned forward, her dark eyes unyielding. "Choose wisely, Tarkan. Your allies and your enemies are forged by the same fire: your actions."

His fists clenched, a last flicker of defiance. "You speak of duty, but what of my heart? Mia is not a weakness. She is why I breathe. You cannot force me to abandon her."

Faya's gaze hardened for a moment, then she waved a dismissive hand, as if brushing away a piece of lint. "We shall see, my son. Go. Reflect on what I have said."

Tarkan stood frozen, then turned, the heavy thud of the door echoing the turmoil in his soul. He had walked in a prince, ready for a fight. He walked out a man trapped, his mother's words a slow-acting poison, the terrible fear blooming that his love might be the very blade that broke the one person he was trying to protect.

Outside, Mia reached the staff exit, her crimson gown catching the cool moonlight, her blond hair a golden halo. The night air stung her flushed cheeks; her blue eyes glistened with unshed tears. Her beauty, once a quiet strength, now felt like a liability, a beacon drawing the danger of Queen Faya's scorn and Tarkan's reckless passion. She wrapped her arms around herself, the memory of his kiss a fire she couldn't quench, and slipped into the waiting palace car, the city's lights blurring into streaks as the first tears fell.

By morning, the first tremors of the coming earthquake were felt. The press, sniffing a story, had caught whispers of the prince's intense dance with a mysterious, unforgettable blonde in a crimson gown, their reports fueling Klbas with speculation of a scandal already brewing in the palace's gilded halls