The Final Gambit (The Inheritance Games Book 3)
The Final Gambit: Chapter 47

As I pulled open the door to the wine cellar, so much of that night came back to me: the cocktail party, the way Grayson had deftly deflected every person who just wanted a minute of my time to tell me about a unique financial opportunity, the little girl in the pool, Grayson diving in to save her.

I could remember the way he’d looked climbing out of the water, dripping wet in an Armani suit. Grayson hadn’t even asked for a towel. He’d acted like he wasn’t even wet. I remembered people talking to him, the little girl being returned to her parents. I remembered the brief glimpse I caught of his face—his eyes—right before he disappeared down these stairs.

I’d known that he wasn’t okay, but I’d had no idea why.

Focus on the game. I tried to stay in the moment—here, now, with both of them. Jameson went first down the spiraling stone steps. I was a step behind him, walking where he walked, not daring to look back over my shoulder at Grayson.

Just replace the next clue. I let that be my beacon, my focus, but the moment we hit the bottom of the stone staircase, the landing came into view: a tasting room with an antique table made of the darkest cherry wood. Chairs sat on either side of the table, their arms carved so that the ends became lions: one set watchful, one set roaring.

And just like that, I was taken back.

The lines of Grayson’s body are like architecture: his shoulders even, his neck straight, though his head and eyes are cast down. A crystal glass sits on the table in front of him. His hands lay on either side of the glass, the muscles in them tensed, like he might push off at any moment.

“You shouldn’t be here.” Grayson doesn’t pull his eyes from the glass—or the amber liquid he’s been drinking.

“And it’s your job to tell me what I should and shouldn’t do?” I retort. The question feels dangerous. Just being here does, for reasons I can’t even begin to explain.

“Did someone say something to you?” I ask. “At the party—did someone upset you?”

“I do not upset easily,” Grayson says, the words sharp. He still hasn’t looked away from the glass, and I can’t shake the feeling that I’m not supposed to be seeing this.

That no one is supposed to see Grayson Hawthorne like this.

“The child’s grandfather.” Grayson’s tone is modulated, but I can see the tension in his neck, like the words want to come roaring out of him, ripping their way from his throat. “Do you know what he told me?” Grayson lifts his glass and drains what remains—every last drop. “He said that the old man would have been proud of me.”

And there it is, the thing that has Grayson down here drinking alone. I cross to sit in the chair opposite his. “You saved that little girl.”

“Immaterial.” Haunted silver eyes meet mine. “She was easy to save.” He picks up the bottle, pours exactly two fingers into the glass, those icy eyes of his watchful. There’s tension in his fingers, his wrists, his neck, his jaw. “The true measure of a man is how many impossible things he accomplishes before breakfast.”

I understand suddenly that Grayson is gutted because he doesn’t believe that Tobias Hawthorne was or would be proud of him—not for saving that girl or anything else.

“Being worthy,” he continues, “requires being bold.” He lifts the glass to his mouth again and drinks.

“You are worthy, Grayson,” I tell him, reaching for his hands and holding them in mine.

Grayson doesn’t pull back. His fingers curl into fists beneath my hands. “I saved that girl. I didn’t save Emily.” That’s a statement of fact, a truth carved into his soul. “I didn’t save you.” He looks up at me. “A bomb went off, and you were lying on the ground, and I just stood there.”

His voice vibrates with intensity. Beneath my touch, I can feel his body doing the same.

“It’s okay. I’m fine,” I say, but it’s clear he doesn’t hear it—won’t hear it. “Look at me, Grayson. I am right here. I am fine. We are fine.”

“Hawthornes aren’t supposed to break.” His chest rises and falls. “Especially me.”

I stand and make my way to his side of the table without ever letting go of his hands. “You’re not broken.”

“I am.” The words are swift and brutal. “I always will be.”

“Look at me,” I say, but he won’t. I bend down toward him. “Look at me, Grayson. You are not broken.”

His eyes catch on mine. Our chests rise and fall in unison now.

“Emily was in my head.” There’s something hushed and barely restrained in his voice. “I heard her after the bomb went off, like she was right there. Like she was real.”

This is a confession. I’m standing, and he’s sitting, back straight, head bowed.

“For weeks, I hallucinated her voice. For weeks, she whispered to me.” Grayson looks up at me. “Tell me again that I’m not broken.”

I don’t think. I just take his head in my hands. “You loved her, and you lost her,” I start to say.

“I failed her, and she will haunt me until the day I die.” Grayson’s eyes close. “I’m supposed to be stronger than this. I wanted to be stronger than this. For you.”

Those last two words nearly undo me. “You don’t have to be anything for me, Grayson.” I wait until he opens his eyes, until he’s looking at me. “This,” I say. “You. It’s enough.”

He drops from the chair to his knees, his eyes closing again, the enormity of this moment all around us. I kneel, wrap my arms around him.

“You’re enough,” I say again.

“It will never be enough.”

The memory was everywhere. I could feel Grayson curling in on himself, into me. I could feel his shudder. And then he’d told me to go, and I’d fled because deep down, I knew what he meant when he said that it would never be enough. He meant us. What we were—and what we weren’t. What had shattered in those weeks when Emily had been whispering in his ear.

What might have been.

What could have been.

What couldn’t be, now.

The next day, Grayson had left for Harvard without even saying good-bye. And now he was back, right there behind me, and we were doing this.

Grayson, Jameson, and me.

“This way.” Grayson nodded to a clear glass door to our right. When he opened it, a burst of cold air hit my face. Stepping through the doorway, I let out a long, slow breath, half expecting to see it, wispy and white in the chilly air.

“This place is enormous.” I stayed in the present through sheer force of will. No more flashbacks. No more what-ifs. I focused on the game. That was what was needed. What I needed and what both of them needed from me.

“There are technically five cellars, all interconnected,” Jameson narrated. “This one’s for white wine. Through there is red. If you keep wrapping around, you’ll hit scotch, bourbon, and whiskey.”

There had to be a fortune down here in alcohol alone. Think about that. Nothing but that.

“We’re looking for a red wine.” Grayson’s voice cut into my thoughts. “A Bordeaux.”

Jameson reached for my hand. I took it, and he stepped away, allowing his fingers to trail down mine—an invitation to follow as he wound into the next room. I did.

Grayson pushed past me, past Jameson, snaking his way through aisle after aisle, scanning rack after rack. Finally, he stopped. “Chateau Margaux,” he said, pulling a bottle out of the closest rack. “Nineteen seventy-three.”

The caption on the photograph. Margaux. 1973.

“You want to guess what the steamer’s for?” Jameson asked me.

A bottle of wine. A steamer. I took the Chateaux Margaux from Grayson, turning it over in my hand. Slowly, the answer took hold. “The label,” I said. “If we try to tear it off, it might rip. But steam will loosen the adhesive.…”

Grayson held the steamer out to me. “You do the honors.”