Chapter 123

"How about a game of chess?" Weston said with a smile.

He didn't expect Citrine to win. In fact, he'd already decided to go easy on her-no need to embarrass the girl-and maybe get a sense of her skill level so he could offer a few pointers.

"Sure," Citrine agreed without hesitation.

At first, Weston didn't take the game too seriously. But as Citrine pressed forward, move after move, he found his pieces forced into a corner, backed up with

nowhere to go.

His relaxed confidence slowly gave way to a look of concentration. He hovered over the board, fingers poised over a black knight, trying to find a way out. After a long pause, he finally made his move, narrowly escaping disaster.

Weston let out a silent sigh of relief, thinking he'd dodged a bullet. What he didn't realize was that he'd just stepped right into a trap Citrine had set several moves in advance.

From that point on, every turn played out exactly as Citrine intended.

She barely let her satisfaction show, her smile so faint it was almost invisible.

One by one, her white pieces claimed territory, cutting off black's escape. In the end, Weston had nowhere left to run.

"You've lost," Citrine said simply, pulling her hand back and looking calmly at the board.

"Young lady, who taught you to play like this?" Weston stared at the endgame, unable to hide his shock. The skills he prided himself on had just been dismantled by a seventeen-year-old girl.

"I taught myself," Citrine replied, her tone even.

Despite the win, there was no hint of glee on her face-her expression was as

serene as ever.

"You taught yourself? Are you joking?" Weston's brow furrowed. He remembered how harsh his own chess instructor had been back in the day, the grueling lessons. The memory darkened his expression.

"I'm not joking. It's the truth," Citrine answered earnestly.

Back when she'd been stranded on Mirage Cay, every day had felt endless. To distract herself from the pain, she'd started playing chess against herself with pebbles she found on the island. Over time, her skills had sharpened to what they

were now.

"Incredible. You really are my granddaughter," Weston said, satisfaction shining in his eyes—he couldn't have hidden his pride even if he tried.

The more he thought about it, the prouder he felt. Weston burst out laughing, a deep, booming sound that echoed through the house-loud enough that Raymond, just stepping in from the driveway, heard it from outside.

Hearing his father's voice, Raymond was caught off guard. Weston rarely visited unless something important was going on.

Raymond had barely set down his briefcase when Weston called out, "Come here!"

"Dad, what brings you here?" Raymond asked, walking over to where Citrine sat. Weston ignored the question and pointed at the chessboard. "Look at this game." Raymond glanced over, barely interested at first. But as his eyes took in the arrangement of the pieces, his expression shifted, becoming thoughtful and a bit awed.

He couldn't help but praise, "White lured black into a trap, controlling the board from start to finish. That's brilliant strategy."

"You come up with a new technique, Dad?" Raymond assumed Weston had played as white.

"Not me. It was Citrine." Weston beamed, giving Citrine a congratulatory pat on

the shoulder. "She really is my granddaughter-takes after me."

Raymond stared at Citrine, stunned. "Dad, you mean... you were black, and Citrine played white?"

"That's right," Weston replied.

Raymond's shock was quickly replaced by understanding as he remembered all the other unexpected things Citrine had done lately, it somehow made sense. Then pride took over. After all, this was his daughter.

Weston, meanwhile, had his competitive spirit well and truly stoked. One game wasn't enough—he insisted on a rematch, then another, and another. To his further astonishment, Citrine won three games in a row, leaving the old man completely outmaneuvered in a matter of minutes.