Chapter 411 Eight Steps Between Bellatrix & Checkmate

STEP SEVEN: ADOPT A CAUSE

“Champion something publicly. Orphans. Education. Widows. The cause is irrelevant. The optics are everything. A woman who feeds the hungry cannot be abandoned by a man who wants to look moral.”

Onyx was in the bathing chamber.

Petra was kneeling beside a copper tub, sleeves rolled to her elbows, washing a baby dragon who was sitting in warm water with his wings extended and his eyes half-closed, fully surrendered to the experience. The tuxedo was hanging on a stand beside the door, a towel beneath it, because Bellatrix had instructed Petra to treat the garment with the care afforded to royal vestments and Petra had complied because compliance was her primary professional skill and her secondary survival strategy.

Bellatrix was in the chair beside the window, drinking tea, reading the Knotty Omega’s Step Seven with the focused attention of a woman executing a campaign.

“Orphans,” she said.

Petra looked up. Onyx chirped, because the word had interrupted the bath and Onyx considered bath interruptions a personal slight.

“Orphans, Petra. Wolf children displaced by the conflict. There are camps. There are orphanages. There are children whose parents were killed in battles that my husband ordered, and those children need a champion, and that champion is going to be me.”

“Your Grace has never visited an orphanage.”

“Correct. Which makes the visit more impactful. A queen who has always cared about orphans is expected to visit. A queen who has never visited and suddenly arrives with supplies, funding, and the personal attention of the Crown is a story. Stories travel. Stories reach the Knotty Omega. Stories make divorcing me feel like divorcing a saint.”

She set the tea down.

“We are going to the orphanage, Petra. We are bringing supplies. We are bringing gold. We are bringing Onyx, because a queen arriving at an orphanage with a baby dragon in a tuxedo is an image that will be painted, described, and retold for decades, and the retelling will always include the phrase ’and her husband divorced her,’ and the phrase will always sound monstrous.”

“When, Your Grace?”

“Tomorrow. Prepare a carriage. Pack blankets, bread, dried meats, and whatever else orphans require. I will research their needs tonight.”

Petra did not comment on the fact that Bellatrix Drakenfell was about to research the needs of orphans for the first time in her life. Petra wrung the sponge and continued washing Onyx, who had resumed his state of aquatic bliss and wanted no further involvement in the conversation.

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STEP EIGHT: COMMISSION A PORTRAIT

A large, public portrait of the two of you. Hang it where everyone will see it. The empty space it leaves on the wall after a divorce asks a question no man wants to answer.

Onyx was on a velvet cushion.

Petra was rubbing oil into his scales with the methodical attention of a woman performing a task she had never anticipated performing and was executing with the professionalism of a person whose job had evolved from attendant to dragon spa technician over the course of a single day. Onyx’s eyes were closed. His tail was limp. His purring was audible from across the room, a low, steady vibration that communicated total and complete physical satisfaction.

“Step Eight,” Petra said, working the oil into the scales along Onyx’s spine. “Commission a portrait. Something large. Something public. Something—”

“I am doing better than a portrait.”

Petra’s hands paused.

Bellatrix was at her desk. The Knotty Omega was beside her, open to page twenty-three, annotated in the margins with ink that had smudged in three places because Bellatrix wrote with the urgency of a woman whose plans were outpacing her penmanship.

“I have a mural being painted in the grand hall as we speak,” Bellatrix said with a shrug. “I commissioned it this morning while you were sourcing the chicken. The mural will depict the Drakenfell royal family in full regalia, positioned above the eastern wall where every visiting dignitary, every noble, and every servant in this castle will see it daily.”

“A mural is certainly more impactful than a portrait, Your Grace.”

“The mural includes Serena.”

Petra’s hands stopped entirely. Onyx opened one eye, displeased by the interruption.

“I am including my son’s mate in the royal family mural. Favorite parent point. The mural will show the Drakenfell line with Serena positioned beside Dexmon, wearing a crown, looking stunning, because the girl is visually suited for a mural regardless of my personal opinions about her as a person. When the mural is complete, removing it will require destroying a wall. Tiberon cannot divorce me and then stare at a family portrait I commissioned every time he enters the great hall. The mural is permanent. The guilt will be permanent. The wall is my weapon, and the weapon is architectural.”

She picked up her wine. Drank. Set it down.

“Eight steps, Petra. Eight steps between me and the divorce. We have completed the checklist. We begin execution tomorrow, starting with the faint, and ending with the orphanage, and by the time Tiberon’s lawyers draft whatever paperwork they are drafting, the court will worship me, the nobles will pity me, the mural will haunt him, and the wedding will chain him to a calendar he cannot escape.”

She looked at Onyx, who had closed his eye and resumed purring under Petra’s hands, his tuxedo hanging beside the door, his scales gleaming with fresh oil, his small body radiating the contentment of a creature who had been kidnapped by a queen and found the kidnapping acceptable.

“Bellatrix Drakenfell does not lose, Petra.”

“No, Your Grace.”

“Bellatrix Drakenfell adapts, strategizes, and wins.”

“Yes, Your Grace.”

“And if all eight steps fail, which they will not, I will write my own column for the Knotty Omega and burn his reputation to the goddamn ground with a pen name and a subscription base.”

“I will begin drafting, Your Grace.”

“Under a pseudonym, Petra. Something elegant. Something untraceable.”

“Of course, Your Grace.”

Bellatrix picked up the Knotty Omega and read the article one final time. She closed it. Set it face-down on the desk. Looked at the checklist on the parchment beside it, eight steps, eight weapons, eight moves on a chessboard that Tiberon did not know had been set.

“Checkmate takes patience,” she said to the room.

Onyx purred in agreement.

He was wearing a tuxedo, being massaged by a servant, and sleeping on a velvet cushion in a queen’s parlor. He endorsed the institution.