Two fingers drawn across a throat still haunted Nara's vision. Thirty feet. Bronze sculptures below. At the Kertesz estate, every prop doubled as a weapon, and sleep had offered only brief drops punctuated by Misha's thin face. Morning arrived, stark and bright, pulling her into a fresh nightmare. Today’s challenge wasn't the catwalk. It was the ‘Riviera Regatta,’ a high-society boating race on the shimmering expanse of Lac Otylia, the sprawling man-made lake at the heart of the Kertesz grounds. Four sleek, custom-built skiffs, each a polished sliver of mahogany and chrome, bobbed at the ornate stone pier. Automated rigs perched on cranes and floating drones tracked every movement, every manufactured smile. Matriarch Otylia, a vision in a wide-brimmed straw hat and a silk dress the color of seafoam, beamed from a shaded pavilion. “Our darling will choose her vessel first!” she announced, her voice carrying across the water with surprising power. “A symbol of her command!” Nara surveyed the boats. Four identical hulls, four sets of pristine oars. Yet, one of them felt different. It was the third skiff from the left, a slight, almost imperceptible tilt in its stern. A grifter’s instinct, honed by years of spotting frayed seams and false bottoms, screamed at her. This boat, the one designated for her, was the target. She moved toward it, pulse hammering against her ribs. Iulian Rado, impeccably dressed in linen, preened beside his assigned skiff—the second from the left. He caught her eye, a knowing smirk playing on his lips. “Careful, my dear. These vessels demand a delicate hand. Perhaps you’d prefer a leisurely gondola?” Nara paused, a slow, predatory smile touching her mouth. This was her chance. “Oh, Iulian,” she purred, her voice carrying just enough for the boom microphones to pick up. She gestured airily at his boat. “But yours, my dear. It simply *radiates* photogenic charm. Imagine the angles! My public demands aesthetic perfection, you understand. Would you be a darling and swap? Just for the viewers?” She batted her eyelashes, a performance so practiced it felt like a second skin. Iulian, ever the peacock, puffed out his chest. “If it pleases the heiress… though I daresay my own prowess will ensure victory regardless of the vessel.” He winked, already imagining the headlines, the adoration. He stepped out of his boat, gesturing grandly for Nara to take his place. Nara slid into the second skiff, her fingers brushing the polished wood, a cold satisfaction settling in her stomach. She watched Iulian, oblivious, settle into the sabotaged boat. Kazimir Baris, standing by the water’s edge in his customary dark suit, watched the exchange. His eyes, dark and unreadable, flickered between Nara and Iulian, a subtle tension in the set of his jaw. He missed nothing. The race began with the blast of a silver horn. Oars dipped, water churned. Nara, despite her lack of experience, quickly found a rhythm, her muscles protesting but her focus absolute. She watched Iulian. For the first few hundred feet, he cut through the water with effortless grace, his boasts seemingly justified. Then, with a sudden, sickening shudder, his skiff veered sharply. A loud crack echoed across the lake. Water gushed into the hull from a splintered seam beneath the waterline. Iulian, caught completely off guard, flailed with his oars, his smug expression contorting into a mask of pure panic. The boat listed, then began to sink, slowly at first, then with an undignified gulp, leaving him sputtering amidst the debris and the mocking glint of a thousand camera lenses. The crowd gasped, then erupted into a mixture of laughter and appalled titters. Nara allowed herself a small, secret smile. Payback, however minor, felt like a clean breath of air. She pressed on, the finish line – a garlanded arch near the Kertesz boathouse – drawing closer. Stefan pulled ahead with fixed, relentless strokes, his shoulders bunched in steady rhythm. Dorian Balan, however, was closing fast from her left, his powerful shoulders eating up the distance. He had a competitive glint in his eyes that Nara recognized from her own street days. She pushed harder, her muscles screaming, the cheers and shouts from the shore a blur. Then, a sickening lurch. Dorian’s boat, instead of passing, swerved violently. A jarring impact slammed into her skiff’s port side. The shock threw her forward, sending her oars skittering. Her boat spun, capsized, and in a terrifying rush, the cold, dark water of Lac Otylia swallowed her whole. The shock of the chill stole her breath, dragging her deeper. She thrashed, disoriented, the heavy layers of her elegant racing attire pulling her down. A splash. A dark shape cut through the water beside her. A strong hand seized her arm, then wrapped around her waist, hauling her upward. Kazimir. He had shed his jacket and kicked off his shoes, his expression grim as he broke the surface, gasping for air. He held her tightly, pulling her toward the overturned hull, his body a solid warmth against the biting cold. Lenses, now focused on their shared struggle, zoomed in to catch every spray of water and strained muscle. The live feed, Nara knew, would be exploding. Dorian, his own boat now circling nearby, looked genuinely distressed. “My apologies, Nara! A rogue current! A faulty rudder! An absolute accident, I assure you!” Kazimir ignored him. He hauled Nara onto the slick, upturned hull of her skiff, then clambered up beside her, shielding her from the wind. His dark hair was plastered to his forehead, his shirt clinging to his formidable frame. He shucked off his wet outer shirt, leaving him in a dark undershirt, and wrapped his jacket, now sodden and heavy, around her shivering shoulders. The rough fabric was a strange comfort. He leaned in, his voice low, urgent, his eyes boring into hers. “That was no accident. Who are you protecting?”

The Lakeside Gambit