Twenty men stepped forward.
Victoria scanned the group.
"Here's how it works: each gambler picks their GM. Tal is already taken by me—he isn't a grandmaster, so his chances are moderate at best. The maximum stake is fifty thousand dollars."
The men murmured.
"Fifty thousand?!"
Victoria didn't flinch.
"First place gets paid by everyone from second-to-last, based on the amount they staked on their GM. For example, if Tal wins and I placed fifty thousand dollars on him, everyone from second to last pays me fifty thousand each."
The men nodded, impressed by the favorable structure.
"This applies for second-highest down to second-to-last. Only the last-place finisher loses significantly. Clear?"
Heads nodded. Stakes set. The game—and the gamble—was about to begin.
Extra rules were handed out. Eyes scanned the fine print, some frowning, others smirking.
Tal opened with 1. e4.
His opponent replied instantly: …c5. The Sicilian Defense.
The moves flew, each under five seconds.
Nf3 Nc6
Bb5 e6
Nc3 Ne7
d4 cxd4
Nxd4 cxd4
Qxd4 Nc6
Qe3 a6
Bxc6 bxc6
The position exploded. Spectators leaned in, calculating, anticipating, recalculating. The blistering pace slowed into a tense middlegame.
Tal glanced at the clock. 38 seconds. His opponent: 43.
Material imbalance: Tal had a knight and bishop; his opponent, a rook. Dynamic, tense.
Time spiraled:
19 – 13 → 13.5 – 11.2 → 4.7 – 3.8 → 2.4 – 2.1.
Tal leaned in. No hesitation.
1.2 – 0.0. Flag. Tal loses.
He shook hands quietly and stood. I had that game… just too slow.
"Oliver Tal."
Victoria's voice cut through the noise.
"Going somewhere?"
"Just to grab a drink," he replied calmly.
She studied him, then walked beside him.
"So, Oliver Tal… any questions?"
"No."
"Strange. You're not curious how I knew who you were?"
"You watched over me. That's your summary."
She smiled.
"Mmm. That's romantic."
"What?"
"What you just said."
Tal stopped.
"I'm saying you're a stalker."
"Oh my… rude."
"I don't hate you."
"Then you love me?"
"No."
"So… you don't hate me and don't love me."
"There's a third option."
"Like?"
"…I might."
She smiled.
"A good start for a healthy relationship."
They arrived at the house entrance.
"Wait outside. I'll grab the drinks," Tal said.
"Oliver Tal… are you saying I'm embarrassing?"
"No. I just don't want people looking at us… together."
"…Something like that."
"Doesn't that suggest we're good-looking?"
"Please," Tal said, impatient. "Stay here. I've got a prize to win."
Victoria nodded. "You go… I'll call off the tournament if I get there first."
"You can't… can you?"
"Try me."
She started walking fast. Tal rushed inside, grabbing two bottles of wine.
"Tal! Where have you been?"
"I didn't leave… can't talk now. Later."
Before she could respond, he raced out. Freya stepped outside, unease flashing in her eyes. Who was this woman? And why was she wearing Tal's jacket?
"Seems you admire Tal… and his new friend," a voice said smoothly.
Freya spun around. Ethan.
"Stop invading my privacy."
"Privacy? You mean secretly staring at Tal and his new girlfriend?"
"What girlfriend?"
"You know… close," he smirked.
"She wishes," Freya muttered.
"Why do you feel threatened?"
"I am not threatened," she shot back.
He leaned closer.
"Do you know what a glass filled with wine is called?"
She stared.
"A wine-of-glass."
He laughed. She did not. She shoved past him and stormed inside.
The music played. Laughter bubbled. Freya grabbed the microphone.
"Party's over. Pack your luggage. Fast."
The room fell silent. Guests hesitated, then began leaving. Tal noticed the air tighten—the tension thickened.
Victoria handed Tal his drink.
"I'll handle this one," she said.
She guided guests toward the doors with calm authority.
Two hours later: the final phase.
Tal had two wins from the blitz stage—over fifty-four brutal games in three hours and thirty minutes. Now came the bullet gauntlet: thirty seconds per game, one hour forty-five minutes.
Tal dominated. Six straight wins. Twelve in a row. He dragged the grandmasters into chaos, thriving in it.
Victoria calculated silently: minimum projection—five hundred thousand dollars.
Even if Tal slipped in blitz, bullet was his territory. And he didn't slip. Six more wins. Twelve in a row. Round thirteen, he finally lost—but it didn't matter.
The tournament ended. Screens dimmed. Pieces reset. Murmurs fell into heavy silence.
A glowing list appeared.
🏆 Final Standings (Blitz + Bullet)
GM Boris – 9 + 8 = 17
GM Morphy – 7 + 9 = 16
GM Wesley – 4 + 11 = 15
GM Vincent – 7 + 8 = 15
GM Nordirbek – 6 + 8 = 14
Oliver Tal – 2 + 12 = 14
GM Carl – 3 + 5 = 8
GM Nathan – 5 + 1 = 6
GM Daniel – 3 + 3 = 6
GM Garrick – 2 + 3 = 5
GM Gaurel – 1 + 4 = 5
GM Joe – 2 + 2 = 4
GM Kelly – 3 + 0 = 3
Victoria saw Tal lying on the ground. A small, unreadable smile crossed her face. She didn't leave him there. Carefully, she carried him to the outdoor lounge, resting his head on her lap.
Soft music played through her earbuds: Whispers within you. Memories of admiration and fascination flooded her. The shy fifteen-year-old girl who watched Tal on TV had grown into the woman now sitting beside him. He wasn't just someone to admire—he had become the man of her dreams.
Hours later, Tal's phone rang. Victoria picked it up.
"Hello? Who's this?"
Silence. Then the line went dead.
A message followed:
"Tal, you can't run from your past. I will ruin you."