Chapter 2
The Yates Cup's tournament schedule stretched from October all the way to December.
After I'd set the date for my euthanasia with the doctor, I turned on the TV.
The screen was showing a pre-tournament interview with Nathan.
He was the most highly anticipated homegrown player in this year's Yates Cup.
The reporter asked, "Mr. Palmer, do you think you can take the crown this year?"
Nathan just shoved the microphone away, clearly annoyed.
Right behind him, a woman reached out and tugged him back into the shot.
She was an international sensation, often called the most gorgeous female player on the circuit.
She was Nathan's fellow prodigy from back home, Olivia.
"Nathan, everyone's waiting for your answer," Olivia said, her voice gentle but insistent.
Not many people could make Nathan do something he didn't want to, but Olivia was one of the few.
With a resigned sigh, Nathan picked up the microphone and said, "I don't like to think about it too much before the tournament."
Olivia pouted and leaned in, whispering, "That's just his way of saying he is confident."
Her dimples were so sweet they could melt anyone's heart.
If I'd answered the media like that, Nathan would've just said I was messing around.
But on camera, he only ruffled Olivia's hair with a soft chuckle and said nothing.
I barely remembered the rest of the interview.
The only thing that stuck with me was how, right at the end, someone threw a bold question at Nathan, "Got any secrets you want to share with us?"
Olivia was waiting for him by the door of the conference room.
Nathan gave her a long, deep look.
Then he looked away, staring down at his feet.
The audio was so fuzzy that I almost didn't catch what he said.
He said, "I wasn't honest about my feelings."
That was the second thing I regretted that day.
Why couldn't I stop being so obsessed with everything Nathan did?
I was basically on my deathbed—so why was I still hung up on something Nathan said ages ago?
But every piece on the board carried its own meaning.
Nathan was a genius. He always left me, the clueless one, stuck with no way out.
When I was little, I used to get jealous over the smallest things.
Since our families had set everything up, I pretty much claimed Nathan as my own—never caring about rules or what anyone else thought.
Even if he was always cold and distant, I kept pestering him to introduce me to the folks at the chess academy.
That was when I first met Olivia.
Normally, Nathan's friends were a bunch of cold geniuses, but after a couple of beers, their faces turned red and they really loosened up.
Those guys loved to mess with Nathan, always cracking jokes at his expense.
One joked, "Nathan, come on, you mean to tell us you never caught feelings for Olivia?"
Another chimed in, "Look, your fiancée's right here—let's put you on the spot and get it out in the open.
"Quit dodging—just spill it. Did you ever, or not?"
Nathan was drunk, his eyes red behind his frameless glasses.
He let his gaze linger on me for a moment, then quietly said, "She's not my type."
I finally relaxed, and after that, I just hauled Nathan home.
I watched him dash into his room, rifling through his stuff for that endgame score.
He spent two straight days bolted inside the study; by the end, we were actually pumping nutrient bags into him to pull him back onto his feet.
His face was so pale that he looked almost sick as he said to me, "Lina, I just can't figure out that scoresheet."
I was twenty-one at the time, and I genuinely believed he wanted to spend his life with me.
So I reassured him, "It's alright, Nathan.
"We don't have to tie the knot—you know, a platonic relationship is pretty great too, isn't it?"
He gave a nod, but couldn't bring himself to meet my eyes.
After that, we both silently agreed never to mention that endgame score ever again.
Nathan just kept winning—every bigger international event pushed his rating a notch higher, and pretty soon the kid they used to call "strong" was sitting at the top boards, a 2700-plus force the rest of the field talked about in hushed, super-GM tones.
The Palmer family wouldn't let up, always bugging him to put his work aside and crack that unfinished score sheet.
Every single time, he'd nod and then say to me, "Lina, it's not that I don't want to solve it.
"Just don't keep pushing me, alright?"
Eventually, I wised up. Whenever people asked me about Nathan and me, I'd always shrug and say, "Let's just wait until his tournament's over."
Even I got interviewed for this year's Yates Cup.
My pitiful little segment got squeezed in only as Nathan and Olivia were leaving with their bags—like nobody really cared.
The reporters hurried after Nathan, eager to dig into the details of his personal life.
One reporter asked, "Is there anything you'd like to say to your fiancée?"
Nathan's eyes finally settled on my face.
After an awkward silence, he said, "She's lost weight."
Since the diagnosis, I'd dropped over twenty pounds.
On camera, those sharp hollows beneath my cheekbones were painfully obvious.
Nathan didn't know the real reason—I wasn't just losing weight. I was dying.