CHAPTER ONE
August, 1950

     Violet's long chestnut locks were elegantly swept from her face by a chilly gust of wind as she strolled toward the airport's main gate. Traveling by plane had always been an exquisite pleasure for her. Amidst the thrill of chess tournaments and the captivating atmosphere they offered, flying, to her, embodied one of the finest aspects of being an international chess player. Though she appreciated visiting prominent attractions, a peculiar lassitude often dimmed her enthusiasm for such activities.

     Allow me to divulge the reason behind this peculiar ambivalence:

     Not too long ago, in the year 1945, Violet found herself bereaved of her father at the tender age of 18. To add to her plight, her mother, motivated by the prospect of a new solid union with someone else, one she genuinely loved, or perhaps someone who could provide the financial means she had now lost access to, decided to part ways with her daughter. 

"You're an adult now, my dear. It's time to care for yourself."

     While Violet acknowledged the truth in her mother's words, the weight of the decision hurt deeply, irrespective of her intelligence, talent, beauty, or success. The departure of her own mother felt akin to someone rubbing salt on open wounds. She had hoped that her passion for chess would be enough to bind them together, just as it had sustained her. She dreamt of making enough money for both of them, encouraging her mother to stay, learn, and heal together.

    But alas, reality proved harsh, and she had to swallow her grief.

     Reflecting on how she was thrust into adulthood at such a tender age, using her father's inheritance to start anew, distressed Violet. Nonetheless, she acknowledged that this man, John Davis, had played a pivotal role in shaping her into the independent lady she had become, as well as bestowing upon her the talent and strength that set her apart. She felt a deep sense of gratitude, and while she wasn't certain if she had ever loved him romantically, she harbored profound respect for her father. Furthermore, she was certain of one thing: he had unlocked the door to her true calling, the one person she could wholeheartedly trust, the one who encouraged her to strive for greatness.

     She wished she had adequately expressed her gratitude.

     In conclusion, Violet Davis bore the scars of life's battles, and once again, fate seemed to conspire against her. People began to label her as a cold, disdainful loner, primarily due to her refusal to address a multitude of journalists or reporters and her reluctance to show empathy or pity toward her opponents, even as she benefited from their mistakes and tactfully countered every foolish move. But why should she indulge in such behavior? Why should she lay bare her emotions and discuss her family matters in public? To invite judgment? That was simply not an option for Violet. She believed that a grieving woman had the right to mourn her father and come to terms with her past, for dealing with trauma was no easy task.

✩

          "Would you care for something to drink, Ms. Davis?"

          "Oh, some sparkling water, please."

     Violet gazed out the window, contemplating the unfolding vistas. The ancient melody playing softly in the background, coupled with the sight of distant mountains peeking above the clouds, provided her with another moment of serenity and ease. She had grown accustomed to solitude and embraced it for the most part. Yet, there were moments when she yearned for someone to make her laugh. She couldn't remember the last time her lips curved into a genuine smile.

     Half an hour later, Violet found herself desiring a stronger drink, preferably coffee, as her eyes felt heavy and fatigued, likely due to a sleepless night. Her anxiety about the upcoming event and the presence of Benny Watts, whom she expected to be chuckling at her expense, gnawed at her. However, she soon corrected herself.

     Why would Benny Watts concern himself with embarrassing a young woman? It happened over a decade ago. He had been one of the finest international chess champions in the United States since the tender age of seven. Countless opponents had been humiliated by him. Though he hadn't forced someone of her caliber to resign, as he had done with Violet, he was an adult now.

     Again, she found herself mistaken.

     In an attempt to clear her mind, she waited a few more minutes, hoping to spot a flight attendant passing by. With none in sight, she decided to take matters into her own hands. As she wandered a few feet further down the aisle, she noticed another young woman, sporting auburn tresses and hazel eyes, elegantly dressed in a black turtleneck and long skirt—attire Violet would have donned herself.

          "Shall I call the flight attendant for you?" the woman asked, her words resonating throughout the plane.

     Violet shifted her gaze to the woman, her voice soft but filled with intrigue. "I, uhm, think I can handle it. Thank you."

          "Very well."

          "I know this might come off really odd but are you Elizabeth Harmon?"

     Beth turned her head, locking eyes with Violet. She was absolutely enchanting, and one could easily drown in the depth of her irises, the sharpness of her features, and her towering presence. Attractive, tall, and undeniably talented—Violet had read extensively about her and seen pictures, yet none of it compared to the reality before her. Despite her being barely 18, Beth exuded the confidence of a mature woman. Crossing her legs with grace, she seemed acutely aware of her captivating presence. Violet's eyes couldn't help but linger, appreciating the view. She felt an immediate connection with Beth, drawn to her in ways she couldn't explain. The fascination with the stories she had read in the papers felt amplified in her presence.

          "Yes," Beth nodded, her gaze returning to her miniature chessboard, "And you're Violet Davis, John Davis' daughter."

     Beth's inquiry about her lineage struck a chord deep within Violet, setting off a tumult of emotions. As the question lingered in the air, Violet's barely perceptible smile vanished in a flash. The butterflies that had fluttered in her stomach moments ago now seemed to soar directly up to her throat, forming a palpable lump. She longed to express herself, to reveal her true desires, and to shed the moniker of "John Davis' daughter." While she was grateful for her father's influence and the opportunities he had bestowed upon her, she yearned to be known for her own accomplishments, to carve out her own legacy, and to see her name recognized in its own right.

          "Uh, yeah," she managed to reply, though her voice quivered with uncertainty.

     As Beth's gaze scanned her from head to toe, Violet felt a mixture of self-consciousness and vulnerability. She was acutely aware of Beth's dryness and lack of expression, and while she had read about Beth's behavior with others, she had never pictured herself in such a situation. The thoughts of her mother, who was nowhere to be found at the moment, compounded the inner conflict that swirled within her.

          "You're attending the US Open in Las Vegas?" Beth tapped the empty seat beside her, breaking the uneasy silence. "Or you're just spectating? I've heard you retired ten years ago."

     As the questions reached her ears, Violet felt her heart pounding, as if it were attempting to burst out of her chest. The accidental brush of Beth's elbow against her arm sent electric tingles through her body, but she resisted the impulse to react. She found herself drawn to Beth, captivated by their shared connection through the game of chess. Yet, the air between them felt charged with both excitement and trepidation.

          "I am playing in the Open," Violet replied, looking at her chessboard.

          "Mhm," Beth acknowledged nonchalantly, seemingly absorbed in her miniature chess pieces.

     Violet mustered the courage to speak again, "You, uh...you know where the flight attendant is? I could use a drink now."

     Beth shrugged in response, her attention still fixed on the chessboard. "She should be here any minute."

     As Violet tried to make sense of the swirling emotions inside her, a striking woman with two margaritas and a rather unsettling grin approached their seats. Violet stood frozen, unable to avert her gaze as she watched Beth thank the woman.

          "You were saying?" Beth's voice broke the momentary silence, her eyes meeting Violet's.

     Caught off guard by the intensity of their eye contact, Violet found herself momentarily lost for words. She swallowed the lump in her throat, trying to compose herself. "Nothing. Thank you."