At the Table

The long table was already set—crystal, china, and gold flatware placed as if by machine, or possibly by a dozen identical Mildreds working in panicked synchrony. Each chair looked grown rather than built: glossy blackwood, arms curved to cradle even the most elaborate hips or tails. The centerpiece was a low run of star-shaped white flowers and green moss, dotted here and there with tiny orbs of light that hovered an inch above the foliage. Someone had even set the place cards, and as Andy scanned for his, easily found at the head of the table, where a taller, more ornate chair waited for him, he saw that both of Laura’s bodies had been assigned seats to his right, while Erin flanked him on the left.

The rest of the group filtered in and took their seats as if on a collective dare: first Marissa, her blue gown’s neckline plunging just enough to make it a topic; then Riley and Chloe, the former sliding forward as if on a mission, Andy still reeling from seeing her in a dress, the latter’s ivory gown showing just a hint of what Andy thought couldn’t possibly be a cow-print bra. Then came Norah, who was already tripping on her own heels and caught herself with an annoyed click of the tongue, and then Dawn, who managed to land herself directly in the conversational center of the table, despite her modest protestations.

Liesa and Emi took seats on the near side, next to Riley and Chloe; Sam and Claire took the end seats, with Myra and Emily tucked in between. Katherine’s painting, set up on a pedestal near Andy’s place, seemed to anchor the whole thing: she stood, as always, perfectly nude and with a regal, slightly bashful tilt of the head, a silent invitation for the rest to be as they were.

Andy was grateful for the break in the tension that followed. For all the pomp, it felt less like the start of a contest and more like the opening of a wedding dinner: every woman there was dressed for elegance as well as seduction. Andy tried not to stare at Erin’s forest green dress and its valiant but ultimately futile efforts to contain her breasts, but it was difficult: every time his eyes flicked over, Erin caught him, and he could see the way her nipples instantly pebbled up even through the fabric. She flushed but never looked away.

Arabella approached the table with a sweep of her hand, a goddess at ease in her domain. She wore a gown that seemed spun from crimson darkness, slit high enough to risk a scandal if she cared for such things. Her mask glittered. She took her place at the foot of the table, then, with a crisp nod, signaled for the music to start and the serving Mildreds to begin.

The food appeared in waves: first, baskets of tiny cheese rolls, still steaming and dusted with herbs; then bowls of fruit glazed in honey and lime, so vivid they looked airbrushed; then plates of thinly sliced ham and bowls of green olives that glistened like jewels. Each course arrived with a flourish, but the women seemed to ignore the spectacle, instead filling the room with a constant, electric cross-chatter.

Andy sat at the head of the table. To his right, Laura’s two bodies had claimed their seats with a practiced ease, both leaning in so that her hands bracketed his arm. The effect was protective, almost possessive, but Andy felt only gratitude for it. On his left, Erin perched on her chair in a way that could not possibly have been comfortable—back straight, knees pressed together, and arms crossed under her breasts as if daring anyone to mention the situation.

The conversation at first was just noise: Sam and Liesa razzing Norah about her shoe drama; Emi quietly losing her mind as Riley’s hair braided itself around her waist, which was apparently a new trick; Marissa and Dawn debating which of the cheese rolls were the best tasting ones; Chloe and Claire comparing notes about the place cards, Chloe trying to persuade Claire they had been written by a robot, a theory which Claire responded to with a tiny, dignified shrug.

The wine was poured—something sparkling and pink that fizzed even after it settled. Andy tried to catch the rhythm of the table, to figure out which lane of conversation was safe, but each time he settled on a topic, someone yanked it into the gutter or lofted it up into the clouds. By the time the salad arrived, he’d heard at least three sexual innuendos, one detailed confession about a wet dream involving six arms (Emi’s, obviously), and a lively debate about whether fox tails were strictly necessary in a sexual scenario or if they were just bonus points.

It still amazed him that the women could now be so open about such things. At the same time, he couldn’t help but admit that two months in a place like Harem Hotel had to count as overexposure to sex by any standard.

Then, as the first plates were cleared, Arabella rose with a grace that instantly quieted the table. She tapped her glass, and the room dimmed slightly, or maybe the orbs just decided to spotlight her for the moment.

“Welcome, everyone,” she said, her voice velvet even without the amplification. “Tonight is both a celebration and a challenge. Each of you has been invited to ask a question of the Master that you have always wanted to know, but never dared ask. Andy, you will not answer now, but mark the questions and who asks them, for this will be important later. Victory Points are at stake.”

She let that linger, then smiled. “Who will begin?”

Andy barely had time to breathe before Erin, who had obviously been waiting for her cue, set down her water glass with a very deliberate thunk and squared her shoulders.

“Okay,” Erin said, her voice already a little thick with anticipation. “I’ll go first, since that’s always the rule with me.” She didn’t turn to face Andy directly, but she angled her chair just enough to be unmistakably pointed at him. “When I’m not in the room, and you think of me, what is the first part of me you remember?”

The table went a little quieter—just a little—and Andy felt a dozen pairs of eyes flick to him, then away, as if none of them wanted to break the spell of the question. Erin held his gaze, not smiling but not at all uncertain.

Andy waited, remembering what Arabella had told him: he was not to answer until the ball. He let the silence ride, and Erin, who had seen this play before, held her ground.

As the silence stretched, her nipples grew even stiffer, and a bead of moisture (impossible to miss, with her skin that exact shade of mint) began to glimmer at the apex of her left breast. Andy could see her thighs tense, her breathing shallow but steady. She wanted the answer, but she also wanted to survive not getting it, and that made him respect her even more.

When he said nothing, Erin’s mouth quirked into a sly half-smile, equal parts challenge and surrender. She took another sip of wine, her eyes never leaving his.

On his right, Laura’s two bodies mirrored each other in a gesture that could have been choreographed: both lifted their hands to their jaws, fingertips grazing the L-shaped scar that ran down her face, as if remembering the day she’d received it. One Laura leaned in, blue eyes sharp and full of secrets; the other crossed her arms on the table, a single eyebrow raised, as if daring Andy to dodge the question.

“Don’t let him off easy,” she said, both voices perfectly in sync. “He likes to dodge when things get close.”

Andy couldn’t help but laugh, and the table loosened a bit, the tension diffusing.

Sam, seated at the end, grinned like she’d just seen her favorite team score. “Nice. That’s the first question, and a good one.” She caught Andy’s eye, then Erin’s, and winked. “If he tries to lie, I’ll fact-check.”

Liesa, seated beside her, nodded approval. “You’re very brave,” she said, her accent thick, perhaps wondering what Andy would answer if she asked the same question.

Marissa watched the exchange with the calm of someone who had already mapped every possible outcome. Her eyes flickered to Andy, then to Erin, and Andy could see the faintest sign of curiosity radiating off her in the way she leaned ever so slightly toward the speaker.

The string quartet of Mildreds played on, their movements so precise and synchronized that it was impossible to tell if they were living beings or robots. The music filled the silence in a way that made every conversation seem deeper, like a secret being shared between conspirators.

The table’s attention drifted back and forth between the food and the questions. No one had forgotten the task at hand, but for the first time since arriving at the Hotel, the pressure of elimination or performance was gone.

Andy found himself relaxing, if only a little. He could see it in the way Marissa loosened her shoulders, the way Norah stretched her legs under the table, even in the way Chloe let her hair fall backwards, not hiding the ivory dress, her gravity-defying breasts, or the hint of cow-print.

The music softened for a moment, then shifted into something slow and moody. Arabella seemed pleased, and Andy caught her watching him, as if waiting to see what he’d do next.

He didn’t have to wait long. Erin leaned in, her shoulder pressing against his, and whispered, “You’re not going to answer, are you?”

He shook his head. “Rules say no.”

She smiled. “That’s okay. I already know. But you’ll owe me a better answer later.” She pulled back, the smell of mint and sea salt lingering in the air between them, and Andy felt his pulse in his neck, fast and sure.

To his left, Laura’s two bodies moved in eerie synch: one reached for a slice of bread, the other poured herself a drink. When they spoke, the effect was doubled, but the words were pure Laura.

“You’d better hope I don’t ask the same question,” she said, grinning with both mouths.

Sam, never one to let the tension go slack, raised her glass. “To good questions, and even better answers,” she said.

The table clinked in agreement.

Next to Andy, Dawn finally spoke up, her voice softer but more sure. “Okay, I have a question,” she said. She hesitated, then asked, “If you had to pick a single moment—just one—where you realized you cared about someone here, what was it?” She tried to play it off as casual, but Andy could see the hope in her eyes.

There was a pause, then Riley grinned, her hair snaking out to snag a bread roll. “Are we doing this round-robin?” she said. “Or just shaming Andy?”

Dawn flushed, but nodded. “Just Andy. He’s the Master, right?”

Andy blinked, then nodded, feeling the weight of expectation but also the warmth of being seen, and possibly embarrassed, maybe even mortified. He looked around the table, at the collection of impossible women who had somehow become his family, and he let himself feel the gratitude he usually tried to hide.

He didn’t answer—Arabella’s rule, after all. But he made a mental note of giving Dawn the answer she deserved.

The dinner stretched on, a rhythm of questions and banter, food and wine, laughter and the kind of affectionate mockery that only happened among people who genuinely liked each other. Andy didn’t take a single bite for granted.

As the plates cleared for the next course, he caught Riley watching him, her mismatched eyes bright and full of something unreadable. “You don’t have to say it,” she said, her voice low, “but you’re thinking about it, aren’t you?”

Andy nodded. “Every second.”

Riley smiled, sharp and sweet. “Good. Means you haven’t lost your touch.”

The table fell into a hush again, this time not because of expectation, but because the thing they were celebrating—the unlikelihood of all of them together, here, now—felt precious.

Andy sat back, breathing it all in.

By the time the next course arrived—smoked duck for most, a spread of grilled eggplant and sweet-potato hash for the vegetarians—the mood at the table had shifted from performance to something almost familial. The music from the string quartet slid under the conversation, softer now, like a blanket tucked around the chatter. The Mildreds moved with uncanny, choreographed silence, serving with a grace that somehow neither interrupted nor faded into the background.

If Andy had to describe it, he’d say the dinner had hit cruising altitude. The first questions had knocked out the tension; now, the table seemed content to drift, to watch what would happen if no one tried to steer too hard.

Across from Andy, Norah had been unusually reserved, her hands fidgeting with the stem of her wine glass. She wore a dress so violet it made her caramel skin pop. Usually, she’d have been louder, or at least more biting; now, she seemed to be calculating something, as if there were a right and a wrong time to enter the fray.

It was only after the Mildreds cleared the empty plates and the next round of drinks appeared (coffee for some, another bottle of fizz for the rest) that Norah finally spoke up.

She didn’t preamble. “Here’s one for you, Andy,” she said, voice just a hair louder than needed, as if to muscle the room into listening. “If you could go back and relive one night—just one—with someone at this table, which night would you choose, and why?”

There was a subtle tightening of posture all around; even the painting seemed to lean in. Norah held herself with the calculated confidence of someone who had already decided she wouldn’t care about the answer, even as she braced herself for it.

Andy, per the rules, just looked at her, let the question rest between them, and said nothing. Arabella, at the other end of the table, just smiled.

Erin was the first to react—her whole body tensed, and she fixed Norah with a look that was half-grin, half-dare. “Nice, Tabs. Going for the jugular,” she said, but her voice was too warm to be truly competitive. She looked at Andy, caught his eyes, and this time, let herself get lost in them for a full beat before she pulled back. Her arousal spiked so sharply that it was almost visible, her mint skin flushed with an undertone of pine.

To his right, Laura’s two bodies mirrored each other in an unreadable expression. One Laura let her eyes slide closed, as if thinking through every possible answer; the other met Norah’s gaze with a steady, unfazed stare. “Only one night?” she said, her voices overlapping and dreamy. “That’s not enough for him.” The room laughed, and even Norah cracked a smile.

Sam—always the referee—lifted her glass and said, “I like that. It’s a power question.” She looked at Andy and shrugged, like, What’re you gonna do? “If you don’t answer, we’ll just have to guess.” She turned to the table. “Anyone want to place bets?”

Chloe, still battling the slow creep of moisture through her dress, tried to vanish into her chair but managed, “I think it’s the night of the storm, when we went through the Garden of Glass. It mustn’t have been easy, but he received the best present at the end.”

That drew a round of “awws,” and Andy felt a wave of affection for Chloe. Laura, to his right, blushed furiously.

Marissa, sitting nearest the painting, didn’t offer a guess, but her eyes flicked to Andy, reading him. He saw the faintest, secret smile at the edge of her mouth—a therapist recognizing the test and waiting to see if he’d blink.

On Andy’s left, Erin looked at Norah again, and this time the look was gentler, almost grateful. “It’s a good question,” she said. “Even if it’s unfair.”

Norah shrugged, but her shoulders relaxed, and she looked pleased—like she’d landed a blow that was more friendly jab than sabotage. But before everyone could return back to their meal, Liesa leaned forward, her elbows resting on the table. The directness was typical of her, but tonight it felt less like a performance and more like someone cutting through the noise to get to the heart of things.

“Andy,” she said, voice soft but clear, “what is the most beautiful thing anyone has ever done for you, that they thought you didn’t notice?”

The table stilled, and this time, no one rushed to fill the silence. Even Riley, who never met a gap she couldn’t poke, seemed caught by the seriousness of the question.

Andy looked at Liesa, saw that she was asking not just for herself, but for every woman at the table, maybe for every woman who’d ever wondered if her small kindness had registered. Again, he said nothing, but he let his gaze linger, hoping she’d see the answer in the way he looked at her.

The question seemed to travel the whole table, settling on each woman in turn. Emi, always the most delicate of the group, drew her arms in and blinked fast, a shy smile growing on her lips. She reached over and squeezed Liesa’s hand.

Even Claire, who rarely betrayed emotion, paused her scribbling and set her pencil down, looking up at Liesa with a new kind of regard.

No one teased, no one joked. For a moment, it felt like every woman at the table was asking the same thing, each in her own language.

Andy let the feeling hang there, let it fill the room like perfume, before the banter gradually spun up again, lighter now, the mood touched but not weighed down by the question.

Arabella was good at timing. As soon as the table’s laughter faded and the duck course gave way to the delicate, citrus-bright next course, she lifted a hand and said, “If you’re ready, I believe the next question goes to Sam.”

Sam grinned, blue hair catching a glint from the nearest orb. She waited for the group to reset, let the attention center on her, and then rolled her eyes. “Okay. I’ll make this one easy. When someone you care about gets something you didn’t even know they needed—something that changes them, or takes them somewhere new—what do you actually feel about that?”

The table laughed. Liesa gave a half-hearted groan. “That is so unfair. You have to answer!”

Sam shrugged, as if to say, What, like it’s hard? Then she turned to Andy, her voice all breezy irony: “And before you say ‘proud,’ just remember—sometimes the thing that changes them is out of your control.”

At first, everyone laughed; Riley made a crack about upgrades being a curse and a blessing, and Dawn said, “What if the change is just more boobs? Is that the same feeling?” The banter looped around for a bit, but as Sam watched Andy, the joking dropped out of her eyes and what was left was real intensity—a question asked for its own sake, not for the points.

Andy recognized it instantly. He let the silence ride, but this time, he let Sam see that he was thinking about it. She nodded at him, like they’d shared a secret handshake.

Across the table, Liesa watched the exchange, her gaze sharpening as she read the unspoken layer beneath it. “Sometimes,” she said, so softly only those nearest could hear, “you can only let hope they’re happy.” She looked down at her plate, but Andy saw the glimmer of tears that she immediately blinked away.

Laura, always attuned to the emotional weather, shifted in her seat—both bodies, in perfect sync. “It’s hard,” she said, her voice quiet, “to watch someone you love become someone who doesn’t need only you.” For a moment, the room seemed to fold in on itself, the rest of the table fading to a hush.

Andy felt the question in his bones. He held Sam’s gaze, gave her a little nod, and she answered it with a small, satisfied smile.

After a while, the music picked up again, and the table drifted back to easier conversation, the spell of the moment lingering but not suffocating.

Another round of wine had just been poured when Emily finally spoke up. She hadn’t said much all evening, content to let her hair shield her face and her body language do the talking. But now, she cleared her throat, tucked her hair behind her ears, clearly still self-conscious about wearing her gold-and-pink dress, and said:

“I have a question. But it’s not... I mean, it’s not fancy.”

The table hushed, everyone looking at her. Even Arabella tilted her head, curious.

Emily blushed so hard it reached her shoulders. “If you could do anything you wanted to me, and nobody would ever find out—what would you do?”

The silence was absolute, then Norah, deadpan, raised her glass and said, “That’s a power play.”

Chloe tried to hide a giggle behind her hand, while Riley just let out a low whistle. “Em,” she said, “you are full of surprises.”

Emily squeezed her knees together, mortified. “Sorry,” she muttered. “I just... I wanted to know.”

Andy looked at her, let the question hang, then smiled at the sincerity of it. He didn’t answer—Arabella‘s rule—but he didn’t have to. The look he gave her said more than any words could.

Erin, of all people, jumped in. “Em, you know he’d treat you like gold. Or at least, like the rarest collectible there is.” She winked at Andy, but her face was full of genuine affection.

Emily looked up, met Andy’s eyes, and—still bright pink—grinned back.

The table broke into applause, laughter, and another round of toasts, as if the directness of the question had reset the mood to something lighter, warmer, almost giddy. The next pause was longer than any before. The table settled, forks down as the Mildreds cleared out the plates to make space for the next course, and the music softened into something so slow it was more like breathing than melody.

It was Myra who spoke, her voice so even it cut through the whole room. “May I?” she asked, and when Arabella gave a nod, she turned toward Andy.

“If it’s not too personal,” she began, then let the words come without flinching, “what do you want us to be to each other — now that I don't owe you anything anymore?”

The silence was complete, but not empty. Andy felt the weight of every eye, but mostly he felt Myra’s, even through her blindness—there was a precision to her question, a sense that she already had an answer and wanted him to finish it.

He didn’t answer, as before, but this time he looked straight at Myra, let her see the reaction on his face, and hoped it said enough.

Around the table, Marissa straightened, as if the question had been her own. She watched Myra with an intensity that bordered on reverence, a therapist recognizing the audacity and honesty of the question. Riley, for once, didn’t joke or smirk; she simply nodded, slow and thoughtful, as if the answer mattered more than she wanted to admit.

Claire, in her quiet way, wrote nothing, just let her hands rest on the table and absorbed the moment. There was nothing to add.

The conversation didn’t resume instantly. Instead, there was a slow, collective breath, and the feeling that something important had just been placed on the table, next to the wine and the fruit tart.

Andy sat, holding not just Myra’s question, but the echo of every one before it, and the ones still waiting their turn.