Hidden Floors, Part 2

The door opened onto a ramp leading down, the air cooling by degrees. The light shifted, growing soft and diffuse, as if refracted through a filter of rain and glass. The ramp deposited them at the edge of a vast, open meadow—Amber Pastures, Dinah called them. The field rolled away in gentle, unbroken green, pocked here and there with the glimmer of sunken water features or the black forms of reclining figures. The silence was total, save for the faint music of insects and the distant, perpetual chime of bells.

Most of the women here were altered beyond recognition, their bodies adapted to a kind of grazing existence. One woman—her entire form suffused with a golden, dandelion fluff—drifted a few feet above the grass, tethered to the ground only by the slow, deliberate bites she took of the turf below. Another one, distinctly dog-like, walked on all fours restlessly, head tilted down as if grieving. Others lay curled on their sides, sleeping or simply resting. Andi noticed a trio of women with fused lower bodies, their torsos branching up and away from a common base, each set of eyes moving independently, but each hand intertwined with those of the others. Three women with the traits of sheep—horns, woolen pelts covering most of their bodies, one of them walking upright, the others crawling on all fours—grazed peacefully on the grass.

A little farther off, a figure loomed above the rest: a statue, carved from a substance that glowed with a feverish, obscene pink. The statue was explicitly erotic, its surface alive with the suggestion of skin, lips, and every other possible cavity. But it was the eyes that stopped Andi cold—glass orbs, impossibly human, following her with ****, predatory awareness.

Dinah followed her gaze. “She was eliminated, but she’s still aware. Not in pain, not really. But she never sleeps.”

Andi’s jaw clenched. “Why not try to fix her?”

“Because we can’t,” Dinah said. “This was the best we could do.” She looked at the statue, then back at Andi. “We, and others, come and speak with her every day. Arabella set up a boon that enables her to respond with her mind. She’s happier out here than she was in the suite. Believe it or not.”

“Even the power of a Host has limits,” Arabella added sadly, “I’m a first-generation Host, Andy. Probably the only one left. Over time and contract extensions, my power has grown to the point that I could rival Producers, if I wanted. But I am still constrained by my role. I can bring my power to bear on those who play the game, or on those who break its rules, or invade the sanctity of my domain. But I am not allowed to shatter the chains of past seasons, or other Hosts’ handiwork. No Host is. And some of the women you see here are the remnants of other seasons, other Hosts’ punishments.”

They moved on, the crunch of moss and gravel underfoot the only signal that time still existed. Andi tried to count the women, but they blurred together, a crowd of survivors no census could ever capture. Some waved as she passed, others retreated. Many simply stared, caught in the slow-motion trance of a world that would never again be kind.

At the far end of the pasture, the landscape tilted upward, then dropped suddenly to a crystalline pool. This was the Veiled Springs, its water so clear it seemed to render the world above as a watercolor—vague, beautiful, and entirely untouchable. The surface steamed, despite the coolness of the air, and the edges of the pool were ringed with polished black stones.

A woman with butterfly wings, blue as bruises and wet with mist, perched at the edge, toes just brushing the surface. As Andi approached, she spread her wings, releasing a fine spray of powder that shimmered in the sun, then settled back, folding her arms in a gesture of stubborn modesty.

Dinah knelt beside her. “This is Flavia,” she said, her tone light. “She likes to watch. Stay away from her pollen, but don’t mind her.”

The butterfly woman didn’t reply, but she leaned closer, her eyes glittering with curiosity and something else—a hunger, maybe, or the memory of what hunger used to be.

In the water, two women floated side by side, their bodies so perfectly mirrored that it was hard to tell where one ended and the next began. Their hair fanned out in ribbons, and every few seconds they would turn and surface, their eyes meeting for a heartbeat before they dove again. Andi realized, with a jolt, that they never spoke, never even acknowledged anyone else in the world.

Dinah followed her gaze. “Those two were fused by a transformation,” she said. “They only communicate by touch now. It took them months to figure out how. But once they did, they stopped fighting. Started helping each other.”

Andi wanted to ask why, but Arabella answered before she could even form the words. “This is where I send the ones who need the most peace. If they want to be alone, they can be. If they want company, they come to the springs.” Her voice was lower now, almost a whisper. “Nobody’s **** to do anything.”

Farther on, a woman hung from a willow branch, upside down, her arms replaced by massive, leathery bat wings. She looked out at the pool with a face fixed in a permanent smile, but tears streamed upward, pooling at her brow before evaporating in the sun.

Andi stared, feeling the weight of it in her gut. “That’s not peace,” she said, unable to keep the bitterness from her voice.

Arabella nodded, not at all offended. “No. But it’s quieter than it used to be. She’s learning to live with it.”

Andi’s hands balled into fists, her nails biting into her palm. She wanted to say that it wasn’t enough, that none of this could ever be enough, but she knew—somehow—that the only alternative would have been worse.

They moved on. The House of Whispers was next, and as they approached, Andi felt the hush settle over her like a physical weight. The walls of the house were built from wood, but so perfectly fitted that no seam or crack admitted even a whisper of sound. The doors opened with a touch, revealing an interior lined with beds, cushions, and rows of thick, muted carpet.

Inside, the quiet was so absolute it made Andi dizzy. The women here spoke not at all, their communication limited to the flick of an eyebrow or the gentle pressing of fingers to lips. Most lay cocooned in blankets, their bodies stilled by exhaustion or sedation. A few rocked themselves in silence, their eyes red and swollen from recent tears.

At the end of the corridor, a woman stood trapped inside a grandfather clock, her face visible only through the glass disk where a pendulum should have swung. She watched Andi approach, her gaze flat and resigned, and each second that ticked by was marked by the slow, relentless movement of her eyes from left to right, right to left, as if she were timing something nobody else could see.

Andi’s heart hammered. “How long has she—”

“Eighty-three years,” Dinah said. “She was one of the first. We tried to keep her asleep, but she always wakes up.”

“Is she aware?”

“Yes,” Dinah replied. “But she never remembers the pain. Only the passage of time.”

Andi pressed her hand to the glass. The woman inside didn’t flinch, but her breath fogged the pane for an instant, leaving a ghost of herself that faded almost as soon as it appeared.

Arabella lingered at the doorway, her eyes softer than Andi had ever seen them. “Some of them forget what happened,” she said. “Others never will. But we try to give them something worth remembering. Even if it’s only a bed, or a warm meal, or a day with no fear.”

Andi exhaled, the fight draining from her. “I thought I knew what this place was,” she said. “But I didn’t.”

Arabella smiled, but it was a sad smile. “Nobody ever does. Not until they see it.”

They turned to leave, retracing their steps past the beds and the clock and the endless, echoing quiet. On the way out, Dinah paused at a woman who sat curled on a bench, her knees pulled to her chest, her eyes closed. Dinah touched her shoulder, gentle as a whisper, and the woman opened her eyes and looked up.

Andi met her gaze, and for a split second—just long enough to make it real—she saw something like hope flicker there. The woman’s lips curved in a ghost of a smile, and then she closed her eyes again, returning to her private sanctuary.

The path back to the rotunda felt longer, the world outside the House of Whispers brighter and less forgiving than before. Arabella walked ahead, her hands clasped behind her back, while Dinah and Andi trailed behind, the silence now easy between them.

As they re-entered the rotunda, Arabella stopped and turned. She looked at Andi, then at Dinah, then back at Andi. “Thank you for seeing this,” she said.

They stood together, ringed by the hush of the Hollow Garden, and for a moment, Andi felt something she couldn’t quite name—a sense of purpose, or maybe just the certainty that, no matter how the story ended, this part would never be forgotten.

Dinah cleared her throat. “You’re allowed to go back upstairs,” she said, her voice light. “Or you can stay for a while. Whatever you want.”

Andi looked around the room, at the benches and the fire and the traces of stories she’d never know, and realized she couldn’t leave. Not yet.

The rest of the tour was a blur, the details lost in a haze of voices and faces and the relentless, insistent beauty of the Hollow Garden. When at last Dinah led her back to the elevator, Andi felt lighter than she had in years.

They paused at the threshold, the doors hissing open to reveal the same honeyed light as before.

Arabella waited, her arms folded, her face unreadable.

Andi looked at her, then said, “Do you ever regret it?”

Arabella’s eyes widened, just a fraction. “Every day,” she said. “But I try to do better. That’s all I can promise.”

Andi nodded. “That’s more than most would say.”

She stepped into the elevator, the doors closing behind her with a whisper of finality, and let the world above rush back in, layer by layer.

The elevator doors whispered open, and Andy—now, distinctly, Andy—stepped out into what felt like an entirely different world. The light was cooler on this side, blue-shifted and indirect, the shadows deeper in every alcove. Here, the air hummed with efficiency rather than comfort: the murmur of printers, the faint buzz of screens, the clean whiff of sanitizer overlaying the herbal undertone that seemed to permeate the entire Hollow Garden.

Dinah walked slightly ahead, her step brisk and sure. She had donned a black lab coat over her scrubs, the garment fitted neatly across her unusual chest, making her look less like a zoo exhibit and more like a surgeon from a future that had abandoned aesthetic prejudice. Andy caught himself staring at the way her tail flicked as she moved, the subtle play of muscles beneath the fabric. He wondered if she noticed—probably, given what he knew about her.

Arabella had remained behind, citing an urgent matter, but promised to catch up with them shortly. Andy suspected she wanted him to see the staff side with his own eyes, without the filter of her narration. So he followed Dinah into the Threshold Grove—a rotunda identical to the one on the patient side, but sparser, more utilitarian.

The couches here were empty, save for a few Mildreds in black uniforms, all busy with tablets or soft-spoken meetings. None of them looked up as Andy and Dinah passed, but he felt their attention all the same: a silent appraisal, as if they were cataloguing his every feature for future reference.

It made him grateful for Dinah’s presence.

They passed into a glassed-in walkway that overlooked the Veiled Springs below. Through the windows, Andy watched a pair of staff—one Mildred, one something else—carefully guiding a newly-arrived patient into the water, supporting her weight between them. The woman’s body was striped in sickly blue, her eyes luminous but unfocused. Andy shivered, imagining what it would feel like to wake up here, surrounded by strangers, the memory of the contest already receding into dream.

Dinah noticed his gaze. “Most new arrivals are in shock for at least a week,” she said, not unkindly. “The first day is the hardest, but it gets better. The rules down here are simple: no one gets ****. Not even staff. That’s Arabella’s deal, and she keeps it.”

Andy nodded, his throat tight. “What about the women who work here? Are they—”

“Mildred, mostly,” Dinah replied. “But some contestants, too. Those who survived their Master’s deaths, and a handful from cancelled seasons, or seasons put on indefinite hold. Some wanted purpose. Some just wanted to be useful again. We have a handful who run the kitchens, two who tend the gardens, and a couple who do counseling, peer support, that sort of thing.”

She stopped at a frosted door, its placard labeled “Wellness Lounge.” She knocked, then pushed through.

The lounge was the most normal room Andy had seen in the Garden. There were soft chairs, a table with fruit and seltzer water, and—most jarringly—a flatscreen TV displaying a silent reel of serene landscapes. Two women sat at opposite ends of the room.

The first was introduced by Dinah as Eden Summers.

She was impossible to ignore: blue-black hair that tumbled in a perfect sheet all the way to her ankles, and a body so exaggeratedly hourglass that Andy almost did a double-take. Four large breasts, perfectly spaced, and a body-hugging cocktail dress that left little to the imagination. Her arms were gone; there were only smooth, rounded shoulders, but she moved with such ease that Andy’s brain kept looking for hands where none existed. Her feet were encased in elegant, navy-blue six-inch heels that seemed permanent, almost organic. She was, in every sense, a marvel of artificial design—flawless, but only in the way that a stained-glass window or a Rolls Royce was flawless: beautiful, but never quite real.

She looked up, and for the first time, Andy understood how people could be unnerved by mute. Her face was expressive, every muscle tuned to the exact pitch of curiosity, but she made no sound, not even a hum. Instead, she gave a small, poised bow of her head, and tilted her body ever-so-slightly toward him—a move so subtle it could only have been mastered through years of practice.

The second woman—Emily, Dinah called her—was, if anything, even more striking, but in an entirely different register. She was about the same height as Erin, lean, and naked from head to ankle. Her hair was a perfectly straight waterfall of gold with pink highlights, reaching almost to her knees; she wore it loose, and it fell in such a way that it concealed her nudity, however barely. Her skin was pale, her breasts high and neat, her ass and thighs tight as a swimmer’s. The only concession to modesty was a pair of black sneakers. She was reading a thick novel, one hand absentmindedly twirling a strand of hair, the other resting on her knee.

She glanced up as Andy entered, and gave a wry, closed-lipped smile. “Hey there,” she said, voice warm and measured. “You must be the Master.”

Andy flinched at the word, but she seemed to enjoy the effect.

Dinah gestured to the chairs. “Andy, meet Eden and Emily. They’re two of our peer counselors.” She looked at Eden. “This is the Master I told you about.”

Eden regarded Andy for a moment, then, with a movement so practiced it bordered on dance, she crossed the room to stand just beside him. Up close, she smelled faintly of jasmine and bergamot, and there was a tight, nervous energy in the way she swayed on her heels.

Emily set her book aside. “He’s the one who cracked the elevator, right?” She had a beautiful voice, Andy realized while desperately trying not to stare.

“Guilty,” Andy said. He felt like a man at a job interview where everyone knew the secret handshake but him.

Emily smiled, the slow, honest kind that made you think she actually liked the person standing across from her. “Arabella said you’d stop by, but I didn’t expect it this soon. We were taking bets.” She tossed a glance at Eden, who smiled, but whose entire body had pivoted to follow Andy’s every move.

Dinah hung back, content to let the two staffers take the lead. Andy noticed her posture—relaxed but not idle, as if she were taking notes for some future review.

“So, Andy, what brings you down?” Emily asked, tucking her knees up in the chair and letting her hair slide forward like a screen. “Are you looking for ideas, or just sightseeing?”

He shrugged, caught off guard by her directness. “Honestly, I’m just trying to understand how all of this works. The Garden, the—” he gestured at the walls, “—the whole… afterlife for contestants thing. I didn’t know it even existed until today.”

Emily’s eyes softened. “Most Masters don’t. I guess you’re the rare exception.”

Eden nodded, her chin dipping in a slow, deliberate arc that seemed to carry both sympathy and agreement.

Andy found himself drawn to the silent woman, the gravity of her presence impossible to ignore. She seemed to weigh every second of the conversation, her gaze as tactile as a hand on his shoulder. He remembered what Dinah had said about nonverbal communication: that the mute and the silenced became experts in microexpression, in body language so refined it might as well have been a dialect of its own.

He watched as Eden shifted her hips in the chair, crossing one bare, stilettoed leg over the other. The motion was sinuous, almost animal, but with a precision that bordered on ballet. She met his eyes, held them, then—without breaking the gaze—tilted her head, as if to ask what he wanted to know. The effect was both challenging and strangely intimate.

Dinah cut in, sensing the tension. “Eden’s the best listener we have. A lot of the women down here prefer her to anyone else. She’s patient, and she never judges.” She looked at Eden, then at Andy. “She’s also very smart. Sometimes I think she knows what people want before they do.”

Eden dipped her head, this time with a shade of humor, her lips curving in the ghost of a smile.

Emily rolled her eyes with affection. “She likes the attention. She was a researcher, before.”

Andy blinked. “In what?”

Eden shrugged, then used her foot to nudge a tablet off the coffee table. She balanced the device between her feet, tapped at it with her nose, then turned the screen to face Andy. On it was a neatly formatted academic abstract about neuroplasticity and hormonal adaptation in **** environments.

Dinah snorted. “She’s showing off, but yes, she’s published. I read some of her stuff, back when I was still at the university.”

Emily mimed a slow clap, which drew a delighted, silent laugh from Eden.

Andy found himself grinning. The ease of the exchange, the acceptance of the strangeness, made the room feel less like a holding cell and more like a very odd dorm lounge. He turned to Emily. “What about you? Peer support, right?”

She nodded, pushing her hair back behind her ears to reveal her face. Her cheeks were a delicate flush, but her expression was steady, unashamed. “My season got… paused, I guess you’d say. No winner, no closure. I was… sent here, by myself. There's some Schroedinger's cat stuff going on, or so Arabella explained. So I volunteered to help the others.” She shrugged, as if it were the obvious choice.

“Does it bother you?” Andy asked, then immediately regretted the clumsiness of the question.

Emily shook her head. “You mean the nudity?” She grinned, a flash of mischief in her eyes. “I used to hate it, but now it’s like—whatever. You get used to anything, if it’s every day.”

He blushed, and she laughed. “I’m not flirting. I just don’t mind. Besides, if I cared what people thought, I’d have starved years ago.”

Andy looked at Eden, who raised her eyebrows in a wry, see-what-I-have-to-put-up-with? gesture.

He smiled, and the air between them softened again.

A Mildred in black stepped into the room, cleared her throat, and waited. Dinah read the body language instantly. “Duty calls. I’ll leave you three to it,” she said, rising. “I’ll be back soon—don’t break anything.” She winked at Emily, who stuck out her tongue in return.

When the door closed, the room grew quieter, the boundaries of the conversation shifting.

Andy turned to Eden, who was already watching him with laser focus. He tried to imagine living in silence for years, stripped of voice and hands, and still finding a way to be the calm center of the room. “What’s it like?” he asked, as gently as he could. “Living here.”

Eden’s expression grew thoughtful. She stood, then began to move around the lounge with a pace that was almost ceremonial. She circled the coffee table, letting the sway of her body and the rise and fall of her four breasts do most of the talking. When she returned to his side, she bent slightly, so her eyes were level with his. Her lips parted, but no sound came. Instead, she inhaled, exhaled, then gestured with her chin to the room around them.

She nodded, a single, resolute bob, as if to say: It’s not the life I wanted, but it’s a life.

Then she gave a small shrug, as if to say: It could be worse.

Andy nodded. “You seem… okay,” he said.

Eden smiled, but this one was sadder, more reflective. She touched her shoulder to his—an oddly intimate move, given the lack of arms—then pulled back. In that moment, Andy caught the weight of what was unsaid. He wanted to ask about her old life, or if she missed speaking, or if she ever dreamed in words anymore. But it felt wrong to interrogate her, so he let it pass.

Emily piped up. “She was the oldest in her season. Everyone else was college-aged, but Eden was in her late twenties, I think? That’s probably why she survived. Most of the others just… melted.” She glanced at Eden, as if seeking permission to continue. “She doesn’t age, though. After the Master died, Arabella found Eden, and brought her here. She’s been with us ever since.”

Eden nodded, then pointed at Emily, then at Andy, in a gesture that Andy took to mean: She speaks for me, for now.

He turned to Emily. “What about your season? Do you know if it’ll ever start again?”

Emily’s smile faltered, but only for a second. “I… don’t think so. But I like it here. I mean, it’s not the Ritz, but it’s safe, and I get to help people. That matters.” She tilted her head. “Why are you asking all this?”

Andy looked at his hands, unsure how much to reveal. He didn’t want to come off as a voyeur, or worse, a tourist in someone else’s suffering. “I guess I want to do better. For my own people. For myself.” He hesitated, then looked at Eden. “I had a friend once, and she—she always said the world could be ****, if you just paid attention. I think I’m finally starting to get what she meant.”

The words hung in the air for a moment, unchallenged.

Eden let herself relax into the chair beside him, letting her long, blue-black hair spill down her side like a living blanket. She leaned against his shoulder, ever so gently, and closed her eyes. Her heels clicked against the tile, a slow, steady pulse.

The door opened, and Dinah returned, her coat now dusted with a faint sheen of pollen from the gardens. She glanced at Andy, then at Eden and Emily, and seemed to read the room in an instant.

“Arabella’s waiting in her office,” Dinah said, her voice lighter than before. “She wants to talk to you. I think you made an impression.”

Andy stood, straightening his sleeves. He looked at Eden, then at Emily, then at Dinah. “Thank you,” he said. “For all of this.”

Dinah grinned. “You’re welcome. You can come back, you know. We won’t bite.”

Emily laughed. “Well, she won’t. I might.”

Eden just smiled, the ghost of her old life flickering across her face.

Andy made his way to the door, but as he crossed the threshold, he paused and turned back. “Hey, Dinah?”

“Yeah?”

He glanced at Eden. “Has she ever reminded you of anyone else?”

Dinah’s face went blank for a second, then her eyes widened in recognition. She nodded, very slowly. “Yes,” she said. “But I didn’t want to say it. Not until you noticed, too.”

Andy nodded, not trusting himself to speak. He left the lounge, the air behind him charged with possibilities he didn’t quite know how to name.

As he walked down the corridor to Arabella’s office, Andy tried to shake the feeling that he had just seen a ghost—or maybe two. The world outside the lounge seemed flatter, more manageable, but also infinitely more complicated. He found himself replaying every moment with Eden and Emily, searching for meaning in their gestures, their pauses, the invisible bridges they built just by existing in the same room.

He reached the door, knocked twice, and waited for the next round to begin.

Arabella’s office was less an office than a glass-walled observatory, the kind you’d find in the corner of an ultra-premium spa or a Silicon Valley think tank. There was a desk, but it was more art than function, an irregular wedge of petrified wood balanced on three slender legs. Behind it, the windowed walls dropped away to give a panoramic view of the Hollow Garden—veiled in perpetual late afternoon, the light filtered through climbing bougainvillea and the dark silhouettes of moving figures below.

Arabella stood at the far end, arms folded, her white blouse and linen pants so crisp they looked photoshopped. Her hair was back to its usual abundance, though it was now gathered into that messy ponytail that lent her a softness Andy had never seen before. She watched him enter, said nothing at first, just gestured to the chair opposite hers.

He sat, and let the silence accumulate until he couldn’t stand it.

"She's Katherine's sister, isn't she?" he said, the horror dawning on him. "Did you take her too?"

Arabella shook her head. “Not me. Eden was taken by another Host, and went back home with her Master after his season was over.” She took a deep breath. “When he died, he died with three of his harem in the car. His ****… wasn’t kind to the other harem members. You’ll find them out there, in the House of Whispers. Eden was spared the worst of it, due to her status as an eliminated contestant, and not a full harem member. That Host severed the harem bond when a Contestant was eliminated. I rescued her and brought her here.”

Andy nodded. “Could she see Katherine? If she wanted?”

Arabella looked out the window. “Now that you know, it’s possible. I’d have to engineer it delicately, but…” She trailed off, then added, “Yes. If you want, I can bring her up.”

The conversation shifted, the air in the room growing denser with each exchange.

Andy laced his fingers, then spread them on the desktop. “Why are you doing this?” He said it with no accusation, only the honest confusion of a man who’d run out of rational explanations. “The Hollow Garden. This tour. Telling me about the women here. What do you want from me?”

Arabella leaned back, her chair creaking slightly. “You’re not like the others,” she said, voice low. “Every Master thinks he’s unique. Most aren’t. But you—” She waved a hand, as if that were explanation enough. “You ask about the broken, not the perfect. You want to understand, not just consume. I think you could help them.”

He almost laughed, a short, bitter bark. “You make it sound like I’m the solution. Like my… harem, or whatever, is supposed to save people.”

Arabella shrugged, unbothered. “Not save. But you could make things better. Or at least, less lonely.” She drummed her fingers on the desk, then fixed him with a look that was pure Host: patient, merciless, and quietly delighted. “Do you really want to know why I brought you here, Andy?”

He nodded, the motion automatic.

Arabella opened a drawer and slid a stack of slim dossiers across the table. He recognized the names: Dinah Hornblower. Eden Summers. Emily Allen.

“These women are unique,” she said. “They’re not like the others here. They were helpers, or mothers, or caretakers. But in the end, nobody could take care of them.” She tapped the dossiers. “They’re the best of what’s left. And I want you to pick one.”

Andy stared at the folders. “Pick one for what?”

Arabella smiled. “To join you. As a contestant. The rules allow for it. Claire could confirm it for you. It’s never been done before, but you’re not like the others.” She folded her hands, her rings catching the last light of the day. “It would give the one you pick a shot. At the wish. At a real life. At something besides tending the wounds of others.”

Andy leaned back, shock giving way to calculation. “I thought the point was to… care for them. Let them heal.”

Arabella nodded. “That’s part of it. But the real point is to give them a chance.” She looked at him, and for once, he couldn’t read the emotion behind her eyes. “You can’t save everyone, Andy. But you can help one. Maybe that’s enough.”

He picked up Dinah’s folder. “Why Dinah?”

“She’s the best doctor I’ve ever seen,” Arabella said, genuine pride in her voice. “But she’s stuck. She needs a new world, not just this Garden.”

He picked up Emily’s. “And Emily?”

“She’s the heart of the place,” Arabella said. “Never gave up on anyone, even when she was abandoned. She could help your contestants. But she needs to be seen, not just be the glue.”

Andy hesitated over Eden’s folder, then lifted it. The weight of her name was heavier than the rest. “And Eden?”

Arabella was silent a long moment. “She wants her sister back,” she said at last. “And she wants to remember what it was to be loved. Maybe you could help with both.”

He set the folders down. “You’re making me choose. Again.”

Arabella shrugged, a gentle arch of her brows. “Every game has its rules, Andy. But I’m bending them for you. You don’t have to say yes.”

He let the idea roll around in his head, bumping against the walls of everything he’d learned in the last two hours. The idea of bringing one of these women out of the Hollow Garden, to give her a chance at the wish, at life—at anything—was intoxicating and terrifying in equal measure.

Andy found his voice. “If I pick one, what happens to the rest?”

Arabella’s lips compressed. “They stay here. Nothing changes for them. They’re not prisoners, Andy. But you’d be giving one a real chance to heal. And maybe help the others, too.”

He shook his head, the enormity of the choice pressing in on all sides. “This is fucked up,” he said, but without malice. “You know that, right?”

Arabella laughed, the sound soft and genuine. “Of course it is. This whole place is fucked up. But you get to do something about it, if you want.”

Andy stared at the dossiers. Each name was a universe of heartbreak and hope, a hundred thousand seconds of pain and recovery. He wanted to ask which one Arabella would choose, but he knew better than to expect a straight answer.

She looked at him, her gaze suddenly ****. “You don’t have to decide now. In fact, I recommend you don’t. I can arrange for you to spend a night with each. You’ll have a chance to see them, talk to them, understand them.” She smiled, mischievous again. “Tonight is the night Erin vacated when you brought her up to the Suite after the transformation round. We’ll use it. I’ll even overlap the time, so you don’t have to burn three days. A gift, from me to you.”

Andy nodded, the logistics of magic now barely worth questioning.

Arabella stood, smoothing her pants with a practiced flick of her wrists. “They’re waiting outside,” she said. “If you want, I can bring them in.”

He hesitated, but only for a second. “Let’s do it.”

Arabella opened the door, and a gust of cool, floral air swept into the office. Dinah entered first, her white coat replaced by a soft sweater and slacks that made her look like a professor off-duty. She was smiling, but there was a flicker of nerves at the corners of her eyes.

Emily followed, in battered sneakers but unhurried, her hair loose and luminous. She glanced at Andy, offered a small wave, then dropped easily into the chair beside him. It was eerily mesmerizing to see how her hair always happened to fall so that it would barely conceal her nudity. Bizarrely, he thought Erin might kill for that.

Eden came last, her heels clicking against the floor, her long hair trailing behind her in a perfect wave. She bowed her head in greeting, then sat on the edge of the couch, posture flawless.

The four of them formed a small, self-contained constellation around the desk. For a moment, nobody spoke.

Then Dinah broke the silence. “So. The Host tells us you’re shopping for a new team member.”

Andy snorted, the tension breaking. “It’s not like that.”

Dinah smiled, eyes bright. “It’s okay if it is. I’m not offended. Just surprised.”

Emily looked at Arabella. “Are you sure this isn’t a trick? We’re not being kicked out, are we?”

Arabella shook her head, utterly serious. “No tricks, no eliminations. One of you gets a shot. The others stay here. You can say no, if you want.”

Eden’s eyes never left Andy. She inclined her head, then—very deliberately—she nodded. Her skin was warm and electric.

Andy glanced at Dinah. She met his gaze, and in it he saw only curiosity, not desperation.

Emily was smiling, but there was a tremor in her hands, a telltale sign of nerves.

He looked at each of them in turn, letting the gravity of the choice sink in. Each represented something different—comfort, renewal, longing, hope. He felt the gaze of Arabella on him, and behind her, the infinite patience of the Garden.

“Thank you,” he said, and meant it. “For being here.”

Dinah grinned. “It’s not like we had plans. We run a tight schedule, but we can fit you in.”

Emily laughed. “Just don’t expect me to wear a uniform. I like my look.”

Eden said nothing, but her eyes told him everything he needed to know.

Arabella looked at him, expectant. “You have three nights. Take your time.”

Andy nodded, feeling the weight of every second that passed. He didn’t know how he’d choose, or who. He only knew he had to try.

Author's Note: Emily was originally a Contestant in AliC's Jake Cooper branch. She has been brought onto this branch with AliC's permission, with the understanding that anything that happens to her in this branch is not canon in AliC's story. This being the Harem Hotel, it's not hard to envision.