Hidden Floors, Part 3

Breakfast in the Banquet Hall started out with a jolt of caffeine and the kind of giddy, low-grade chaos that only emerged after weeks of magical reality TV captivity. Dawn was the first to arrive, her ears up, her hair still damp from the shower, and her face brighter than the sunrise over the eastern bay. She plowed through a stack of guava pancakes, fielding a volley of questions from Sam and Marissa about the night before. “It was amazing,” she kept saying, voice soft but certain, and every time she looked down at her plate, a shy little smile flitted across her face as if she’d just recalled a particularly sweet secret.

“I hope you left him in one piece,” Sam said, grinning around her coffee mug.

Dawn made a show of thinking it over. “He seemed alive when I left. Maybe even better than alive.”

That got a laugh from Chloe, who was already halfway through her own breakfast—egg-white omelet, two cinnamon rolls, and a bowl of strawberries. She’d dressed that morning in a pink dress with a lemon print, the fabric fighting for dignity against her new enormous breasts, which, even after three days, still made her move with a kind of awed caution. Each time she reached for a fork or glass, the motion was slow, practiced, as if she’d trained overnight in the subtle art of not spilling herself across the table. It didn’t work, of course. At one point, she leaned forward to ask Dawn if Andy had said anything about the challenge, and the upper half of her body practically flattened the butter dish. Sam laughed so hard she spit coffee, which made Chloe giggle in turn, and then all three were snorting with laughter, unable to stop.

Even Marissa joined in, her own smile drifting in slow-motion across her face as she buttered her toast. She’d dressed that morning in a black blouse, though the fit was more suggestion than reality—her own breasts made the fabric arch away from her body like a tent under pressure, and the neckline barely contained the topography of her chest, while the blouse rode high, showing a hint of underboob. She looked sharp, though, and her hair—tied back in a neat French twist—gave her the air of a CEO on a day when she planned to fire half the board.

Claire was the last to arrive, and the first to notice what was missing. She paused at the entrance to the Banquet Hall, blue eyes scanning the long row of windows before settling on the table where the others had gathered. She wore a blue wrap dress, the color pulling the pale from her skin and the paleness pulling all the color from the dress. Her notebook was clutched in both hands, and the first thing she did was scan the room behind her, as if expecting Andy to materialize from thin air.

When she joined the others, it took less than a minute for Dawn to offer her a seat and pour her a mug of tea. Claire smiled her thanks, waved, and settled in with a gentle, almost apologetic grace.

For the first twenty minutes, the conversation was all about Dawn and Andy and what, exactly, had transpired the night before. “He was so… sweet?” Dawn said, not quite believing her own story. “It’s like, every time you think he’s going to push you away, he pulls you in closer. Like, emotionally.”

Sam gave her a look that was all eyebrows. “And physically?”

Dawn blushed, but the heat of it made her glow. “Yeah. That too.”

The next ten minutes were consumed by math: how many orgasms had occurred, whether it was a personal record for either party (yes, for Dawn; likely not for Andy, Sam pointed out as she casually mentioned Erin’s performance), and whether Dawn would be able to walk straight for the rest of the day. Sam declared herself “proud of the Master for finally having some game.” Chloe covered her mouth to hide her laugh, but her eyes were bright with shared pleasure. Marissa made a soft, approving sound—so quietly, only Claire noticed.

It was only when the clock above the buffet rolled past 9:30 that the first note of unease crept into the room. Dawn had said, three times now, that Andy would join them after he showered. But the man was never late, and if he was, it was only because he’d already sent someone ahead to explain why. Sam pointed this out, eyes narrowed in mock accusation. “He’s probably back in bed,” she said. “Or maybe he passed out in the shower.”

“He never passes out,” Marissa said, matter-of-fact. “If anything, he’d be up before anyone else.”

They waited. They ate seconds, then thirds. They told stories about the worst breakfast jobs they’d ever held. (Chloe had once worked at a Waffle House, and Sam had a stint as a short-order cook that lasted exactly six hours before she was fired for threatening to burn down the kitchen.) Laughter returned, but underneath it, a vein of tension started to tick up with each passing minute.

At 10:02, Chloe asked the question out loud. “Do you think he’s okay?”

A silence followed, as if someone had pressed pause on the world.

Sam broke it with a brisk wave of her hand. “I’ll check the Suite,” she said, and she was already out of her chair, moving with the unhurried authority of someone used to handling emergencies.

Claire watched her go, then turned her notebook over in her lap and began to write. Her handwriting was neat, fast, and almost impossibly small. When she finished, she slid the page across the table.

He’s alive. Not in physical danger. But… something is wrong. I feel it.

Dawn read the note and made a soft, anxious sound. “What kind of wrong?” she asked.

Claire wrote: Emotional. Intense, maybe scary. Not pain, just… a lot.

Chloe touched the edge of the page, her hands trembling. “Is it because of last night?” she asked. “Did I—did we say something?”

Claire shook her head, then wrote, He’s not mad at any of us. He just… needs time.

Marissa read the message, her brow furrowing. “Do you think it’s about Riley?” she asked. “He was with her the night before Dawn. Something happened.”

Dawn nodded, her mouth pressed into a worried line. “Should we check on her too?”

They looked at Claire, who was already writing again.

Maybe. But Andy is the priority. We wait for Sam.

They waited, but the room felt colder now, as if someone had cracked a window to let in the chill from outside. Chloe picked at her food, but her appetite had vanished. Dawn hugged her knees to her chest, her cottontail twitching every time the elevator at the end of the hall made a sound.

Marissa sipped her coffee, her eyes drifting over the windows, the other tables, the door. “I don’t like this,” she said, very softly.

Neither did Chloe, but she didn’t say so. Instead, she watched the clock, each second crawling past with the gravity of a minute.

At 10:22, Sam returned, her face a careful blank.

“Well?” Marissa asked.

Sam shook her head. “No answer. I tried the comms. Nothing. I think the elevator’s locked me out.” She looked at Claire, her voice pitched just above a whisper. “Is there any way to tell if he’s actually in there?”

Claire frowned, searching the air for a solution. She closed her eyes, then wrote, It’s like he’s not even here.

Dawn’s ears drooped. “He wouldn’t just leave us,” she said, but the words sounded more like hope than certainty.

Marissa pushed her plate away. “I'm sure Arabella knows where he is,” she said. “She always does.”

They tried calling her, looking for her, even using the call button on the Commissary which Claire had discovered days earlier. She did not appear. Chloe’s hands started to shake in earnest.

“This is bad, if even Arabella doesn’t respond,” Sam said, more to herself than anyone else.

Dawn nodded, though her voice wobbled. “If he had to go somewhere, he’d have told at least one of us.”

The clock crept past 10:30. Then 10:45. Then 11:00, and by then the silence was thick enough to **** on.

At 11:10, Erin arrived, which immediately reset the emotional temperature of the room. She stalked into the Banquet Hall with nothing but a pair of black running shoes, her hair still damp from the morning’s workout. She made a beeline for the coffee, ignoring the buffet entirely, and poured herself a cup with the care of a chemist preparing an explosive.

She caught the mood in the room instantly. “Where is he?” she asked, not bothering with preamble.

Chloe flinched. “We don’t know. He said he’d be down for breakfast but—”

“He’s not in the Suite,” Sam said, her tone flat. “I tried the elevator and comms. Nothing.”

Erin frowned, her brow furrowing in a way that made her seem both younger and much, much older. “What about the lobby? Or the grounds?”

“We haven’t checked,” Marissa admitted. “But Arabella’s not responding either.”

“Then we check,” Erin said, as if that settled the matter. She took a gulp of coffee, slammed the mug down, and turned on her heel. “You coming?” she said, not looking back.

Dawn, Marissa, and Chloe exchanged looks, then scrambled to catch up.

Sam turned to Claire. “You want to join, or…?”

Claire shook her head, holding her notebook tight. She gestured that she would stay and watch for news.

Sam nodded. “If he comes back, ping us.” She followed the others out, leaving Claire alone at the table, her hands trembling as she wrote a single line over and over on the page.

Come back. Come back. Come back.

They started in the lobby, checking every lounge, every conference room, even the empty gym. Erin took the lead, moving with a focused determination that bordered on reckless. She was used to the stares now, and the other women clearly would struggle to get used to her nudity. But today, the usual embarrassment was missing; instead, there was a raw, wired energy in her stride that suggested she might kill the next person who so much as looked at her the wrong way.

Marissa trailed a step behind, her eyes constantly scanning for details—a stray mug, an open door, a displaced chair. Chloe and Dawn stuck together, Dawn’s hand resting gently on Chloe’s arm as if to steady her. They found nothing in the lobby, nothing in the yard, nothing even in the public restrooms (Dawn checked, just to be sure, and found only a Mildred restocking the towels).

They split up to cover more ground. Erin and Marissa took the north wing, the one closest to the Inner Garden and the spa; Dawn and Chloe headed for the south, which led down to the pool and the Bamboo Grove. The agreement was to meet back at the Banquet Hall in twenty minutes, even if they found nothing.

Erin and Marissa moved in silence at first, but it didn’t last.

“You think he’s okay?” Erin asked, her voice low.

Marissa hesitated. “Physically? Yes. But something’s wrong.”

“Riley?” Erin guessed.

“Maybe,” Marissa said, but her voice was clipped, the way it got when she was trying not to speculate. “He’s been through a lot. Maybe it finally caught up with him.”

Erin grunted. “He’s tougher than that.”

Marissa looked at her, her lips pursed. “Even tough people break.”

They checked the spa (empty), the Inner Gardens (deserted), the rec room (one Mildred, reading a romance novel and ignoring them completely). Marissa called Andy’s name a few times, then stopped when she realized her own voice sounded panicked. She reset, focusing on the facts: Andy was missing, Arabella was unresponsive, and none of the staff seemed to care.

By the time they returned to the Banquet Hall, Erin’s hair was plastered to her forehead and her skin was slick with sweat. “Anything?” she demanded.

Sam, who’d returned with the others, shook her head. “No luck. He’s not at the pool, not in the Grove. Dawn even checked the beach, but the sand’s undisturbed.”

Chloe was close to tears. “What if he left us?” she whispered. “Like, for good?”

Dawn hugged her, but said nothing.

Marissa poured herself a fresh cup of coffee, and after a moment, fixed one for Chloe as well. “That’s not how this game works. And he wouldn’t do that,” she said, her voice a little too tight. “He’s a good man. And he’s stubborn.”

“What if someone made him leave?” Dawn said, eyes wide. “Like, **** him?”

“Who?” Sam demanded. “Arabella?”

“Maybe,” Dawn whispered.

They looked at each other, the silence settling again. Then Chloe spoke, her voice quivering. “Do you think it’s my fault? Did Riley—did she make it worse?”

“No,” Sam said, her voice sharp. “Don’t even go there. This isn’t about blame. He’s probably just… processing.”

“Processing what?” Erin snapped.

Marissa closed her eyes, then said, “Whatever’s behind the curtain. We all pretend this place is just fun and games, but maybe it’s more.”

Sam nodded, her lips thin. “Maybe he found something. Or someone.”

Chloe paled. “He’s not gone, is he?”

“I don’t know,” Marissa said. “But if he is, I’ll burn this place to the ground.”

For a moment, nobody moved. Then Dawn started to cry, just a little, the sound so soft it barely qualified as a sob.

Sam went to her, arms wrapping tight. “It’ll be okay,” she said, the words meant as comfort but falling flat.

Erin stood by the window, staring out at the empty grounds. She was naked, she was furious, and she was completely powerless.

None of them knew what to do next. But a strange anxiety had caught them in its grip.

They spent the rest of the day in a holding pattern: waiting, watching, hoping for a sign that Andy was still in the world.

Lunch came and went, but no one really ate. The staff seemed oblivious to the change, or else complicit in it—each Mildred wore the same neutral smile as always, never once acknowledging that the Master had vanished. Chloe tried speaking to a Mildred or two, but each time, she was given the same answer, all saccharine and razor-sharp, “I’m sorry, but the Master is unavailable at this time. Would you like to leave a message?”

By mid-afternoon, nerves were frayed to breaking.

Chloe paced the length of the Banquet Hall, her hands fluttering at the hem of her dress.

Dawn sat in a window seat, legs pulled to her chest, her cottontail trembling with every sound.

Sam alternated between the comms panel and the elevator, trying both every fifteen minutes.

Marissa took notes in a legal pad she’d stolen from the business center, writing down every detail, every hypothesis, every possible explanation for Andy’s absence. When she wasn’t writing, she was staring into the middle distance, her face set in a mask of calm that fooled no one.

Erin ran laps around the garden, her nakedness transformed into a kind of armor. She only stopped when she was too tired to breathe.

Claire watched it all from her perch at the table, fingers still and notebook untouched. She didn’t write a word, but every so often she closed her eyes and breathed, as if searching for a signal that only she could hear.

The day bled out, slow and terrible, and still there was no sign of Andy.

The pool was empty, save for Riley, who moved up and down its length with the mechanical precision of someone determined to swim herself into oblivion. She’d started just after mid-morning—six hundred meters of crawl, then a switch to breaststroke, then an indeterminate period of drifting face-up, letting the sky bleach her retinas until she couldn’t tell clouds from the memory of clouds.

Each lap was a sentence, a punishment she meted out for the night in Andy Cooper’s room. She was half-convinced that if she just kept swimming, the memory of Andy’s face in the living room—the way he’d gone pale when she said it, the deadweight of her own accusation—would dissolve in the chlorine.

She rolled into a flip turn at the deep end, missed the angle, and came up hacking water. Good. She deserved the sting. She opened her mouth, gasping, and spat into the gutter. Then she kicked off, hard enough that her calf seized with the effort.

What nobody told you about anger, she thought, was how it loved to eat its own tail. You could hold onto it for years, hone it, wrap it in poetry and armor and a thousand justifications, but it would always circle back to where it started—gnawing a hollow in your chest, demanding another reason to keep burning.

Riley cut through the water in a final crawl, the slap of her hands echoing in the tiled pit. She pulled up at the ladder, muscles on fire, and looked at her watch. Forty-seven minutes. Not even close to enough.

She grabbed the rail, hauled herself out, and let the cold air bite her. Her arms trembled, more from exhaustion than chill, and she relished the way her lungs hurt. She needed to distract herself, drive herself to exhaustion, every day, so the memories wouldn’t seep back. So she wouldn’t cry herself to sleep, especially before Chloe Ramsey. She staggered to her towel, flung it over her head, and scrubbed hard. Even here, even after a thousand meters, she could still taste the night with Andy Cooper on her tongue—Andy’s confusion, his hurt, his lies, the way he’d looked at her and not flinched.

He should have flinched. That’s what she told herself. But the more she tried to believe it, the more hollow it felt.

Riley sat on the lounge chair, towel around her shoulders, wet hair plastered to her face, and tried to convince herself she’d done the right thing. That it was just, that it was true. She’d carried her blame so long it felt like a badge. Sixteen years of mourning, sixteen years of holding Andy responsible for every scrap of pain that trailed behind Laura’s ****.

If she let go of it now—if she even admitted the smallest possibility that she was wrong—what would be left of her? Just the space where anger used to be.

She closed her eyes, blocking out the world, and listened to the soft roar of her pulse in her ears. She almost didn’t hear the footsteps approaching, not at first. Then the rhythm doubled, a small squadron of sandals and bare feet smacking tile in uncertain unison.

She opened her eyes and saw them: Claire in front, followed by Erin (nude, body taut with purpose), Chloe (clutching her elbows, wobbling a little under the load of her own breasts), and Dawn (in a tank top and shorts, her ears pinned flat to her head).

They came to a stop three meters from her. No one spoke. Riley could feel the heat of their attention, the sense of a storm that had not yet decided which direction to break.

Claire stepped forward, notebook in hand. She flipped to a page, then scrawled in quick, tight script. When she finished, she held it out for Riley to see.

Andy hasn’t been seen since last night. He is NOT OK.

Riley read the words twice, feeling the punctuation like a slap. “What do I care?” she asked, pulling the towel tighter.

Claire wrote again, fast.

He is GONE. He’s been in turmoil since you went to his Suite. What did you do?

The directness stung, but Riley refused to show it. “We talked,” she said. “He wanted the truth. So I gave it to him.” Chloe’s voice trembled. “What truth?”

Riley looked at her, then at Dawn, then back to Claire. “The truth about Laura. About what happened. About how Andy let her die. Or maybe just didn’t care enough to stop it.”

The air went glassy. Chloe sucked in a breath, like she’d been punched. Dawn flinched, her mouth opening but no words coming out.

Erin stepped forward, all incandescent rage. “You think he didn’t care? After what he did—after everything he’s been through—you stand there and accuse him of that?”

Riley braced herself, but Erin didn’t move to hit her. She just stood, radiating the kind of anger that didn’t need fists to be dangerous.

“You weren’t there,” Riley said, trying for calm and missing by a mile. “You didn’t see the way he walked away from her. The way he moved on like it was nothing.”

Erin’s voice was low and sharp. “He never moved on. He’s still dying from it. Every day.”

Chloe stepped between them, as if she could soak up the blast herself. “Please,” she said. “This isn’t helping.”

Riley’s anger wanted to argue, but her logic was losing steam. “If he cared so much, why didn’t he ever come back?” she asked, but even as she said it, the words felt old. Unworthy.

Dawn’s voice was soft but clear. “Maybe because every time he looked back, all he saw was someone blaming him for something he couldn’t fix.”

Riley opened her mouth, then closed it.

Claire’s pen moved again.

You say you want justice, but all you’re doing is hurting him.

Riley barked a laugh, short and ugly. “He deserves to hurt. He let her—”

Chloe cut in, not with anger but something closer to grief. “What if he’s hurt enough? What if you broke him for good?”

The accusation hung in the air, heavier than anything Riley had flung at Andy in sixteen years.

For a moment, Riley considered pushing back. She knew the words, had rehearsed them for years. But they didn’t fit anymore. Not in the face of this, not with the four women standing in front of her like an intervention in the making.

She pulled the towel tighter, feeling the shiver that had nothing to do with the water. “I just wanted him to admit it,” she said. “To say that he was sorry. That’s all.”

Dawn’s face softened, but her voice stayed hard. “He’s always been sorry. He never stopped.”

Riley wanted to believe them, but doubt had already begun its quiet, insistent work inside her.

Erin stared at her, eyes cold. “You figure out what you want, Riley. But leave him out of it until you do.”

The four women turned and left, the sound of their retreat echoing off the tile.

Riley sat there, water dripping from her hair, the cold air gnawing at her skin. For the first time since Laura’s funeral, she wondered if she’d been wrong.

If, in all the years she’d carried the torch of rage, it was her own shadow she’d been chasing.

She pulled her knees to her chest and stared at the water. The only thing she knew for sure was that the pool was empty. And so was she.

The Banquet Hall in late afternoon was a hollow thing. The girls had drifted into loose clusters around the windows, the buffet untouched, the grand spectacle of the meal reduced to a ritual of coffee refills and distracted snacking. The air was saturated with nerves—unvoiced, electric, amplified by every mechanical clink of fork or shuffle of chair.

Sam was the first to spot him. Andy entered at the far end, the elevator doors hissing shut behind him, his hair a little wild, the shadow of stubble darker than usual. He was dressed in the same jeans and shirt from the day before, but there was a new gravity in the set of his shoulders. He didn’t even make it three steps before Sam launched herself from the table and wrapped him in a hug that would have made a bear jealous.

“Oh my God, don’t you ever pull that again,” she said, half-laughing, half-****, her face buried in his chest.

Andy returned the hug, awkward and stiff at first, then with a delayed ****—as if realizing too late that he wanted it just as much. “I’m okay,” he said. “Really. Just needed to clear my head.”

Chloe was next, rushing up with her hands fluttering at her chest, a nervous satellite in Sam’s orbit. “Where were you? We were so worried—Arabella never answered, and then you just—” She stopped, blinking hard. “You’re really okay?”

He smiled, reaching up to brush a strand of hair from her cheek. “I’m really okay.”

She clung to his arm, almost refusing to let go. Behind her, Dawn hovered with her hands twisted in her skirt, eyes wide and shining. “We tried to find you,” she said. “Everywhere.”

“I know,” Andy said, looking at her with a tired gratitude. “Thank you.”

Erin cut through the scrum like a torpedo, unencumbered by anything except the sneakers on her feet and the righteous indignation of someone whose heart had nearly failed from stress. She stopped a meter short, eyes raking over him head-to-toe, then closed the distance and hugged him so hard he actually grunted.

“Don’t do that,” she said, voice low and fierce. “Not to us.”

He hugged her back, naked skin to clothes, and didn’t flinch. If anything, the contact seemed to ground him, the tension in his body melting away as he inhaled her sweat and soap and the faint bite of iron from her workout.

When they finally separated, Andy found Claire standing a few paces back, notebook in hand, watching him with a measured, almost clinical stillness. She didn’t approach, didn’t gesture. But he could feel the awareness radiating off her, the silent communion of two people who lived inside each other’s heads.

He offered her a smile—a real one, shy and crooked. She blinked, cat ears twitching, then nodded as if confirming a diagnosis. The tiniest curve of her lips told him everything: you’re here, you’re safe, you can rest.

Sam finally let go, but only to cuff him gently on the arm. “You scared the shit out of everyone,” she said. “At least next time leave a note?”

He laughed, the sound rusty but genuine. “I didn’t know I was going to be gone this long. But deal.”

The others circled in, the anxiety of the last day sloughing off in a chorus of breathless, overlapping questions.

“Where were you—”

“Did you see Arabella—”

“Was it Riley—”

“Are you hungry, do you need—”

Andy held up his hands, surrendering to the tide. “Let me sit,” he said, “and I’ll tell you everything.”

They guided him to the table, everyone talking at once, Chloe clutching his hand, Erin never more than a foot away, Sam on guard like a bouncer at the world’s least exclusive club. Andy sat, head in hands for a moment, then straightened, the gravity in his shoulders gone.

He looked at each of them in turn, measuring their worry, their joy, the sheer **** of their relief. “I had to see something,” he said at last. “Arabella showed me a piece of what’s behind the curtain.”

The girls stilled. The phrase landed with a heaviness, a knowing that whatever lay beyond was not for the faint-hearted.

“I can’t explain it yet,” Andy said. “Not all of it. But… I promise I’m not leaving again.” He looked at Sam, then Chloe, then Erin. “Not unless I have to. Not unless you’re with me.”

Chloe exhaled, her entire frame sagging. “Okay. That’s all we needed to hear.”

Sam grinned. “We’re holding you to it.”

Erin touched his hand, thumb tracing the knuckle. “If you ever need to talk, just… do it.”

Andy nodded, overwhelmed. “I will. I swear.”

Around the table, tension drained, replaced by a quiet, radiant joy. It wasn’t just that he was back. It was that, for the first time in days, the world felt like it might hold together a little longer.

Even Marissa, who’d spent the last hour pacing the Banquet Hall and scribbling furious notes in a legal pad, found herself drifting closer. She sat down beside Andy, folded her hands, and said, “You’re allowed to have secrets. Just don’t keep them forever.”

He smiled at her, the warmth between them like a contract.

For a while, nobody said anything. They just sat, together, the ring of women around the Master forming a makeshift barricade against the uncertainty of the world.

Somewhere in the distance, the sun set over the water, painting the glass of the windows with molten gold. The Banquet Hall, once hollow, now hummed with a kind of hope—a promise, fragile but real, that whatever came next would be faced together.

The corridor outside the elevator was dim and cold, a liminal space between worlds. Andy stood with Claire, her hand in his, the soft brush of her knuckles against his palm more comforting than any words. She didn’t even try to write. Instead she watched him, cat ears perked and eyes so pale they seemed backlit by moonlight.

He kept his voice low. “I need to tell you something before I go upstairs.”

She nodded, just once, her gaze never leaving his face.

“There’s a place under the hotel,” he said. “A kind of… recovery ward. Arabella runs it for the contestants who were broken by the game, or discarded. I saw it. I saw them.”

Claire’s fingers tightened. He felt the shiver run through her, not fear but recognition. Like she’d always suspected it existed, and now she had proof.

“She wants me to meet three women who live there,” Andy continued. “Three nights. I can bring one of them back, add her to the harem, if it feels right.”

Claire’s lips parted, but she closed them again, thinking. Her notebook stayed closed, the moment too large for shorthand or ink. Instead, she leaned in and pressed her cheek to his shoulder, purring so softly he almost missed it.

“You’re not upset?” he asked.

She pulled back, gave him a wide smile. He felt pride through their bond. Then she rose up on tiptoe and kissed him, her hands on either side of his jaw. The kiss was feather-light at first, then deeper, almost ****. When she broke it, her eyes glittered with unspilled tears.

She scribbled, slowly, her fingertips brushing his cheek: I trust you.

He swallowed, his own words drying up. “I love you,” he said, because it was the only thing that mattered.

She stared at him with huge eyes, the barest edge of mischief in it. She wrote in big, looping script: I love you, too. I’m happy you aren’t fed up with me. Then she was gone, vanishing down the hall with her notebook clutched to her chest and her tail flicking with every step.

Andy lingered, the kiss still burning on his lips. He was about to turn for the elevator when he heard the sound of footsteps behind him.

Erin. She stalked toward him, wearing only her sneakers, her body a study in paradox: strong and lithe, her J-cups swaying with each step, but her face open and searching.

She stopped just in front of him, arms folded tight against the cold. “You okay?” she asked, eyes boring into his.

He tried to smile. “Getting there.”

She didn’t return it. “You left us for almost a full day. Thought you’d finally bailed.”

He shook his head. “Never. Not on you.”

She stared at him for a long time, then reached up and cupped the back of his neck. The gesture was oddly gentle, belying the intensity in her eyes. “Don’t go missing again,” she said. “We need you.”

He almost replied, then caught the tremor in her jaw and realized she wasn’t asking for herself. She was asking for them—her, the others, the whole accidental family. Erin Delgado, naked and exposed to the world, still managed to be the strongest person in any room. He loved her for it.

He pulled her into a hug. She was warmer than he remembered, her bare skin electric against his. He felt her stiffen for a split second—old habits, old walls—then she melted, burying her face in his chest and letting out a sigh so deep it sounded like defeat.

When they separated, she kept her hand at his nape, fingers kneading the tension from his neck. “So,” she said, “are you going to tell me where you were, or is this another one of your classified secrets?”

He hesitated. He wasn’t ready to spill everything, but Erin’s patience for bullshit was famously thin.

“It was Arabella,” he said at last. “She wanted to show me something. Someplace.” He studied her face. She was braced for a lie, but he couldn’t give her one. “It’s a place where the ones who can’t go home, go. Or the ones who shouldn’t.”

Her eyes sharpened. “Did you see anyone you knew?”

He nodded. “One. Someone who came here from another season. I met her the night of the first challenge. I need to tell you about her, next time we have a minute. And others. It was… intense.”

She didn’t press. Instead, she traced her thumb along his jaw, as if searching for the man she remembered. “You okay?” she asked again, softer this time.

He was, and wasn’t, but he wanted to be. “I will be,” he said.

She let her hand fall, then tilted her head, studying him with the same predatory focus she’d brought to every crisis since college. “So what happens now? You come back and pretend it didn’t mess you up?”

He laughed, and the sound was so unexpected that she did too. “No,” he said. “I have to go back upstairs tonight. Arabella gave me a… project.”

This got a real smile out of her, teeth and all. “Figures. The universe always makes you work for it.”

He nodded. “But I’ll be around. And I’ll need your help.”

Her face darkened. “With what?”

“With the others,” he said. “There’s a talk I have to have with all of you. It's time. I need to tell all of them about Laura. About everything.”

She held his gaze, then shrugged. “You always were a masochist,” she said, but her voice was gentler than her words.

They stood like that for a moment, neither quite willing to move. Erin, naked and proud, was the axis on which the whole world spun—her body a declaration, her refusal to cover up a kind of armor. Andy found himself wanting her with the same old, hungry certainty, but also with something deeper—a craving for connection that went beyond skin.

She noticed, of course. “You’re staring,” she said, mock-accusing.

He didn’t look away. “Can you blame me?”

She stepped back, the cool air raising goosebumps on her arms. She flexed her shoulders, and her breasts—massive, soft, perfect—shifted in a way that defied physics. “I’m not fishing for compliments,” she said, “but if you keep looking at me like that, we’re going to end up naked in your Suite before you can say ‘boundary issues’.”

He almost took her up on it. But then the elevator pinged, announcing its readiness, and the spell broke.

Erin moved to the side, arms folded, the old self-doubt flickering behind her eyes. “You going to be okay? You sure you want to tell them everything?”

He nodded. “I owe it to them. And to you.”

She shook her head, a slow, almost loving gesture. “You don’t owe me anything, Andy. I chose you.”

He knew she meant it, but the knowledge didn’t make it easier. “Still,” he said. “I’m not going anywhere.”

She believed him. He could see it in the way she relaxed, the way her hands finally unclenched. She leaned in and kissed him—hard, urgent, almost bruising—then let him go.

“Go,” she said. “Before I change my mind.”

He stepped into the elevator. The doors slid shut, and he caught her eyes—steady, unblinking, fierce—until the very last second.