Intermission: The Hot Seat, Part 1

Andy looked down at the fork he was holding. He had no memory of standing. He had no memory of the chair moving. He was reasonably certain he had not blinked.

It was Riley, of course, who broke the silence first. “Okay,” she said. “Who moved me.” She looked down at the stroller, which had come with her, parked square beside her seat as though someone had given it thought, then at JJ, who was in Chloe’s arms.

Chloe had JJ against one shoulder and half a bread roll in her free hand. She looked at the roll, then at the empty air where her table had been. “I was eating that,” she said, in the flat voice of someone whose mouth had gotten ahead of her brain. “There was soup. There was a whole soup.”

Claire, a chair over, already had her notepad out. She scribbled fast and passed it sideways by tapping Emily's elbow. Emily looked down, read the note—we didn't walk here—and said, “Maybe we're about to end the game, but gently this time.”

“Myra would sense if there was a threat,” Marissa said, not quite convinced but playing the optimist. She had found Emi's hand without appearing to look for it, a visible sign of how much the two had come to rely on each other's presence. Myra's face, for its part, was set in the blank, unfocused stare she used when she was scanning for invisible barbs. She held it a long time. “Nothing here wants to hurt us,” she said finally.

“I would take a mass hallucination at this point,” Liesa said, entirely unbothered, still holding her wine glass, which had survived, “as long as somebody brings the tiny sandwiches back.”

Erin snorted. “It’ll be a cult indoctrination, just you wait.” She winked at Dawn, who giggled.

“Only if there are uniforms,” said Norah from the back row, deadpan. She was dressed for lunch and nothing more, officewear softened by a notch, four-inch heels, two buttons undone because two buttons were always undone, and she had not so much as uncrossed her legs. “I'll rate the branding.”

Andy let the banter roll, content to listen. It was how they handled fear, and he had learned not to interrupt it. He had his own theories, of course, since nothing in this Hotel moved a chair by accident, but he'd found it was best to let the women set their own mood for these things. If nothing else, it gave him time to calibrate to the particular emotional weather of the day.

The Hall was still the Hall. That was the strange part. The chandeliers hung where they always hung, the palm fronds were still woven into the vault above, and the window wall still gave onto the zen garden with its raked gravel and its one indifferent stone. Midday light lay across the teak in the same long bars it had lain in a minute ago. Only the furniture had betrayed them. The buffet was gone from the long wall as though it had never been installed, the tables were gone, only a set of chairs arranged in a semicircle facing where the buffet had once been, where there was now a low dais.

Arabella was suddenly standing on it, flanked by two of the Mildreds, who looked both imposing and faintly amused by the spectacle. She had not walked in either. Andy would have staked money on that.

There were name cards taped to the seat backs—“Chloe,” “Dawn,” “Marissa,” “Riley,” and so on, a neat run of everyone who's ever mattered—and they were handwritten in ink. There were even place cards for Dinah, Eden, Marie, Anna, and Herman. As if on cue, Andy blinked and found all five already sitting there, Anna and Herman smirking, while Dinah, Eden and Marie were clearly confused.

The group filed in, taking seats as if at a graduation or an oddly formal intervention. Andy landed beside Riley, who’d pulled up the stroller next to her own seat and was already scanning the room for threat vectors or snack tables, whichever she could find first. The rest of the harem fell into their places, with a few seats left empty here and there—”Laura Cooper” was written twice, and Laura smiled faintly as she took her seats.

“Welcome, everyone,” she said, her voice carrying through the space without need of microphone or amplification. “Thank you for making the time.”

“We didn't,” Riley said.

“No,” Arabella agreed pleasantly. “You were having lunch. Yesterday. You still are, in the sense that matters, and you will go on having it the moment we are finished, with the soup at precisely the temperature you left it.”

“Yesterday,” Norah repeated.

“Yesterday. I find it makes the scheduling considerably easier.” She let that sit exactly as long as it deserved. “Ordinarily I would not pull you ahead, but the events from last night would have… affected the mood, and there’s plenty to do for you all today, before the parties even start. So, consider this a short detour in time. We have something a little different arranged, and it seemed unkind to spend a day you would rather spend elsewhere.”

She glanced down at her clipboard, then back up, her eyes finding Andy’s and holding just a little longer than was comfortable. “I realize there was no communication about this event whatsoever. That is, I'm afraid, entirely deliberate. We don’t get many opportunities for a panel discussion in the Harem Hotel.” She said the name with a wink at the assembled crowd, as if inviting them to get in on the joke.

Riley, never one to miss a setup, raised a hand. “Is this like the thing where you bring all the bachelors out on a reunion show and have them spill tea on each other?”

Arabella considered. “That’s a reasonable analogy. However, as there is only one ‘bachelor’ on this season, we have modified the format. I’ve invited questions from our longtime audience members—”

“Hold up,” Chloe interjected. “People had questions?”

“Always,” Arabella replied. “The audience is integral to the structure of the Hotel, though generally, they observe rather than intervene. For this event, I thought it would be a pleasant novelty to let them participate more directly.”

Emily, whose hand had drifted halfway up as if she wanted to ask something, let it fall. “Are we going to have to answer questions about our sex lives? Or… like, is it safe for work?”

“That depends on your definition of work,” said Arabella, and though the answer was coy, her smile was all business. “We will proceed in order. Some questions are directed at individuals, others at the group as a whole. If at any point you wish to pass, simply indicate so.” She looked at Claire, who nodded in silent assent, her pen already poised over her notepad.

The first question was read without preamble, as if the event were already in progress and the cameras had just faded in mid-conversation. “Andy,” said Arabella, “I’ll start with you, as is tradition. Most of the questions are anonymous, to be clear.”

{letter}

andy. thirteen women. one of you, two if we count splitting. walk me through the actual scheduling. will there be a spreadsheet when the show is over. dawn made a spreadsheet didn’t she

{endletter}

For a half second, Andy blanked. Then the actual content of the question hit him and he nearly laughed out loud. “I—” he started, but the words didn’t land, so he tried again. “I have not made a spreadsheet,” he said. “There is no spreadsheet. I’m not even sure there’s going to be a rotation. It’s a little more organic than that.”

Riley’s eyes narrowed with the precision of a pro debater. “That’s what every man says until they get caught with two parties on the same night.”

Chloe, beside her, grinned. “Do you want us to make you one? I’m sure it would be color-coded by hair color and cup size within the hour.”

“I resent that,” Andy said, but Dawn—sitting in the front row, already blushing—waved a hand.

“I may have started a draft,” she admitted, “but it wasn’t for me. It was in case anyone else needed to know who had kitchen duty.” Her eyes darted up to Arabella. “Uh, or sex stuff.”

Erin, who’d been listening with increasing amusement, deadpanned: “You could probably just make it alphabetical and get the same result.”

Claire, who had written I HELPED in her notebook in block letters, held it up to Andy, then quickly flipped the page when he caught her eye.

Arabella made a show of looking disappointed. “I’ll have to tell the viewers there is no master list yet,” she said. “But I will note that several questions for you, Andy, involve some version of this theme. One, for instance, was submitted in all-caps and wasn't a question. It reads: DAWN IS IN CHARGE OF THIS I CAN TELL.”

Dawn hid her face behind her hands, and the rest of the row broke into low giggles.

Marissa’s hand shot up—polite, but with a kind of eagerness that had started to manifest the longer she’d lived with the group. “Is this a regular thing for the Hotel? Audience participation events?”

Arabella inclined her head. “Some Hosts do them routinely. I have typically reserved them for milestone events, but this felt like a good occasion.” She checked her clipboard, then glanced at Erin, who had gone from smirking to resigned, ready for whatever was coming.

“Next,” said Arabella, “is for Erin."

{letter}

Has anything been dug up from the grudge garden?

{endletter}

She paused for effect, then clarified, “For context, this is a reference to your grudge garden from Chicago. Apparently, there is interest in the Audience as to whether the garden forgave anyone.”

Erin’s first reaction was a bark of a laugh, the real one that didn’t come out unless she was genuinely caught off guard. “That’s…” She looked at Andy, who shrugged, “That’s an actual thing?”

“Oh, yes,” said Arabella. “There are questions.”

“Okay, well,” said Erin, “first of all, the garden is real. It started as a joke. But, I don’t know, I guess it stuck. If someone really hurt me, I’d plant something in the crappiest soil I could find, and if it grew, I’d let it go. If it died, I got to keep the grudge.”

Dawn, voice low, said, “She once told me she had like twenty of them. I think the only ones that lived were for the pizza guy and her old biology teacher.”

Erin nodded. “The pizza guy apologized eventually. The teacher, not so much.”

Andy cut in: “What about me?”

Erin’s face went perfectly neutral. “I haven’t checked in a while, but last time I looked, yours was a succulent. It was alive, but barely.”

Marissa let out a snort, uncharacteristically unguarded.

Arabella grinned, enjoying the momentum. “For the record, the grudge garden has not been discussed as much as I think it deserves.”

Norah, who had been holding her own on the back row, lifted a hand. “Is every question going to be about what we do in our spare time? Or is there a plot to this?”

Arabella looked at her with something like fondness. “That’s funny, coming from you,” she said, and flipped a page on the clipboard. “Norah…”

{letter}

You are demonstrably the most organized person in the building. Do you keep records? Of any of this? Is there a file?

{endletter}

Norah didn’t blink. “Of course there’s a file. But it’s encrypted, and you’ll never get access unless I’m dead or eliminated.”

The whole room laughed, but only Andy caught the tiny curl of pride at the corner of Norah’s mouth. Emily piped up: “Does it have graphs and charts?”

Norah gave her a look. “It has graphs, yes. And projections. If you want to see the odds for elimination by challenge, I’ll show you. Claire helped.”

Riley grinned, “I’m pretty sure you just outed yourself as the villain.”

Norah shrugged. “If the file fits.”

Arabella seemed satisfied. “I think that answers the question,” she said, then looked to her right, consulting the page again. “Would anyone like to add a comment before we proceed?”

Claire lifted her notebook, this time with a single sentence: I feel deeply seen and slightly alarmed.

Arabella read it aloud, and the room erupted in laughter once more.

Andy let himself relax, just a little. If this was the event, it wasn’t so bad. It felt like a roast, except the people doing the roasting cared enough not to cut too deep.

He glanced down the row: Chloe, still grinning; Dawn, hands folded and determined to take notes if it killed her; Erin, arms crossed but her smile edging into something real; Norah, already plotting how to steal the clipboard. Even Myra, who rarely smiled at anything that wasn’t a strict medical miracle, looked lighter than she had in days.

He caught Laura’s gaze—one of her, anyway. She sat two rows back, both bodies perfectly still, both faces composed. But one of them was looking right at him, and she gave him a small, quick wink. It felt like a secret.

---

Arabella flipped another page on her clipboard, the motion somehow both casual and threatening. “Excellent,” she said. “Since you all seem to be enjoying yourselves, let’s try a slightly different format for the next section. Andy, do you mind if I keep you on the hot seat for a few more questions before we move on?”

Andy hesitated, then shrugged. “I can handle it.”

From the row behind, Laura said, in perfect deadpan unison from both mouths, “He can handle it, but only if you don’t make him show his work.” The delivery was so synchronized it earned scattered applause from the front row.

Arabella smiled. “Noted. Let’s start with this one...”

{letter}

If you could add any one person to the harem, who would it be?

{endletter}

She looked up, eyes gleaming. “Context not provided. The questioner leaves it entirely to your discretion, past, present, real or imaginary.”

Andy blinked. For a moment, he considered the question as a trap, then realized it was probably just an honest curiosity. “I mean, if it’s anyone?” He looked down the row, counting faces, aware that anything he said would be used against him in the next ten minutes. “It’s tempting to say Arabella,” he said, and waited for the laughter. “But I think she’d just run the place better than I do and we’d all end up back in school uniforms.”

Riley snorted. “That’s the wrong answer. You know she’d never let you take over as Head Girl.”

Andy said, “I don’t want to be Head Girl. I just want to survive.”

Emily, who’d been doodling on the corner of Claire’s notepad, piped up: “Maybe you’d pick the staff? Like Mildred?”

Marissa interjected, “That’s a terrible idea. You know she’d keep the clipboard in bed.”

Arabella raised a brow, as if inviting him to continue.

Andy looked at the far end of the row, where Katherine sat with her hands in her lap, and did not look away when he said it.

Andy opened his mouth to say something safe, and didn't. “Eden.”

The name landed flatter than the joke had. He kept going anyway. “She wanted in. Six, seven weeks ago, back when I actually had a slot to give, when Emily joined us. Yes, but later.” He rubbed the back of his neck. “She didn't want more transformations stacked on top of the ones she's already carrying. And she knew she would be useless in the physical challenges.”

He looked up.

“There aren't any more physical challenges. There's nothing left to transform, either—not until an exit one, and even that's supposed to make things easier, not harder.”

A gentle hush fell over the group. Claire wrote something on her notepad, turned it around, and held it where only he could see: later.

“Yeah,” Andy said. “I know. Neither of us has brought it up since.”

He was still working out what to say to that when he caught movement at the edge of the guest row. Eden had turned her head to find him and held it there just long enough to be sure he'd seen. Whatever she did next, he'd have missed it a year ago. He didn't miss it now. A tiny head shake, a rueful smile, a movement with her foot that he had learned to recognize as later, not now. He understood instinctively. This wasn’t something to be solved in a room full of people. She deserved a moment in private. He nodded, to let her know he understood. She returned a grateful smile, repeated the gesture with her foot, then reclined back into her chair.

Arabella didn't write anything down. She looked at him a moment longer than the question deserved, and Andy understood, too late, that he'd just said it out loud, in front of everyone, on the record, in a room that got read.

“Not a diplomatic answer,” she said. She put on her best infomercial smile. "Moving on."

She cleared her throat and adopted a high-pitched, almost cartoonish voice.

{letter}

ANDY! Okay. Five hundred and thirty chapters and counting. If you could go back and tell yourself one thing on that very first morning, what would it be?

{endletter}

She lowered the clipboard and looked at him expectantly.

Claire, unable to help herself, raised her hand, and when Arabella nodded to her, held up her notebook: Is that real? Are there actually over 530 chapters?

Arabella answered without missing a beat: “Last I checked, it was north of 540.” She gave a sly look at the group. “It’s not a competition, but you are leading the metrics on all but one season by a considerable margin.”

Claire lowered the notebook, a faint blush coloring her cheeks, and scrawled one more line beneath the first: I need to start reading faster.

Riley snorted. “No one reads that many chapters unless they’re all smut.”

Chloe giggled. “Speak for yourself. I like a good slow build.”

Arabella interjected, “Statistically, fewer than 30% of the chapters are explicit. The rest is, as one audience member described it, ‘character development and trauma kink.’ For a Harem Hotel story, this is actually quite restrained.”

Norah, deadpan as ever, said: “So it’s not even a proper harem story. We’re all just living in a long, weird group therapy session.”

Liesa, who had not spoken much, chimed in from her seat: “I find it comforting. Less pressure to perform.”

Andy, gathering himself, answered the original question. “If I could tell myself one thing?” He paused, thinking, then said: “I’d probably say to stop trying to control the outcome and just trust the women more. Most of the trouble I got in was from trying to protect them by keeping secrets. It never worked.”

Emily, soft, said, “That’s smart.”

Erin said, “It’s also true. You made it worse every time you tried to play chess with our lives.”

Andy shrugged. “I know. You’re all very persuasive.”

There was a ripple of laughter, and the group settled in again. Arabella beamed. “Thank you, Andy. For that honesty, I will reward you with the next question.” She barely looked at her notes.

{letter}

Have you tried self-sex yet? I mean, between Andy and Andi? Is there a protocol for that? Does it require a spreadsheet?

{endletter}

The room went instantly, perfectly silent.

Andy stared at her. “Is that an actual—”

“It’s been asked in the community,” Arabella said, stone-faced.

Erin, never one to let a moment die, leaned forward and said, “Answer the question, Andy.”

Sam, from the far side, said, “This is a safe space. You can tell us.”

Marissa turned at the same time. “I’ve wondered, too, if I’m honest. Purely from a professional standpoint. Is it just a backup in case there’s no one else, or would you actually… enjoy it? Is it incest or masturbation?”

Andy, flushing, said, “I haven’t, no. I don't know how it would be categorized. And thank you for the images I can't unsee now.” He looked at Arabella. “Does it happen? Is there a precedent?”

Arabella, relishing every second, replied, “For a Master with your abilities? It’s statistically uncommon but not unheard of. Many prefer to keep the boundaries clean, but a few have embraced it with… gusto. If you wish, I can recommend a tutorial.”

Chloe burst out laughing. “Now I want to see it.”

Emily nodded. “Me too.”

Norah, dry as ever, said, “Maybe Arabella can schedule a demo for us.”

Andy put his head in his hands, beet red. “Next question, please.”

Arabella grinned. “You’re doing beautifully.”

{letter}

Which of your powers do you forget you have?

{endletter}

Andy thought about it. “Honestly? Correct. I forget I have the ability to fix mistakes. It always felt like cheating, or like it came with a cost I didn’t understand. So I never used it as much as I could have.”

Sam said, “That’s very on-brand for you.”

Marissa, voice low but affectionate, said: “If you were anyone else, you’d have used it every day. You’re the only person in the history of the HH to actually avoid using a cheat code because you prefer fixing the mistake to undoing it.”

Arabella nodded, satisfied. “And, as a follow-up...”

{letter}

You’ve had the Console since early on. How many times did you open it, look at what was possible, and close it without typing anything?

{endletter}

Andy grinned, a little sheepish. “Mark, is that you? Hundreds, probably. I used it mostly to figure out what the rules were, or to find a loophole. Once or twice I almost used it to end a challenge, but I could never pull the trigger. It feels more like a springboard for the Coauthor than anything else, these days.”

Riley, eyes softening, said: “It would have been easy to brute-force the game. The fact that you didn’t is probably why we’re all here.”

The group settled into a warm, contented silence, as if the answers had stitched together some invisible seam.

Arabella set her clipboard aside, eyes bright. “Thank you, Andy. You have been an exceptional guest, and the audience adores you. Now, unless there are any objections, I’ll shift focus to someone else for a while.” She scanned the room. “Norah, are you ready?”

Norah rolled her eyes. “Let’s get this over with.”

The group snickered, but the mood was light—a far cry from the tension that had hovered over the Hotel for so many weeks. Even the Mildreds at the side of the dais looked pleased.

Andy glanced around the room, catching smiles and glances and even the odd smirk of anticipation.

---

Arabella’s smile had a different flavor now—a touch more respect, a touch less irony. “First question...”

{letter}

You went from idolizing Andy to despising him over a single sentence he said in a meeting. That is a very large response to a very small event. What else was happening in your life that week?

{endletter}

She arched a perfect eyebrow.

Norah didn’t answer immediately. She looked at her hands, then at the rows of faces, each waiting to see if she’d really say it. “My dad had just been fired,” she said, after a beat. “That week, the rent was late, one of my sisters was having issues with her husband, and I was the only person in the house with a shot at a steady job. I wasn’t going to lose it. So when Andy tanked my presentation, yeah, I lost it.” She looked at Andy, then away. “You want me to say I overreacted, fine. But if I’d bombed that meeting, there wasn’t going to be a next one.”

Riley, never content to let a moment go unremarked, called out: “You didn’t just overreact, you made a career out of hating him.”

Norah shot her a death glare. “That’s called drive, Riley. Try it sometime.”

The room snorted and giggled in uneven waves.

Arabella nodded, making a show of writing something on her clipboard. “Thank you for your candor. Next...”

{letter}

You WON a challenge! Do you ever just sit there and think about that? That was awesome (and sexy)!

{endletter}

She said it with a flourish, as if genuinely rooting for Norah.

Norah rolled her eyes but didn’t fight the smile that twitched at the edge of her mouth. “Sometimes, when it’s quiet, I think about the look on Moory’s face when I put her on her ass.” She actually grinned. “That was a good day.”

Emi, who’d been listening raptly, said, “You were really impressive. I thought the cow-girl would stomp you.”

Norah shrugged. “Never underestimate a woman in heels. Especially if she loves her job.”

Liesa, from the back, said, “Moory will send you fan mail someday.”

Norah made a noncommittal sound, but her pride was visible to anyone paying attention.

Arabella, pleased with the pacing, pressed on.

{letter}

Heels or you physically cannot walk. Counterpoint: being carried everywhere sounds incredible. Crawling is sexy. Am I wrong. I’m probably wrong. Am I though.

{endletter}

This time, Norah’s gaze lingered on the clipboard. “That’s the same person as the spreadsheet question. No one else punctuates like that.” She shrugged. “I’ll answer, though. It’s a curse. But also, it’s a power move. No one looks away when you walk into a room, not if you do it right. Being carried everywhere would be a vacation, but I don’t like to give up control for that long.”

Erin, from the front row, said, “There is absolutely someone out there whose fetish is harem logistics and Excel, and somehow, they found this season.”

Dawn, red but smiling, muttered, “I’m not even mad. It’s good feedback.”

The harem burst out laughing, the sound going up into the vaulted ceiling and coming back down softened, the way everything did in here.

Arabella let the energy simmer, then went for the kill.

{letter}

You said once that you didn’t have any particularly close friends in the group. Is that still true? And if it isn’t, who changed it, and did you notice while it was happening?

{endletter}

Norah didn’t answer at first. She just exhaled, then looked at Riley. “It was her,” she said. “We’re best rivals. But, yeah, we’re friends. If I had to trust anyone to watch my back in here, it’d be you.”

Riley, after a beat, said: “That’s the nicest thing you’ve ever said to me. Don’t let it happen again.”

Erin, watching, called out: “Riley’s getting soft. Do we need to stage an intervention?”

Laura, from behind, both bodies beaming, said, “I think it’s sweet.”

Chloe, voice warm, added: “It’s the best. You two are like the Odd Couple, but with more violence.”

Arabella grinned, holding up her clipboard like a game show host. “You see, the process works. The harem is stronger for its differences.”

The room, if possible, got even lighter. Even the Mildreds, still standing sentry at the sides, looked like they might actually smile.

“I have several more questions queued, but I believe we'll pause here for refreshments.” She gestured at the long wall without troubling to look at it. “You'll find lunch has forgiven you.”

The buffet was back where the buffet went, steaming gently under its lamps, exactly as full as it had been at the moment they were taken out of it.

The harem broke formation, flowing toward the snacks like a pride of very hungry, very opinionated lions.

---

After a generous lunch and a half-bottle of wine (for those not on baby duty), the harem drifted back toward the panel seats by ones and twos. Some carried dessert plates, some cups of coffee, a few pilfered a last handful of those delicate lemon sandwich cookies Riley claimed only existed on this island. If the transformation had been abrupt before, now the shift felt deliberate—like someone backstage had decided to raise the stakes, or at least the energy. JJ had fallen asleep in his stroller, which Riley had pushed in a quieter corner from which she could still keep an eye on him, but far enough from the noise that he could sleep soundly.

Arabella waited on the dais, clipboard at the ready. She glanced down the rows as everyone resettled. “Welcome back,” said Arabella, with the kind of stage-velvet that told you she could carry a three-hour telethon and not lose the room. “We will resume where we left off, unless there are urgent objections.” Arabella smiled with a warmth that was ninety percent genuine and ten percent knowing. “Chloe,” she said, “the next sequence is for you.”

Chloe, at that moment, would have objected to her own presence on Earth. She could feel every atom of attention in the room gathering like a static charge on her skin. She stared at her lap, determined to focus on her dress and not the fact that she was now—what, a reality TV protagonist? A case study in public embarrassment? A cautionary tale with legs?

Arabella gave her an encouraging nod.

{letter}

Praise makes you helpless. That's hot, but also: you teach five-year-olds, who praise adults constantly and at random and with total sincerity. Have you considered the mess you’ll be in when you go back?

{endletter}

Chloe felt the temperature in her face surge. “I—” She stopped, trying not to glance at Andy. Or at Marissa, who was already watching her with the world’s most supportive therapist smile. “The thought has crossed my mind,” Chloe admitted. “But in my defense, the kids only ever praise you for things like having stickers or a really big voice. I don’t—” Her words derailed for a second. “I don’t think it’s the same thing.”

Dawn, ever helpful, said, “You know they’re going to adore you even more when you come back. You’re literally designed for it, now.”

“That’s the problem,” Chloe said, a little louder than she meant to. “I can’t—” She fumbled, then tried again. “You have to be able to resist it. You’re not supposed to get stuck on a compliment forever, especially from a child who still thinks dinosaurs still exist.”

“Dinosaurs are real,” Riley said, deadpan.

Chloe made a noise, halfway between a laugh and a whimper. “You know what I mean. The other day, I tripped over myself just because Riley told me she liked my laugh. It took me five minutes to remember how to walk again.”

Riley leaned forward. “That was a really good laugh.”

Chloe let out the tiniest sound, which could have been pleasure, or embarrassment, or both.

Marissa, ever the professional, cut in. “You have an amazing talent for working through things, Chloe. Not everyone can adapt to radical change so quickly.”

A ripple went through Chloe’s body, subtle but visible to anyone who had been living with her for a season and a half. She exhaled sharply. “Thank you,” she said, barely above a whisper.

Immediately, several heads in the room turned: Erin, Riley, Emily, even Andy. All at once, as if on a cue, they chorused: “Good job, Chloe.”

The effect was immediate: Chloe’s whole frame shivered. Her knees clamped tight, she looked like she was trying to will herself invisible. A faint, involuntary moan, so light it could have been a hiccup, slipped out.

Arabella, with perfect composure, said, “Should we perhaps space out the compliments? Or is this an acceptable hazard of the new normal?”

Riley snickered, and Andy tried to hold a straight face but failed. Emily, always empathetic, covered her own mouth and blushed in sympathy.

Andy reached over, set a hand on Chloe’s forearm—nothing overt, just an anchor—and said, “You’re doing great.” He did not mean it as a joke. He did not even mean it sexually, though every word had taken on a new weight in this crowd.

Chloe took a long, shuddering breath and nodded. “Thank you,” she said, the words carrying a whole nest of contradictions: gratitude, chagrin, and something like pride.

Arabella, apparently satisfied, flipped to the next note on her clipboard. “A related question, apparently.

{letter}

Chloe, if you had to explain what happened in that hotel to a class of five-year-olds, where would you start?

{endletter}

Chloe’s jaw actually dropped. For a second she seemed ready to protest, but then she just looked at the ceiling, as if appealing to some higher power. “I wouldn’t,” she said. “I would not explain any of this to any child, ever, under any circumstances.”

This got a round of laughter. Even Laura grinned, both bodies in sync.

Arabella said, “Is there a reason you’re so adamant?”

Chloe looked at the rows of women—most of whom, she realized, were future mothers, or at least temporary caretakers of something more delicate than themselves—and said, “This is not a story for kids. They don’t need to know about the rest. I’ll tell them about the ocean, and the fun, and the—” She glanced at Andy. “The family part, maybe. But not this.”

Riley, voice dry, said, “You know several of us are going to have to come up with a story for the babies, right? That’s what the family group chat is going to be, twenty years from now: how to explain the whole thing without traumatizing the kids.”

Chloe laughed, this time fully. “Good luck with that,” she said.

Emily offered, “We could just say it was a very strange summer camp.”

“That works until they’re old enough to Google us,” Chloe pointed out, but she was smiling.

Arabella moved on, as though she’d expected nothing less.

{letter}

When you found out that Myra’s lie was what actually sent Laura to the bridge, was your first feeling relief?

{endletter}

The silence that landed was weightier than any of the earlier jokes. Chloe sat for a beat, gathering her words. “Yes,” she said. “But not the way you mean. I was relieved it wasn’t my fault, but also—it was hard to believe for a long time. I had spent so much energy blaming myself after I found out the kiss had started the whole thing, I didn’t know what to do with the extra space once the guilt left.” She paused, then looked at Myra. “I’m glad it wasn’t me. I wish it hadn’t been anyone.”

Riley, who had gone a little gray at the edges, said, “You never would have pushed her. It wasn’t in you.” The words were gentle, but the intent behind them was knife-sharp.

Myra’s voice, when it came, was quieter than usual. “I know I said it a hundred times, but I’ll keep saying it: I’m sorry. I would give anything to take it back.”

Andy, not trusting his own voice, just nodded, and Laura, both bodies at once, added, “It’s in the past, now. We’re not those people anymore.”

There was a hush, but it was not a cold one. More like the moment after a storm, when you know the world is still there, battered but real.

Arabella nodded once, with a gravity she rarely deployed. “Thank you,” she said. “I have one last question, if you don’t mind.” She glanced at Chloe, who braced herself.

{letter}

How much do you love JJ already?

{endletter}

Chloe’s face opened. “I love him a lot,” she said. “And I’m scared of loving him more. Every time I look at him, I think he’s too good to be real. It makes me want to protect him from everything, but it also makes me want to let him go and see how far he can get on his own. He’s going to be a good big brother for the other little ones.” She looked at Riley, whose eyes had gone bright, wet at the corners. “I love you, too,” Chloe said. “Sorry I haven’t said it in public yet. I know you don’t like that.”

Riley reached over, hugged her quick and hard, and then released her just as fast. “You’re fine,” she said. “You’re perfect. Even if you can’t survive a compliment.”

Chloe squirmed in pleasure. A chorus of “Awww” went up from the back row, and for a second, the whole group was just a group—no panel, no Host, no competition, just women in a circle trying to do better by one another.

Andy watched it happen, and felt the odd, encompassing relief of not needing to fix anything. The system worked. It was messy, but it worked.

Arabella smiled, softer than before, and moved the attention onward. The clipboard closed with a gentle, professional click. “Thank you, Chloe.”

---

The air shifted: a gentle, anticipatory hush, as Arabella closed her clipboard with a little snap and fixed her gaze, at once benevolent and wicked, on the next row of seats. “Thank you, Chloe,” she said, with a bow of the head that was ninety percent sincerity and ten percent performative. “Now. Let’s move the lens one seat over, shall we? Claire—” she turned her whole body, as if acknowledging royalty— “you are among the harem members who received the most questions.”

There was a stir of laughter—some of it nerves, some of it delight—and the whole row visibly oriented itself toward Claire, who looked up from her notepad with the air of someone about to present her doctoral defense while on a moving train. Claire blinked, straightened, raised her pen, and waited.

Arabella, never one to let a cue linger, swept a hand across the assembled women. “Before we begin, a quick note poll among you all: the term ‘haremette’ appears to be the standard nomenclature for your cohort, according to several other seasons. Thoughts?” She let it hang, and the effect was instantaneous.

Dawn, who had just returned with a fresh bread roll, snorted in surprise. “That’s not a word,” she said, “and if it is, it sounds like a cake.”

Erin, deadpan, said, “Maybe we should make it our brand. Like, Haremettes: Now With More Fiber.”

Norah grunted. “If this is canon now, do we get jackets?” She shot a look at the Host, who gave her an approving nod.

Riley, never missing a beat, called out: “What does Andy think? I bet he has strong feelings about being the only man in the world who gets his own named collectable.”

The room turned as one, a gentle pincer movement of twenty pairs of eyes.

Andy executed a shrug of exaggerated dignity, “I just want to be clear that I never called anyone a harem-anything. I prefer ‘distinguished ensemble cast.’”

The laughter rippled through the room, loudest from Marissa, who had a particular weakness for administrative humor. “That is textbook HR,” she said. “You sound like you’re prepping for a lawsuit.”

Andy shot back, “I’m just hedging against the possibility of a post-show union.”

Arabella, delighted, returned to the clipboard. “Let the record reflect that the Haremettes are now a unionized ensemble cast, with all rights and privileges thereunto.” She made a note, as though she really were going to file it.

She shifted her tone, more professorial now, addressing Claire with a kind of gentle challenge. “First question for Claire...”

{letter signed "April Kapoor"}

Are catgirls really inevitable? My Host seems to think so for some reason.

{endletter}

She paused. “This one is signed by April Kapoor, who is a contestant in Harem Hotel: Storytelling Edition, hosted by a dear… friend… of mine, Scarlet. Dear Scarlet is probably reading us right now, much like the Master, Matt Hawkins. We look forward to having you here, Matt.”

There was an immediate wave of snickering. Claire smiled—an elegant, wry thing—and wrote a reply in her notepad, the motion quick and practiced. She tore the page, lifted it, and handed it down to Emily, who read it aloud: “‘Statistically, the ratio of seasons without a catgirl has been decreasing steadily. We have a Catgirl Conclave. During Andy’s birthday, there were four of us. There are more now.’”

Claire, already scribbling again, held up a second note: The literature also suggests a minimum of one catgirl per season, but with strong clustering. In a ‘harem’ context, it is a proven statistical likelihood.

Erin, grinning, added, “Sounds like a pandemic.”

Chloe piped up, “What’s the Conclave? Is that a real event?”

Claire nodded, already prepping the next note. She flipped the page and showed it: Arabella, please send April Kapoor a letter of official induction. She is absolutely in.

Arabella bowed, utterly solemn. “I will see that it is done, Claire.”

Dawn, suddenly invested, raised her hand. “Can I start a Bunny Burrow, then?”

Myra, not to be left behind, flicked an ear and said, “I suppose might as well start a Fox Forum.”

Arabella, perfectly straight-faced, tapped her clipboard with the pen. “There will be two other kitsune at the bachelorette event, and possibly one more at the wedding, so you may wish to coordinate.” She glanced at Sam. “And there will be two blue-haired Sams, as well.”

Sam clapped, delighted. “Sam Summit! I’m in.”

Andy felt the shockwave from the pun cluster ripple through the room, as though “Sam Summit” had just detonated a warhead of self-acceptance over the entire semicircle. The Haremettes, capital H, if that was now the official nomenclature, responded like seasoned panelists: groans, giggles, and at least one “oh my God” that might have come from more than one woman at once. Andy braced himself for a further escalation, but the Host’s gaze was already moving, and she had her sights set square on Claire.

She didn’t raise her voice or even her posture; she just let the hush roll back in, like the world was perfectly at ease letting her take the floor. “Now, then,” said Arabella. “Let’s continue.”

Claire, who had been busy cataloging the last twenty seconds of verbal carnage in her notepad, now sat up straight and flipped to a fresh page. She didn’t smile or preen; she just poised her pen, equal parts curiosity and readiness.

Arabella began. “Another question.”

{letter}

The list of words you wish people still used. Has any word stopped applying over the course of this? Has any word started?

{endletter}

She raised an eyebrow, as if encouraging a performance.

Claire started writing. The motion was rapid and deliberate, her script somehow both orderly and expressive. She tore the page out and handed it to Emily, who, as Claire’s designated relay for today, read: “‘Words gained: apricate, to bask in the sun, formerly considered obsolete, now applicable to most of the harem on at least three occasions per week. Hiraeth, which is a Welsh word for missing a place that never was—lately relevant after the real-world dates. Comity, which is group harmony—no comment. Radamancy, meaning the act of loving someone who loves you back, which I never experienced until I came here, and is the best word on the list. Lost: Solivagant, meaning ‘wandering alone, which I often thought about, but is no longer relevant.’”

There was a hush. Andy felt himself sit up a little straighter. He looked at Claire, and she looked at him, and then she wrote a single word and turned the notebook to him. It said, simply: you.

Dawn, unable to help herself, said, “That was beautiful.”

Erin, in the row behind, said, “She always is the best at answering questions.”

Chloe, soft, added, “It’s the ‘no longer relevant’ for solivagant that gets me.”

Riley, even softer, murmured, “Me, too.”

Arabella let the silence hang just long enough for it to matter. Then, she said, “Another question for Claire.”

{letter}

Claire, you’re the one who figures things out. Was there ever a point where you lost the thread?

{endletter}

A ripple went through the room—a mix of delight at the question, and at the challenge implied. Claire looked down for a moment, then started writing again, slower this time, her lips pressed tight, her focus at a different register. She finished, tore out the page, then hesitated, tapping the edge of it once on the armrest before passing it sideways.

Emily read, “‘I almost lost it in the second round. I had worked out how to fix the Ribbon Labyrinth, but I didn’t get to let everyone know until it was too late. I’m not as smart as everyone thinks. I think I just work harder. Sometimes I wish I could just let go and see what happens, but then I remember what happens if nobody is keeping track.’”

There was a shifting in the seats. Even Marissa, who rarely telegraphed anything, softened at the edges.

Riley, eyes glassy, said, “You did more than enough.”

Chloe said, “She tried her best to save all of us, at least twice. In the Labyrinth, and in the Museum. You’re the best leader among us, Claire.”

Sam, from the buffet, called, “Three times, if you count the sandwich incident.”

Andy, before he could think better of it, said, “She’s the brains of the operation. Always has been.”

Claire looked at him. The look was sharp and fragile at the same time. She quickly scribbled, It’s all of us together, it’s not just me.

Arabella, in a softer voice than usual, said, “Thank you, Claire. Shall we move on?”

Claire nodded, and this time, when she set down the notebook, she placed her palm flat atop it, anchoring herself to the moment.

Arabella read.

{letter}

You were diagnosed autistic as an adult. Which was harder—the years of not knowing, or the retrospective afterwards, when you went back through your entire life with the new information?

{endletter}

It was not a softball. Andy braced for the silence, for the potential of a room gone suddenly too heavy.

Claire wrote this one long. She didn’t pause for effect, didn’t try to edit herself, just wrote as fast as her hand would allow. She finished, and when she slid the page to Emily, her knuckles were white.

Emily, carefully, read: “‘Before: I thought I was a broken normal. After: I knew I was a normal something else. It’s better, but it used to hurt more sometimes. The before hurt, because I thought I could fix it but I never succeeded. The after used to hurt because I knew I never would. I like the after better, though. I like knowing there’s a word for it. And I like that my sisters and Andy accept me for who I am.’”

No one made a sound.

After a long, full beat, Andy stood up, walked to her row, and bent down so he was eye level with her. He reached out—didn’t touch, just offered—and Claire took his hand and squeezed. Then, with a look that dared the universe to say a thing, she kissed him, there in front of everyone, fast and hard and with no apology. She let go and sat back down, face red and blinking rapidly.

Emily, delighted, started clapping, and the rest of the room followed. Even Riley, who would have died before admitting to a tear, wiped at her face.

Marissa, without preamble, said: “Can I add something?” She waited until Arabella nodded, then said, “You don’t need to change a thing, Claire. We all love you exactly as you are.”

Dawn, blinking hard, said, “That’s the right answer.”

Arabella, brisk now, picked up the thread: “One more for Claire.”

{letter}

You taught yourself lockpicking for books. Have you since used it on something that was not a book, and would you tell me if you had?

{endletter}

Claire’s response was immediate. She didn’t write; she just gave a grin, and raised one hand in a pantomimed Scout’s Honor, while crossing her fingers on the other. The message was so clear and so mischievous that the entire room burst out laughing.

Norah, laughing hardest, said, “She’s absolutely done it.”

Emily said, “She picked the lock on the rare books section of the Hotel Library the second round, just to see if she could.”

Andy said, “You did?”

Claire shrugged, gave him a little look, and wrote: It’s not illegal if it’s just research.

Arabella, who looked genuinely amused, said, “I’ll allow it. Next question...”

{letter}

You can’t talk, and you’re still somehow the funniest person in the room half the time. What’s the best thing you ever wrote in that notebook—the one that made everybody lose it?

{endletter}

Claire, for the first time, actually hesitated. I’m funny? She wrote, perplexed. Then she thought about the question. She opened the notebook, thumbed through a hundred pages, her face slowly turning the color of a traffic stop. When she found the page, she handed it to Emily, who looked down and instantly started to laugh so hard she couldn’t speak.

Erin reached over and snatched it, then showed it to the room. There was a word in all caps, FARTED, and under it, ANDY WAS THERE.

For a second, nobody believed it. Then, as memory caught up, the room dissolved. Even the Mildreds, who had been statuesque and unreadable for the entire event, broke composure for a fraction of a second.

Dawn, through actual tears, said, “That was the beach party, wasn’t it?”

Andy, mortified and weirdly proud, nodded. “It was. We were telling stories, and that’s what she came up with.”

Claire, basking in the chaos, took a little bow.

Arabella, laughter in her voice, said, “I see the audience’s high estimation of your comedic talent is well founded.” She fanned herself with her clipboard, then said, “One final question for you.”

{letter}

What is the best book you have found in the Sky Archive?

{endletter}

The question hung, weirdly solemn, and the haremettes all leaned in, as if expecting a riddle or a spell.

Claire thought about it, then wrote, slow and careful: I found a blank journal in the Archive, and every time I open it, the pages fill with something about how I’m feeling that day. Sometimes it’s poetry. Sometimes it’s a story about the women here. Sometimes it’s a wish.

She handed the page to Emi, who read it quietly, then pressed a hand to her chest and said, “That’s magic, Claire.”

Norah, who had never been less sarcastic, said, “You should bring it to every event.”

Claire shrugged, then made a gesture: a quick scribble, followed by both palms out and up, like opening a book for the world.

Arabella smiled, the kind of Host-smile that meant something had landed right where it should. “Thank you, Claire,” she said. “You’ve given everyone plenty to think about.”

The room was quiet for a moment, but not empty. Full, in fact, in a way Andy hadn’t realized he’d been missing until now.