Lady by Lady, the Picks Are Made

Rhett steps forward, cards glinting overhead. His grin is all game-show swagger and scandalous promise.

"All right, players, it’s time for our perverted players to make their weekly picks. We’re in order of reducing age this week, which means we start with the silver fox himself—our man with the Dean and the Spade already in his hand—Graham West."

Graham leans forward in his chair, cool as ever, fingertips steepled. There’s a pause. Then he makes his declaration, “5♦ – Kaitlyn Reid.”

A few chuckles ripple through the crowd.

Rhett swivels back toward Graham. “Now I’ve got to ask, Graham. You’re sitting on an Ace of Hearts and a Five of Spades, and this was your first pick out of the gate? There are tastier morsels available, so can we assume that Kaitlyn will be dining at a full house instead?”

Graham doesn’t smile, exactly—but his mouth twitches like one might be thinking about forming. “Of course. Besides, I’ve always had a soft spot for people who are underestimated.”

Rhett claps once, sharply. “Calculated. Cunning. A little boring, maybe—but hell, sometimes boring gets the job done.”

Rhett turns toward the seated academic with a half-step and a tilt of his head. His tone sharpens just a little—still playful, but with stakes behind the smirk.

“And now, let’s check in with our tweed-coated tactician. Professor Rourke… who, unless I’ve miscounted, is just a Queen and an Ace away from the most powerful hand in the game.”

He spreads his arms to the audience. “A royal flush, people. Clubs. Sexy, sneaky, professor-approved.”

The cards above the screen are still spinning, the randomized shimmer flickering. Rhett turns back. “So, Professor. Do or die time. What’s your pick?”

Simon doesn't even glance up. “I’ll take the Queen of Clubs, Dr. Marika Te Whetu.”

The audience gives an appreciative oohhh, and Rhett’s eyebrows jump. “Well that’s… bold. But—” He snaps his fingers. “—not a flush-finisher. Not unless you know something I don’t.”

Simon leans forward, adjusts his cuffs with surgical precision, and calmly replies, “I imagine I know many things you don’t, Rhett, but in this case you have already worked out my next move. It’s the only one that can keep me in the game. I’ll reserve our Ace of Clubs for 1000 points.”

There’s .a brief pause—then the screen flashes again. A second card appears—superimposed over the first.

The audience gasps.

Rhett just whistles. “Whoa. Whoa. Hold on—he’s reserving the Ace. That’s a 1000-point buy-in on a Dean who looks like she’d break you in two just for breathing wrong in her lab.”

Simon sits back. Silent. Calm.

Rhett turns to the camera, voice dropping for effect.

“Ladies and gentlemen, you’re witnessing a last stand. A gamble so reckless it’s either genius… or career-ending. Professor Rourke now holds ten, jack, and empress of clubs—and has picked the queen while putting the Ace in reserve. If he can somehow pull off a double success this week that I’m not even sure Cassie or our fresher would gamble on, he won’t just survive he’ll crush it!”

The crowd reacts—cheers, groans, one audible “holy shit.”

Rhett grins, pacing across the stage like a man savoring the chaos. “He’s either saving himself—or dying like a legend.”

Then he turns toward Cassie’s chair.

“Speaking of legends…” Rhett spins on his heel with the grace of a man who knows exactly which camera to look at, then gestures theatrically toward the returning champion. “Let’s talk about the woman who reminded us all why she wears the crown.”

He strides forward, hands sweeping out as the scoreboard flashes up Cassie’s point total—5,575.

“Last week, Cassie Li did what only the boldest dare—she locked in a flush so fiery, so filthy, so feminine, it not only rocketed her from last to second place... it left the whole damn stage gasping for breath.”

A ripple of appreciative noise from the crowd.

Rhett turns, full stage-front now, palm extended toward her.

“Kaori, Lila, Carmen, Camila, and sweet little Tabby—public sex, anal, contracts, handjobs, and all of it coordinated with military precision and pornstar flair.”

He clicks his tongue.

“I mean, you even made a handjob look like a masterclass in erotic liberation. That’s talent.”

Cassie arches a brow, lips curving into a smirk, then gestures toward Rhett with a mock bow. “You’re welcome.”

Rhett laughs. “And now the question, Cassie—Queen of Comebacks—what’s next? What does the sorceress of seduction draw to keep the pressure on?”

Without missing a beat, she announces her choice. “9 of Spades

Hailey Yazzie.”

The audience hoots at the image—Hailey stands tall, maroon tank hugging her generous curves, eyebrow cocked like she dares you to make a move. Or a mistake.

Rhett raises a brow. “Oof. That’s a whole lotta woman. Not a heart, but definitely not a downgrade.”

Cassie leans forward just slightly, lips quirking. “She’s hot, she’s strong, and she looks like she knows exactly what she wants. I’m just here to deliver.”

Rhett nods, mock-grave. “And deliver you will. Because if there’s one thing we’ve learned, it’s that when Cassie Li gets her hands on you, you don’t walk away untouched—you might not walk away at all.”

The audience laughs. Rhett grins, spinning on his heel again.

Rhett barely slows as he pivots toward the fourth chair, where Milo Gutierrez slouches like a man who knows his words mean nothing.

He grins. “And now we turn to the contestant who’s technically still in the game… but not exactly playing it.”

He lifts his brows, stage-light catching the glint in his eye.

“Ladies and gentlemen, I present to you: the beautifully broken puppet formerly known as Milo Gutierrez. Or, as he’s now affectionately called in backstage group chat... ‘The Meat.’”

The audience laughs—half sympathy, half schadenfreude.

Rhett gestures to the wings. “Because of course, the real player here is the woman pulling the strings. The brilliant, brutal, and never-once-denied Dr. Selene Ravensmoor.”

The lights shift, illuminating Selene as she steps forward with the poise of someone who never enters a room—they claim it. Long black dress. Steel-heeled shoes. A slow, controlled smile that could curdle milk.

Rhett gives a small, respectful bow. “Doctor.”

Selene lifts her tablet. “We select the 7 of Spades.”

A ripple moves through the audience. The image settles into place: Cassidy Lange. Physics. ‘Gravity isn’t the only thing pulling you in.’ Nerdy-cute. Poised. A glint of something mischievous behind those glasses.

Rhett gives a low whistle. “She looks like she gets off on out-thinking her lovers. And on convincing you it was your idea.”

Selene nods once. “She will do. She’s the seven we need for the lower half of our full house.”

Rhett lets the phrase hang a moment, then echoes with mock reverence: “‘Our full house,’ she says. Just a reminder to the viewing public—Dr. Ravensmoor’s been building a scoring hand out of tenured professors sevens, and she’s now down to... what, one gap left if Milo can succeed here?”

Selene doesn't answer. She doesn't need to.

Rhett smirks. “Milo, blink twice if you’re still with us.”

He stares ahead.

Rhett claps once. “Good talk.”

He spins smoothly toward the final chair.

“And last but never least—Mr. Impossible. Our fresher. Our crown jewel collector. The boy who’s made turning women into scoring hands look as effortless as breathing.”

He pauses for dramatic effect, then grins.

“Only... this week, he didn’t actually choose anyone. That’s right, folks—last pick of the draw, everything else was claimed, and all our fresher ended up with was...” He lets the words hang like bait.

The giant screen flicks. A soft image of a shy-looking girl fades in: Rachel Lin, 21, Visual Arts. 4♥ – ‘Draws a lot… of art, not eyes!’

Rhett snorts, holding his hands out to the crowd like a magician who just pulled out a rubber chicken. “I mean, she’s adorable, sure—but a four? What can even the great Mr. Impossible get out of a four of hearts?”

Your response isn’t verbal at first. Instead, you turn your head, slow and deliberate, toward Claire Kowalski.

She’s still seated naked at the piano. Still playing flawlessly, never missing a note. But her eyes are unfocused now. Her breath a little short. And the slightest tremor in her lower lip gives her away.

Rhett notices. So does the camera.

Then it catches your eye... and the tiny, sleek control panel in Rhett’s hand. One thumb resting innocently against the pressure-sensitive dial marked “intensity.”

You speak calmly. Evenly.

“Why don’t you ask our pianist,” you say, “what I can do with someone you mistakenly label as a low card?”

There’s a long, charged silence.

Claire doesn’t stop playing. But her moan shivers through the final bar like a dissonant grace note. The crowd erupts.

Rhett blinks, shakes his head, and lets out a breathless laugh. “And there it is. The fresher doesn’t need to pick a card to make her sing. He just needs five minutes and a bad hand.”

He looks back to the camera, voice dripping satisfaction. “That, my friends, is the end of the Week 8 draw. Five cards claimed. Five plans in motion. And five very different strategies about to collide.”

Lights shift. The scoreboards flash. And the next phase begins.