Nurturing the Petals

The sun made no promises at noon, just hammered down in a wide, flat arc, bleaching the sand until it looked more like bone than earth. From the edge of the beach, the white gazebo stood in clean, clinical contrast to the riot of palm fronds behind it, the pillars casting skinny shadows on the flagstone. Someone had swept the path since dawn, and the only footprints belonged to the women who were about to find out which of them would leave.

They came down in pairs and threes, as if nobody wanted to be the first to step into the circle alone.

Claire and Dawn arrived together, their arms pressed close. Claire walked with a careful, measured gait, her face unreadable behind the lenses of her glasses. Next to her, Dawn looked like she’d been crying all morning, but was determined to make up for it by smiling hard enough to break her own cheeks. Every few steps, Claire squeezed Dawn’s hand, a small, private compression, the kind you only noticed if you were looking for it. When they reached the gazebo, Claire guided Dawn to a seat near the edge, as if choosing the spot that was least likely to collapse if the world went bad.

Emi was already there, perched cross-legged on the lowest step, six arms in motion: one set pulled at the hem of her white sundress, another twisted a paper napkin into smaller and smaller shreds, while the last pair traced silent circles in the air. She kept her gaze fixed on the horizon, but her eyes were glimmering.

Sam and Liesa walked side by side, close but not quite touching. Sam wore faded denim and a T-shirt with the sleeves hacked off and what looked like a fresh bandage on her forearm—probably from a kitchen accident, or maybe she’d punched something dumb last night. Liesa was all in white (pants, t-shirt, sneakers), her hair tamed into a low, neat braid, eyes shadowed by whatever kept her awake till sunrise. They found two empty stools, Sam immediately propping one foot on hers and glancing around with the restless energy of someone waiting for a verdict. Liesa sat, then looked down at her lap, twisting a bracelet between her fingers.

Marissa came alone. Once again she had put on her armor, her pencil skirt, her blazer, her blouse. Her nipples poked through all of it. She walked straight to the far side of the circle and sat with her back perfectly straight, legs crossed at the knee, hands folded in her lap. Her hair was up in a loose bun, a few stray strands catching the light. She watched the rest of the women with an expression that could have passed for calm if you didn’t notice the way her eyes kept returning to the entrance, over and over, as if counting the seconds till the final guest appeared.

Norah and Erin materialized at the same time but from opposite directions, converging at the edge of the wood. Norah wore a black, embroidered thobe, and a silk scarf over her hair, deep navy with a trace of gold at the ends, which made her look like an heiress or an old movie villain, the impression ruined only by how much the thobe strained against the sheer mass of her breasts. Erin stuck to practical clothes—jeans and a military green shirt. They almost collided, paused, then gave each other a look that was pure truce: we’re both here, we both want to survive, let’s not make this any worse than it is.

They took seats a respectful distance apart. For a while, everyone pretended to be interested in the waves, or the clouds, or the precise way the light made the gazebo glow like a set from a reality TV show. Nobody talked, not at first. Not until the silence got so dense it began to vibrate.

Emi broke it first. “I thought there’d be music,” she said, soft but audible. “Like, a drumroll. Or a hymn.”

Sam snorted. “They only do music for the winner. No need to waste it on the rest of us.”

Dawn tried a laugh, but it came out as a hiccup. “We don’t even know if there’s going to be a winner. Maybe it’s all a joke.”

“Sure,” Norah muttered, “and maybe we’ll all get turned into kittens and live happily ever after.”

Erin gave her a sidelong glance. “It could be worse,” she said. “I’d rather be a cat than a memory.”

Liesa shook her head. “Arabella said one of us would leave. That’s how it works.” Her voice was quiet, almost apologetic.

Claire scribbled something in her notebook, then slid it to Dawn. Dawn read it, and her face twisted in a strange, broken smile. “She says she thinks we’re all going to be okay,” Dawn translated, barely holding the words together.

There was a pause, then Sam said, “That’s the weirdest part. I almost believe it.”

A shadow fell across the circle, sudden and sharp. Arabella had appeared at the edge of the flagstones, dressed in a white cocktail dress that caught every movement of the air, her hair twisted into a crown at the back of her head. Her shoes were white too, but she left them at the threshold and crossed the sand barefoot, each step measured, deliberate, almost regal.

She said nothing as she moved through the circle, only gave each of them a look: first Marissa, then Claire and Dawn, then Emi, then the others. Her eyes were unreadable, but her lips pressed tight as if she was biting back a message only she could hear.

She moved to the throne-like chair at the center of the gazebo, but didn’t sit. Instead, she folded her hands in front of her and faced the women, letting the moment draw out to its breaking point.

The sky above was empty, no clouds, just the implacable blue. From the trees came the faint, bitter-sweet sound of some insect choir, one long steady chord that refused to resolve. Time waited, but nobody wanted to move first.

Finally, Claire reached over and found Dawn’s hand, their fingers lacing tight. Emi shifted, all six arms wrapping around her knees, hugging herself into a ball. Liesa pressed her lips together and glanced at Sam, who gave her a quick, crooked grin. Marissa closed her eyes, just once, as if bracing for a shot. Norah and Erin both inhaled, synchronized, then looked away from each other.

Arabella scanned the group one last time. Then she tilted her head, smiled a smile so thin it could have sliced glass, and said, “I think we are only waiting for our Master.”

The word made everyone flinch, just a little. But there was nothing else to do except wait for Andy to arrive and finish what they’d all started.

Above, the sun slid another degree higher, burning every shadow to a perfect, surgical edge.

Andy had always thought of himself as good under pressure. The last week had put that belief through a meat grinder, and now he felt like nothing but raw sinew and a stubborn refusal to shut down. Whatever happened, he did not regret his choice. He just hoped no one would pay too great a price for it. Every step from the elevator to the gazebo felt like a personal dare: you can still walk, you can still put one foot in front of the other, you can do this even when everything in you is screaming to run.

He saw the group from a hundred yards away. All of them arranged in their little clusters, every one of them facing the throne at the center like it was an altar or a gallows. He slowed, trying to catch his breath before the final few yards. He wiped his palms on his jeans. He wondered, for the thousandth time, if he’d done the right thing.

The beach was so bright it felt sterile, as if someone had vacuumed out all the color and left only the memory of warmth. The wind cut across the sand in a way that would have been pleasant any other day, but today it just made his shirt stick to his back.

He crossed to the gazebo, up the shallow steps, and for a second nobody moved. Then, as if on cue, everyone turned to watch him, their faces arranged in every possible permutation of hope, dread, and relief. Claire gave a small, tight wave. Dawn tried to smile, but her mouth got there before her eyes. Emi was frozen, all six arms clutching her own body. Erin looked at him with slight disapproval, like she used to when he showed up underdressed at an event. Sam raised an eyebrow, noticing his appearance, Norah adjusted her scarf, Liesa held her breath, and Marissa—Marissa just nodded, once, with a steady patience that made him want to apologize.

He felt the business card in his pocket, the one from Herman, and touched it with his thumb. It wasn’t magic, but it was a totem, something to remind himself that the world was still governed by rules, no matter how bent they got.

Arabella waited until he sat down in the throne—an act that felt more humiliating than empowering, given the circumstances. The moment he settled, she stepped forward, white dress brilliant in the light, and let her gaze sweep the semicircle of women before fixing on Andy.

Arabella waited until the last echo of the surf had faded into the kind of silence that belonged to confessionals or courtrooms. “Thank you all for coming,” she began, her voice dialed up to its most precise frequency: velvet, but with a razor stowed somewhere beneath each word. “As you are aware, last night was the first of our challenges. The votes have been tallied. As always, the Audience’s opinion was weighed alongside our Master’s.”

Andy felt his pulse hitch, a funny little arrhythmia that wasn’t quite fear or hope. He watched the group as they watched her, each face balancing on the edge of expectation and dread, waiting for the collapse. He could sense the tension in the way Claire’s shoulders crept toward her ears, the way Marissa’s hands squeezed each other, the way even Sam’s cocky sprawl had subtly contracted.

Arabella paused, eyes sweeping her domain. She wore her Host persona like an old-money heiress wore pearls: not for ornament, but because anything else would be unthinkable. It took Andy a moment to realize she was stalling, giving everyone time to squirm, but also—maybe—giving herself a chance to frame the next sentence in exactly the right glass.

“I regret to report,” Arabella said, “that we have encountered a… statistical anomaly.” She let the syllables hang in the humid air, a new kind of bait. “For the first time in my tenure, the Audience’s votes matched the inverse of our Master’s. Precisely. Each ranking was opposed; every preference, directly contradicted. There is no overlap, no compromise. A perfect inversion.”

The words were so clinical they almost didn’t register, at least not until the ripple of confusion and disbelief passed through the circle like a pulse. Claire’s brow knotted, her eyes searching the horizon as if the answer were written somewhere out there. Dawn blinked hard, visibly doing the math in her head, then looked to the others for confirmation that this wasn’t just her failing to understand the system. Emi’s lower pair of hands balled the hem of her dress, while the other two folded over her mouth, muffling a gasp. Sam rolled her eyes, the gesture so exaggerated it almost felt like a defense mechanism, but Andy could tell she was rattled. Liesa looked down at her hands, lost in thought, lips moving soundlessly, as if tracing out the permutations in her head. Erin just stared at Arabella, jaw set, while Norah’s eyes narrowed into slits, reading the Host for any sign of a trick.

Marissa, alone of them all, seemed almost relieved. She let go of her own hands, exhaled, and for a moment looked… grateful? Andy got the sense she’d been expecting a much crueler outcome, and the anticlimax was its own kind of pardon.

For three long seconds, nobody spoke. The only sound was Emi’s breath, quick and shallow, and the distant, relentless insects. Then the mood began to shift, as if the group were collectively deciding how to interpret this data: suspicion, then skepticism, then—slowly—something like awe. Andy felt a dozen eyes flick to him, then away. He caught the smallest flicker of a wink from Arabella, a modulation so fine it could have been a trick of the light. He thought: She knows. Did she know what Herman would do? Her subtle smirk was a private joke, the kind that said, I see what you did there, and we both know it.

Arabella let the momentum build, then clipped it off with a single, deliberate breath. “This, as you may have guessed, creates a mathematical deadlock. No contestant has received more points than any other. No one has received less. No one has won, but no one has lost, either. In short, no one is eliminated.”

Andy braced for the impact. The words detonated in the circle: Sam whooped loud enough to startle the gulls, pumping a triumphant fist in the air. Liesa flinched, then gave a strangled, half-embarrassed giggle. Emi’s hands flew to her face, four palms slapped over her cheeks while the other two arms gripped her shins; her entire body shuddered as she tried—and failed—to suppress a giddy, heady relief. Dawn buried her face in Claire’s shoulder, then immediately pulled back, as if surprised by her own need for comfort. Even Norah’s posture loosened, her spine uncoiling several vertebrae, her mouth opening in a slow, marveled “oh.” Claire’s eyes dampened, and she clutched her notebook tightly. Erin gaped at Arabella as if she had announced the rising of the dead. Marissa, for her part, simply closed her eyes and nodded, the gesture so serene it made Andy ache to know what it cost her.

It felt like a victory.

Then, inevitably, the questions started.

“Wait,” Sam said, hand still half-raised, “if nobody gets cut, does that mean we all move on? Like, all eight?”

Arabella turned to her, eyes twinkling with something dangerously close to pride. “Correct, Sam. All eight of you continue to the next phase.”

Norah raised a skeptical eyebrow. “And what about transformations? Do we all get a transformation, or does nobody?”

Marissa answered before Arabella could. “They never let you off that easy. I suspect we all get one.” She looked to the Host for confirmation.

Arabella offered a thin, glass-slicing smile. “You are remarkably astute, Marissa. Yes—if there is no winner, then all remaining contestants will undergo a transformation. That is the price of stasis: movement must occur somewhere.”

Liesa let out a tiny groan, not quite sure whether to be relieved or terrified. “So… there’s a chance that none of us ever go home? We just accumulate more and more—” She gestured vaguely at her own body, as if she might spontaneously sprout wings or extra limbs at any moment.

Erin snorted, a gesture so deliberate it was like she was signing a contract. “Honestly? Could be worse.” She looked at Andy, and for a second her eyes were pure challenge. “Means we get more time. More chances.”

Arabella smiled. “At least one more week, Erin. Additionally, the harem must increase by one, as the next in line will still be introduced per the schedule.” She paused. “We will discuss transformations, and welcome the new contestant, tomorrow.“

This time, the silence was thicker, but not as bleak. The threat of oblivion had been removed, but now there was a new horizon: change, for everyone, ready or not.

"As a consequence of the... anomaly... you will all receive the same amount of Victory Points: four. Here are the new standings." She raised a hand, summoning the leaderboard.

VP and BP Standings
Claire - 27 VP - 6200 BP
Marissa - 27 BP - 4800 BP
Norah - 17 VP - 2750 BP - 1 Achiev
Erin - 12 VP - 3500 BP
Emi - 11 VP - 5750 BP
Dawn - 11 VP - 4250 BP
Liesa - 10 VP - 3900 BP
Sam - 9 VP - 3250 BP

"Your BP totals have also been adjusted to reflect the BPs you have received from the Audience vote."

Arabella let the words settle, then stepped back, folding her hands with a kind of priestly grace. She fixed Andy with a look that was half-suspicion, half-something like gratitude, as if she couldn’t decide whether to scold him or thank him for gaming the system.

Andy let out a long breath. He didn’t know what would happen next, but he’d bought the group a little time, at least. He looked at each of the women in turn, saw in their faces the shock, the confusion, the first trembling pulses of hope.

He thought of the painting of Katherine, her eyes begging him to be brave. He thought of Arabella, standing alone at midnight, wanting nothing more than not to be alone for a little while.

He thought of the business card in his pocket, and the rules nobody talked about. And he thought that for once, for once in his damn life, his choice had mattered.

The news hit like a wave in reverse: instead of sweeping anyone away, it left every woman standing exactly where she was, dazed and blinking and still trying to process the miracle. For a long, improbable moment, nobody moved. The silence was less a hush than a vacuum, the kind of dead air that might precede a scream—or a laugh.

Dawn cracked first. One shaky breath, then another, then her whole body started to shake. At first Andy thought she was about to faint, but then he saw her clutch Claire’s hand with both of hers and bury her face in her shoulder. The sound she made was half-sob, half-laugh, a mess of emotion with nowhere to go. Tears rolled down her cheeks, but her smile was so big it hurt to look at.

Claire cautiously wrapped an arm around her, gently pulling Dawn closer. For the first time since Andy had met her, Claire's body language softened: her spine eased, her knees ceased their rhythmic bouncing, and she glanced at him briefly, her face neutral. He sensed that she might have picked up on what he had done.

Emi, who had been hugging her knees on the step, suddenly exploded into motion. All six arms shot out and grabbed the nearest human, which happened to be Sam, who let out a startled “oof!” but didn’t resist. Within seconds, Emi had reeled Sam, Liesa, and even a stunned Marissa into a complicated knot of limbs. It should have looked like a traffic accident, but somehow it worked; Emi’s laugh was bright and infectious, and Sam quickly started laughing too, then Liesa, and finally Marissa, whose reserved smile cracked open into something genuine.

On the other side of the circle, Norah and Erin regarded each other for a long second. For a moment, Andy thought they might start arguing again, but instead, Norah just exhaled and let her shoulders drop, while Erin’s lips twitched into a rare, shy smile. There was nothing to say. They both knew what it meant to get one more chance.

Erin turned and found Liesa’s hand, squeezing it hard. “We did it,” she whispered. Liesa blinked in surprise, then squeezed back, the two of them dissolving into laughter at the absurdity of it all.

Even Marissa—always the observer, always the poised one—finally gave herself permission to let go. She leaned into the group hug, her hair falling loose from the bun, and for the first time in the contest her eyes went soft, almost sleepy, as if she was at last allowed to stop fighting gravity.

The circle began to collapse, then reformed as a mob of hugs, hand squeezes, and awkward congratulations. Every woman pulled someone else in, unwilling to let go. The mood in the gazebo had shifted so fast it left Andy dizzy. Yesterday, this was a firing squad; now it was a victory parade. Maybe not a permanent reprieve, but enough of a miracle to matter.

He let himself breathe, for the first time all day.

Arabella watched the chaos unfold, her white dress snapping in the breeze. For once, her face was a perfect mask—no smile, no frown, just an unreadable study in restraint. But when she caught Andy’s eye, there was a flicker of something else: respect, maybe, or the satisfaction of watching a chess match end in stalemate. For a brief instant, she inclined her head to him, a tiny salute from one player to another.

When the hugging and celebration finally lost steam, Arabella cleared her throat. Her voice cut through the group like a command, but it wasn’t unkind. “Congratulations to all of you,” she said. “I expect you’ll give the new contestant a welcome equal to this.”

There was another ripple of whispers—who would the new girl be, how would she fit in, what transformations might come next. The chatter was frenetic, hopeful, almost giddy. Andy watched them all, marveling at how quickly the fear had curdled into solidarity. They would still compete, still struggle, but for now, the only thing that mattered was the gift of another day.

Andy stood up from the throne, letting the sun warm his face. He caught Sam’s eye and she flashed him a thumbs-up; Liesa blew him a kiss, and even Norah gave him a wry, appreciative nod. Dawn just beamed at him, eyes puffy but luminous with gratitude.

He wasn’t sure what kind of Master he was supposed to be. But for this moment, at least, he was the one who had kept them whole.

Arabella approached him, and for a while, she stood next to him in silence.

“You took a risk,” Arabella said quietly, all of a sudden, so only he could hear.

Andy shrugged. “Seemed better than the alternative.”

She smiled, the edges of her mask crinkling, just barely. “Sometimes, even the smallest move can change the entire game. But this trick will not work again, Andy.”

He nodded, feeling the truth of it deep in his chest.

"Arabella, wait. You said no one won. That would mean you're not picking a single one of them to spend the night in my Suite, is that right?" The Host nodded.

"Yes, Andy. That's the case."

"If that's the case..." Andy hesitated, not wanting to push his luck, but his heart wanted to do something for these women, for these beautiful, impossible women who had risked elimination to show him who they were. "How about a party? Everyone invited to attend?"

Arabella blinked, caught off-guard. "A party?" She repeated, then she recovered. A moment's thought, then, unbelievably, she nodded slightly. "Yes. That would be acceptable. And, I suppose, customary in such a circumstance." She looked at Andy. "A party, tonight. I will have the staff set it up in your Suite." She turned to the women and announced it, awakening another chorus of joy. She turned to Andy and smiled.

“Enjoy your day, Andy,” she said, her tone once again the Host’s, but softer now. “You’ve earned it.”

Achievement Earned (Andy Cooper): No One Left Behind!

_

The Banquet Hall looked like someone’s idea of what luxury would feel like if the world was ending tomorrow and you wanted to die full. The chandeliers threw gold on everything, even the white linen, even the dull silver flatware, even the faces of the women as they trailed in by twos and threes. The hall’s heavy hush wasn’t the silence of dread, or even relief—it was the slow, shuddering exhale of people who hadn’t realized how much breath they’d been holding.

There were a dozen round tables set for six, but the women claimed only three, clustering into familiar constellations. The table nearest the window caught the first arrivals: Dawn, who clung to Claire like a pilot light in a blackout, and Emi, who hovered at their flank with an armful of napkins and a pair of extra water glasses. Claire guided Dawn to a seat with the kind of gentle insistence that said: We survived, so you will sit, and you will eat, and you will not apologize for being here. Emi hesitated, glancing at the empty places, then slid into the chair beside them, tucking her knees up under her dress.

At the next table over, Sam and Liesa took up positions across from each other, like two players in a game neither wanted to win. Sam drummed her fingers on the rim of her glass. Liesa toyed with her hair, nervously stroking the end of her braid, eyes on the ceiling. They barely spoke, but their shoulders angled in, close enough that their arms might brush if either one relaxed even a centimeter.

Marissa arrived alone. She made a beeline for the table closest to the buffet, where she could watch the room and the entrance at the same time. Her blazer was back on, her blouse buttoned to the collar, but there was a ripple in her composure—a barely perceptible quiver in the set of her mouth with each step, with each jolt of sensation from the nipples that poked through the blazer. She didn’t bother with small talk; she just poured herself a glass of water and sipped, surveying the other groups.

Norah and Erin came in last, a synchronized stride that stopped just short of collision at the edge of the table nearest Sam and Liesa. They sat, not side by side, but at a calculated angle—distance enough for independence, close enough for alliance if the moment demanded.

For a while, no one did anything but pour water, rearrange napkins, or stare at the elaborate baskets of bread that had appeared at every table. The whole room throbbed with the sense of an afterparty where no one quite believed the bomb threat was over.

It was Claire who broke the spell. She picked up her fork and knife, angled them in a perfect “X” on the empty plate, then tapped the two together, once, then twice, then a deliberate third time—each tap a little louder, a little more insistent, than the last.

At the third tap, all eyes landed on her. She had her leather notebook in front of her, and she flipped to a blank page. The pen in her hand moved so fast it blurred. When she finished, she tore the page free and passed it to Dawn, who held it a second before realizing it wasn’t for her. Dawn handed it to Emi, who didn’t read it but instead stood, walked the page over to Sam, and returned to her seat without a word.

Sam scanned the page, then looked up at the room. “Claire says,” she read, then paused, eyebrow arching, “‘It’s obvious what happened. Andy gamed the system to make sure none of us would be eliminated.’”

A flutter of conversation rippled through the room, but it was Marissa who picked up the thread. “If that’s true,” she said, smoothing the edge of her napkin with a thumb, “he’s just taken a hell of a risk upon himself. The rules here have consequences. For everyone. Even the Master, I suspect.”

Liesa made a small sound—half sigh, half laugh. “That is Andy,” she said. “He does not believe in the rules until he has already broken them.” She pushed her hair behind her ear, green eyes shining with something complicated. “But maybe that is why we are all still here.”

Norah, who’d been silent so far, raised her glass. “Or maybe he just doesn’t like losing. Men are predictable that way.” Her tone wasn’t as harsh as usual. More like she was testing the words to see if anyone would push back.

Emi leaned in, all six of her hands fluttering around her glass, a nervous ballet. “But… does it mean we’re safe? For now?”

Sam grinned, tipping back in her chair. “It means none of us gets turned into a coffee table tonight, so I’m counting it as a win.”

Erin, who had spent the entire exchange with her hands folded and eyes fixed on the table, finally spoke. “Does it mean we have to pay later? Maybe even more?”

Sam took the cue and shrugged. “Maybe. But I know Andy. He wouldn’t have risked it unless he thought it was worth it. He’s not reckless. Not really.” Her eyes flicked around the room, daring anyone to disagree.

Liesa smiled, a tiny upturn at the corner of her mouth. “He is reckless with himself, but never with others.”

“So what’s the next step?” Dawn asked. “Does he try to save us again, or does the game just get harder?”

Claire had her pen ready. She wrote, fast, then held up the page so that Sam—still self-appointed translator—could read. “Arabella’s not an idiot,” Sam paraphrased. “Whatever loophole Andy used, she’ll close it for the next round. We don’t get a second miracle.”

Norah snorted. “Then what? We just wait for the shoe to drop? Or the transformation, or whatever punishment they dream up next?”

Liesa shook her head. “We adapt. It’s all anyone can do.” She glanced around the table, as if inviting the others to share her optimism. “We are still ourselves, yes? Even after everything.”

There was a general murmur of assent, except for Erin, who looked unconvinced.

Dawn, who had been quiet this whole time, finally found her voice. “I don’t want to be a burden,” she said, her voice shaking just a little. “But… I was ready to go, if it meant the rest of you got to stay.” She stared at her hands, folded tight in her lap. “I just don’t want to mess up.”

Emi reached out, all six hands, and enveloped Dawn in a hug. “You didn’t mess up,” Emi said, her voice a breath above a whisper. “You never did.”

Sam grinned. “Besides, if anyone here should be a coffee table, it’s probably me. I’d have the best surface area.”

This cracked up half the table, even Dawn, who wiped a tear from her cheek and managed a shaky smile.

Marissa, sensing the mood, softened. “If we’re being honest,” she said, “none of us should be here. Or all of us should. The only thing we can do now is watch out for each other. If Andy cares about all of us this much, to risk Arabella’s wrath, perhaps it is the least we can do, to do the same.” She glanced at Claire, and for the first time let the shield drop. “And maybe thank Andy. Even if he is a complete idiot.”

Claire wrote something in her notebook, then tore the page and held it up to Sam. Sam read, “He’s not an idiot. He’s just **** to make up for something.”

The group went silent for a moment, the kind of silence that wasn’t heavy, but had weight. Even Norah, who normally would have scoffed, seemed to nod in agreement. Emi nodded with a sad smile, a thousand-mile stare in her glimmering eyes.

Sam, always the optimist, raised her glass. “To Andy, then. And to us. May we all survive the next round, and the next, and the next.”

Dawn raised hers. “To us.”

Norah looked at her water, considered, then raised it. “To chaos,” she said. “May it always break in our favor.”

The toast went around, and for a moment, the hall felt less like a cage and more like a home.

As the meal started, conversation turned to safer topics. Claire passed around a list of her favorite words, and the group tried to guess which ones were real and which ones she’d made up (“tmesis” stumped everyone; “vellichor” caused a minor debate). Emi shared a story about how she once tried to draw a self-portrait using only the reflections in two spoons. Liesa confessed to painting a mural in Antwerp that was later covered up by a billboard for men’s shampoo, which she insisted was “a work of vandalism against beauty.”

Sam and Norah got into a heated discussion about the best way to make coffee, which somehow spiraled into a philosophical argument about whether the Hotel’s endless supply of perfect pastries was a blessing or a curse.

Marissa, meanwhile, kept an eye on the rest, making mental notes of who needed a softer touch, who needed space, who might unravel if the next challenge went the wrong way.

As the plates emptied and the tension ebbed, Erin pushed back from the table, clearing her throat.

“Before we go,” she said, her voice quieter than usual, as if it cost her something to speak, “I need to ask all of you for a favor.”

The others turned to her, expectant. Erin glanced around, met every eye, and for a moment seemed about to lose her nerve. But she held on, steady.

She took a breath, and said: “I need help. With something important. And I can’t do it alone.”

The table went still, every woman bracing for the ask.