Party Calling

VP and BP Standings
Claire - 135 VP - 10100 BP - 2 Achievs
Erin - 134 VP - 8100 BP - 3 Achievs
Sam - 125 VP - 5900 BP - 3 Achievs
Emi - 113 VP - 11250 BP - 3 Achievs
Chloe - 106 VP - 8650 BP - 2 Achievs
Emily - 106 VP - 8600 BP - 3 Achievs (2 used)
Liesa - 104 VP - 4400 BP - 3 Achievs
Norah - 103 VP - 0 BP - 3 Achievs
Myra - 97 VP - 5000 BP - 3 Achievs
Marissa - 90 VP - 7000 BP - 3 Achievs
Dawn - 78 VP - 9000 BP - 3 Achievs
Riley - 77 VP - 8800 BP - 3 Achievs
Laura - 7950 BP - 2 Achievs

Andy woke to the sound of breathing, soft and regular. The sun was up but not high—just far enough that the light was sharp and new, like the sky had spent all night working on it and wasn’t ready for feedback. Laura’s two bodies were both under the covers, one curled against his belly with hair across his chest, the other behind him, arm draped over his stomach. They were perfectly still, both faces turned toward the same horizon, as if they had agreed on which direction to dream in. Emily was on the far edge, hair a pale, perfect curtain drawn over her breasts and belly, one leg hooked around Andy’s ankle in a way that said she’d found him in the night and wasn’t letting go.

For a while, Andy just watched the morning happen. The Master’s Suite had a way of filtering reality so it was always better than he remembered: the coffee already brewing itself in the kitchen, the faint smell of lemon from the pillows, the way the sheets remembered the shape of whoever had last slept there. He lay still, eyes on the ceiling, counting the seconds until one of the women woke up and the room became what it always was—the most wonderful stage, with too many scripts and everyone ad-libbing.

Emily was first. She made a small noise, halfway between a sigh and a question, then pushed the hair from her face and looked at Andy. She blinked a few times, like she was calibrating the brightness of the world, then smiled.

“Morning,” she said. Her voice was not yet awake, but her eyes were.

He smiled back, trying to hold onto the shape of the moment before it started to change. “Morning.”

She checked under the covers, as if expecting something to have gone missing in the night, then pulled them up to her chin. It was performative, a joke, but she held the blanket there just the same.

Laura’s two bodies woke as one. They didn’t startle or yawn or do any of the things people did when they forgot where they were. Instead, both sets of eyes opened, focused, and turned to Andy and Emily with matching attention. There was something uncanny about it, but also something perfect: the logic of a dream that didn’t need explaining.

Laura said, “You both snore.” Both voices, at once, two stereos in perfect sync. It was not an accusation, just a fact.

Emily blushed, which Andy found impressive. “I do not. I have it on record from three separate people that I do not snore. Also, I didn’t sleep at all.”

“Liar,” said Laura, twin faces deadpan. “You did, and you drooled on my arm.” She held up the evidence, one pale wrist glistening with proof. The other Laura mimicked the gesture, so they both did it at once. Both grinned.

Andy said, “I think that was me,” and Laura’s bodies shrugged, as if the difference was unimportant.

There was a minute of silence, the kind that fills up in a house where everyone feels safe. Andy let himself be happy for a second, just to see if it fit. It did.

Emily said, “Is it weird if I never want to leave this bed?” She looked at the covers, then at Andy, then at both Lauras. “We could order in. Or have Mildred bring us breakfast. Or just starve. I’m okay with any of those.”

One of Laura’s bodies—the one closest to Andy—stretched like a cat, arms above her head, the motion so fluid it set off a chain reaction in the other body, which mirrored the stretch exactly. Andy wondered, irrationally: did she get two stretches’ worth of satisfaction, or did it divide in half?

“I’m going to shower,” Laura said. She rose from the bed, both bodies moving in perfect sync. They moved to the bathroom and closed the door behind them.

Andy and Emily looked at each other, then at the spot where Laura had vanished. Andy said, “That never gets old,” and Emily grinned.

“Did you sleep?” Andy asked.

Emily wrapped the sheet tighter around her, like she needed the friction to think. “I did,” she said. “It was… good. Like, actually good. I don’t think I’ve slept that well in years.”

Andy ran a hand through his hair, found it was full of static. “Good.”

The sound of the shower running came from the bathroom. Emily noticed too—she cocked her head and listened, then laughed. “She’s efficient,” Emily said. “Two bodies, one bathroom, no waiting.”

Andy slid off the bed, found a pair of boxers, and tugged them on. Emily rolled out after him, her hair doing the job of a full bathrobe.

Shortly afterwards, both Lauras reappeared, still towel-wrapped and dripping. Laura looked at them, mischief in her eyes, then said, “I’m making eggs. Do not follow until you hear the smoke alarm.”

Both Lauras left, moving toward the Consort’s Bedroom to change, both bodies toweling off their hair.

Andy and Emily stood in front of the door, the warmth from the bathroom fogging up the mirror behind them.

“Want to shower?” Andy asked.

Emily hesitated, then nodded. “Yeah. That sounds nice.”

They didn’t make a thing out of it. Andy turned on the water, adjusted the heat, and let Emily step in first. She faced away, hair falling straight down her back, perfectly covering her from the world. Andy watched her for a second—how her shoulders rose and fell with each breath, how she let the water run over her face before pushing it back with her hands.

She looked over her shoulder at Andy. “You coming in, or…?”

He joined her under the steam-clouded spray, the water’s heat just this side of scalding. They stood close but not touching, letting the water cascade over them, washing away the remnants of the night. Emily’s hair clung to her back like a golden waterfall, the ends brushing against the small of her back.

Emily sighed softly, leaning into his touch. “You know, I always wanted bigger boobs,” she said, her voice barely audible over the sound of the water. “And now that I have them...” She paused, looking down at her body as Andy’s hands circled to her front, washing her collarbone and chest. “They’re heavy. It’s a strange feeling.”

Andy reached for the soap, lathering his hands until they were slick and fragrant. “May I?” he asked softly, gesturing towards her.

Emily nodded, turning to face the wall. He started with her shoulders, his touch firm yet gentle, working the lather into her skin. His hands moved down to her back, thumbs pressing into the ridges of her spine.

“That feels good,” Emily murmured, her voice echoing slightly in the tiled space.

His hands moved lower, tracing the curve of her waist, then up again to her shoulders. He let his fingertips graze the sides of her breasts, a light touch that sent a shiver through her. She leaned back slightly, pressing against him.

“They’re sensitive,” she said, a note of surprise in her voice. “More than before.”

Andy smiled, taking the soap again and turning her to face him. He washed her chest, his touch careful and deliberate, circling each breast slowly. Emily watched him, her eyes soft and trusting. He moved lower, washing her stomach, his fingers dipping into the hollow of her navel. She made a sound, almost a giggle, and caught his wrist before he could move further down.

“I’m ticklish,” Emily said, and for a moment her face was all blush and real, not art-gallery poise.

Andy grinned, and pressed his palm there, gentle, as if weighing the truth of her words. She inhaled, the skin under his hand tautening. He watched her for a moment, then leaned in and kissed her on the shoulder. She turned, so their bodies were flush, and in the foggy warmth of the shower she looked at him with eyes so clear he almost flinched.

“Can I do yours?” she asked.

“Please,” Andy said, and handed her the soap.

She did not hesitate. She started at his neck, her fingers making careful little passes behind his ears, then over his collarbones, his chest, his ribs. She washed his arms, his hands, then down to his hips, and then—

He waited for her to be awkward, to glance away or go cautious, but she just washed him, every part, her hands sure. When she was done, she kissed him, quick and decisive, then turned off the water.

They dried off with the big hotel towels. Emily’s hair, impossibly, went from soaked to air-dried in under a minute, falling back into its pale sheet, already parted to hide everything vital. Andy wrapped his own towel around his waist, and when he turned, Emily was combing her fingers through her hair in the mirror, her breasts still damp and shining.

“Do you ever get tired of the hair?” Andy asked, not really meaning the question.

She shrugged. “I thought I would. But it’s kind of a superpower. Like a built-in cloak. I could be a superhero if I wanted. Nudity Girl.”

Andy watched her reflection in the mirror. “What would your nemesis be?”

She thought about it. “Someone with scissors, I guess.”

He laughed, and she joined in, the moment landing between them like a warm stone.

From the kitchen came the unmistakable sound of eggs hitting a pan. Andy and Emily looked at each other.

“She’s really doing it,” Emily said.

Andy nodded. “Let’s go save her.”

Andy threw on underwear, a pair of jeans and a polo shirt, Emily waiting with nothing but her hair. They both put on shoes and the two of them made their way to the kitchen.

Laura was there, both bodies standing shoulder to shoulder at the stove. One was stirring eggs with the confidence of a chef, the other was pre-buttering toast, each motion mirrored like a glitch in a very attractive matrix. The eggs were, to put it gently, not going well.

Emily made a sound, almost a laugh, but caught herself.

Laura turned, both faces wearing the same frown of concentration. “I’m making eggs,” she announced. “Do not interfere.”

The two of her returned to their tasks, but the smell of burning had already arrived. The eggs clung to the pan like a failed science project. Andy watched, equal parts impressed and alarmed.

“Want help?” Andy said.

Laura shook her heads. “No. I want to see if I can do it.”

Emily slid onto a barstool at the counter, watching with open amusement. Andy poured coffee, the machine doing most of the work.

When Laura finally plated the eggs, they were… edible. Both of Laura's bodies stood over the plates, hands on hips, and looked at the results with the dignity of someone who had no regrets. The toast was perfect. Emily took a bite of egg and made a face, but only for a second.

“They’re really not bad,” Emily said.

Andy took a forkful. They were, in fact, quite bad, but he smiled. “It’s about the effort.”

Laura sat, one body at each end of the table, both sets of eyes on Andy. “I’m going to get better at this.” She vowed. It sounded like a threat.

“I believe it,” Andy said.

They ate in a comfortable silence for a minute, the kind you could only have with people who had seen you at your weirdest and still let you in the kitchen.

Emily wiped her mouth and said, “Can I tell you something weird?”

Andy and Laura nodded. “Sure.”

She pushed her plate aside, resting her arms on the table. “Being back in New York, even just for a few hours… I didn’t realize how much I missed it until I was there. But it was like seeing your own house after someone else moved in. Nothing was in the right place. It made me realize—I don’t think I could ever go back for real. Not as the person I was before. There’s too much of me here now.”

Andy listened, waiting.

Emily went on. “There’s something really sad about that. But it also felt good, knowing I could let go of the old me and not… vanish. I used to think, if the Hotel hadn’t picked me—if I’d never gone through the first season, if Jake had never been picked for the show—I’d still be bartending in Brooklyn, painting, maybe eventually making something of myself. But I don’t think I would have. Not really. Not if I stayed the person I was.”

Andy said, “I like the person you are now.”

Emily smiled. “I do too. I just wonder sometimes—if I’d never gotten into the Hotel, would I even have learned to like myself?”

Laura, both bodies, listened with the kind of attention you usually only got from therapists or best friends. “I’m glad you did,” both voices said.

Emily looked at her. “Are you?”

Laura shrugged, as if the question didn’t require a thought. “Yes. I’ve been waiting for you to want this.” She paused, both faces serious. “This harem thing doesn’t work unless everyone wants it.”

Emily set her coffee down, fingers tapping the mug. “Are you sure?”

Laura smiled, both bodies at once. “I’m certain. And if I ever change my mind, you’ll know. I don’t do hiding.”

The way she said it made Emily laugh, a real laugh, and the tension in the room vanished.

Andy finished his toast and looked at both women. “So what’s next?”

Emily glanced at Laura, then at Andy. “I’m going to find Arabella this morning. Make it official.”

Laura nodded, and both voices said: “Don’t talk yourself out of it.”

“I won’t,” Emily said.

Laura, both bodies, rose from the table. “I’m going to the Hollow Garden. After yesterday…” She let the conversation dangle. Andy nodded, understanding. Laura smiled, and both bodies kissed Andy on the forehead before leaving the room.

Emily drank her coffee in a long, slow swallow, then stood. “I’ll find you later?”

He nodded.

She kissed him, quick, then left.

Andy sat at the kitchen table, the quiet wrapping around him like a favorite old blanket. He looked at the eggs, at the mugs, at the chair where Emily had just been, and for a minute, he let himself be happy.

Claire waited until the Banquet Hall was empty, then took her notebook and walked, quietly as breath, to the Main Lobby. The heels of her boots made no sound, even on the polished stone. She passed the big windows, the empty lounge chairs, the paintings Emi had made during the third round, now hanging from the walls in the Main Lobby. She reached the Commissary. She lingered for a second, her reflection hovering in the black glass of the ATM-like machine, then reached up and tapped the panel—a button that wasn’t there, unless you knew to look for it.

A moment later, Arabella walked into the Main Lobby, not with any magic but with the abruptness of someone who had just finished a meeting in the next room. She wore a midnight blue pantsuit, pin-straight, with a single rose gold pin at the lapel. Her hair was pulled back, her makeup unflappable as always.

“You know, you don’t have to use the secret button anymore,” Arabella said. “You could just come see me in the office. There’s a door now.”

Claire blinked, then tilted her head. Her eyes flicked over Arabella’s face, searching for signs of a joke, but finding only sincerity.

Arabella pointed past the Commissary, toward the far wall. Sure enough, there was a new door there, one that hadn’t been there yesterday. It was labeled Curator’s Office in the kind of brass letters you found on old library doors.

Claire scribbled in her notebook, then showed it to Arabella: How long has it been there?

Arabella grinned. “Since this morning. I’m trying to be less… elusive.”

Claire nodded, impressed, and led the way. Arabella followed, a step behind, watching the way Claire’s tail flicked in time with her stride.

Inside, the office was nothing like the rest of the building. It was large, with windows impossibly overlooking the Lagoon, and the feel of a high-end therapist’s den: two comfortable armchairs, a low table with a neat stack of white paper and a fountain pen, and a carafe of water that refilled itself whenever it was empty. The walls were lined with books—actual, physical books—and a few framed photographs: a tropical beach with a resort resembling The HH somewhat, a snowy mountain landscape with a winter lodge in the background, a haunted-looking castle in perpetual night, a snapshot from what looked like a porn-world version of a fantasy kingdom, a picture of a Venice that looked too artificial to be the original one, a photo of a mountain temple, a Disney-esque castle, a bunker intertwined with vines, a beautiful manor house in the twilight, a throne room with a golden throne that looked both gaudier and more uncomfortable than the Master’s Throne, and what looked like a superhero academy, complete with a flying redhead. Separated from the others, a volcano’s caldera viewed from a glass tunnel.

Arabella sat, crossing her legs and folding her hands in her lap. Claire took the other chair and set her notebook on the armrest, pen uncapped and ready.

Arabella smiled at her. “You have my full attention, Claire. What can I do for you?”

Claire wrote, quick and precise, then tore off the page and handed it over.

Is the real-world date required to happen in the present? Or can exceptions be made?

Arabella’s expression flickered, just for a moment. She read the question twice, then set the paper down.

“You want to visit the past,” Arabella said, not quite a question. Her tone was calm, but there was a tremor underneath, a sense of old rules being rewritten in real time.

Claire watched her, unblinking.

Arabella tapped a manicured nail on the tabletop. “It’s possible, but expensive. There are costs to that kind of travel—memory bleed, timeline friction, some smoothing required. But it can be done, if you have the points.” She looked at Claire, waiting for her reaction.

Claire nodded. She wrote and handed it over. I want to visit two places. One from my lifetime. One much older. Do I have the BPs?

Arabella read the note and smiled, a genuine, delighted smile. “This is why I always liked you, Claire. You never do anything halfway.” She set the note down, then leaned forward, her elbows on her knees. “Yes, you do. But if you’re going to do this, you need to be certain. No one else will know unless you tell them, but the places you visit—those will stay with you. Forever.”

Claire wrote two lines in neat, slanted script and tore the page from the notebook. She slid the paper across the low table. Arabella picked it up, and Claire studied her closely, as if watching the temperature of the room rather than the answer. Can I pay for both at once?

Arabella read it, laughed again, and shook her head in admiration. “You really do your homework.”

Claire wrote, sheepishly, I do not like improvisation.

Arabella nodded, touching the corner of the paper. “Neither do I, when it matters.” She laughed, and the sound was a real laugh—not performative or polite, but something that startled her into touching her own face, as if to check she still had the capacity for the reaction. “If you wish, yes, both can be arranged. That makes it neater, at least.”

Claire nodded once, then wrote again. I am not going for shock value.

Arabella shook her head, amused. “No, I didn’t think you were.”

Claire wrote: This is not about the past. It’s about closure. And curiosity. Can you do this?

Arabella read the note twice, then looked up. Her expression, for once, was unguarded.

“Yes,” she said. “I can do it.” She paused, fingers tapping on the paper. “But you should know, you can’t change the past, no matter how much you try. Why these two?”

Claire sat perfectly still for a moment, the tip of her tail twitching against the armrest. She considered her answer, then wrote:

The first is for me. I will only do it if Andy agrees, though. The second one, I think we would both enjoy.

Arabella sat back. The windows behind her showed a sky so blue it would make you cry.

“You’re allowed to do this,” she said, and there was no irony in it. “I will make the arrangements. It will require some smoothing at the edges, but I can do it without anyone else knowing.”

Claire wrote: You will not tell Andy? Or anyone?

Arabella shook her head. “I won’t. Unless you ask me to.”

Claire seemed to relax by a millimeter, her shoulders dropping, her eyes going softer. She wrote:

I’ll tell Andy when we start the date. Thank you.

Arabella smiled, the first unguarded one Claire had seen in months. “You’re welcome.”

For a few seconds, they sat in silence, both watching the sky. A silence, this time friendly, opened up between them. Claire stood, inclined her head, and left the office as quietly as she had entered.

Arabella watched the space Claire had left, holding the itinerary like a note passed in class. After a long moment, she set the paper on the desk, looked out the impossible window, and let herself wonder.

Sam was awake before Liesa, but she didn’t move for a while. Instead, she watched the morning sun crawl across the ceiling, tracking the faint shadows as they shifted from lavender to gold. Room 69 was, in her opinion, nearly as nice as the Master’s Suite—bigger than anything Sam had lived in since college, with a real bed and real sheets and a view that made her think about actually having a future, instead of just planning for everyone else’s.

Liesa was a furnace even in sleep. She pressed every inch of herself against Sam’s side, one leg slung over both of Sam’s, their hands tangled at Liesa’s belly. Her hair smelled like hotel shampoo and whatever they’d done last night, and Sam was happy to stay under the blanket, the weight of Liesa’s body an anchor she’d never realized she wanted.

Eventually, Liesa stirred. She did not open her eyes, but burrowed in deeper, her nose at Sam’s shoulder.

“Five more minutes,” Liesa mumbled, her voice thick with sleep.

“You said that a half hour ago,” Sam whispered, not moving.

Liesa cracked one eye, found Sam watching, and smiled. “I did not. That is a fabrication.”

Sam grinned. “I can vouch for it.”

Liesa groaned, then disentangled just enough to flop onto her back, exposing herself to the cool air. She stared at the ceiling for a long moment.

Sam stayed quiet, watching the muscles shift in Liesa’s stomach as she breathed. Even at rest, there was a tension in her, like a bowstring never fully slack. This was the part of the day Sam liked best—the pause before anything had to happen, where nothing was scheduled except for being next to each other.

Finally, Liesa said, “Are you thinking what I’m thinking?”

Sam considered, then shook her head. “Statistically, no.”

Liesa turned to face her, propped up on one elbow. “You think he will show up?”

Sam grinned. “Who, Andy? Eventually. I give it fifteen minutes, max. He can’t go a full hour without checking on the livestock.” She smirked. “Or whatever you call us.”

Liesa let the joke land, her face flickering with amusement and then, for a second, something more hesitant. “That is not what I meant. I mean… about the wedding.”

Sam was quiet. She’d expected this—Liesa was the planner, the one who thought two moves ahead even when she pretended to be all impulse. “You worried about the competition?” Sam said, keeping her voice low. “You know half this place is rooting for you. The other half, I think, is rooting for the snacks.”

Liesa laughed, a sound that bounced off the ceiling and made Sam’s heart thump. “You are such an idiot,” Liesa said. “No. I mean—” She looked up at the ceiling, searching for the word. “I never thought I would do it. Get married. Before here, I mean. Now it is like, why not?”

Sam rolled onto her back, arms behind her head, and looked up, too. “It’s a real wedding, you know. Arabella’s gonna officiate. There will probably be pyrotechnics. Maybe confetti. I hope there’s no snakes.” She glanced over at Liesa. “It’s not like you to be sentimental. Or, you know, nervous.”

Liesa’s eyes softened. “I am not nervous. Just… surprised.” She turned to Sam, her voice quieter. “When I met you, I did not want this. Any of it. Not marriage. Not… belonging.” She frowned at the word, as if it left a weird taste. “I thought I didn’t deserve it. But now—” She shrugged, then picked at the sheet, twisting it around her finger. “You and Andy changed my mind. But I’m marrying you right now, Sam Collins.”

Sam was quiet for a second, feeling the weight of it. She wanted to make a joke, to brush it off, but something in Liesa’s face made her pause. “You know, there’s still time to back out,” Sam said. “We could elope. Get married by a talking dolphin on the other side of the island. Or just move in together once this thing is over, and make everyone else jealous.”

Liesa’s eyes flashed with amusement. “You want to be the only couple in a harem? You want to be the special?”

Sam laughed, then rolled over to face Liesa, their noses almost touching. “I just want to be with you. The rest is fun, but it’s not the point.”

Liesa grinned, a lopsided smile. “That is what I am saying. It is good, this. I like it.” She hesitated. “I like you.”

Sam reached over and traced a finger along Liesa’s cheek, then flicked her on the nose. “You’re a softie.”

Liesa made a face and threw a pillow at Sam, who caught it and used it to cover her head. The two of them wrestled for a minute, rolling in the sheets, until Sam managed to pin Liesa’s arms above her head. “Admit it,” Sam said. “You love me.”

Liesa stuck out her tongue. “Maybe a little.”

Sam let go and dropped onto the pillow, hair wild, heart beating hard. “I love you too, you know. A lot.”

The room was quiet for a second, except for the sound of the ceiling fan and the birds outside the open window.

Then there was a knock at the door. Not a polite, warning knock, but the kind of knock you made when you didn’t expect to be denied.

Liesa pulled the sheet over herself. “See? Fifteen minutes.”

Sam snorted, then yelled, “Come in if you dare.”

The door opened, and Arabella stepped in, looking more like a magazine cover than a real person: perfectly tailored dress, hair in a glossy knot, makeup flawless even in the harsh morning light. She took in the scene—the tangled sheets, the sweat and bare skin, the pillow over Sam’s face—and didn’t blink.

“Good morning, ladies,” Arabella said, voice smooth as glass. She moved to the armchair by the window and sat, crossing her legs with practiced ease.

Sam propped herself up, keeping the sheet across her chest. “You ever heard of boundaries?” she said.

Arabella smirked. “I have. I find them fascinating in theory.” She turned her gaze to Liesa. “You two are aware you’re being broadcasted to an Audience of, at last count, one hundred-point-seven billion?”

Liesa blushed, which for her was remarkable. “It is not the same. You are real.”

Arabella shrugged. “If you prefer, I can send Mildred. But I wanted to talk to you personally.” She steepled her fingers. “I have a proposal. And I want you to be honest with me, even if it’s a no.”

Sam exchanged a look with Liesa, who sat up, clutching the sheet to her chest with one hand and bracing herself on the mattress with the other.

Arabella went on. “I believe it is traditional for the groom and the bride—brides, in this case—to hold bachelor and bachelorette parties before a wedding. It’s traditional, but I want it to be meaningful. I need someone to organize each side. Liesa, the bachelorette party. Sam, particularly since you and Andy already agreed you’d be his Best Woman, the bachelor party.”

Sam grinned. “You want me to throw Andy’s party? You trust me that much?”

Arabella’s lips twitched. “I trust you exactly that much. Which is to say, you’re the only one I can trust to do it right.” She glanced at Liesa. “And you, Liesa, are the only person in this building who can organize an event that wouldn’t end in complete chaos.”

Liesa smiled, a small, proud thing. “You want us to run the parties.”

Arabella nodded. “I’m aware it means you won’t get your own celebrations. That’s not fair, and I know it. If you’d rather not, you can say so. No one will blame you.”

Sam shrugged. “Honestly, I’d have more fun running Andy’s party than being at my own. I’m not big on, you know, public spectacle.”

Liesa considered, then said, “I do not care about a party for myself. I want to make it good for them.”

Arabella smiled, genuine and a little relieved. “You’re sure?”

Both women nodded.

“Great,” Arabella said. “Here are the rules. You’ll have a full day and night. It will occur the day after Erin’s date night. Remember, the day after your parties will be the wedding day and the day of the Sixth Challenge, rolled into one. Ground rules: no one gets hurt, or humiliated, unless it’s sexy. You have access to any resources you want, within reason. Talk with me once you have identified locations. You decide everything else.”

Sam leaned forward, eyes bright. “Do we get a budget?”

Arabella laughed. “No. Just don’t bankrupt the Hotel. Or, if you must, do it in style.”

Liesa cocked her head, thinking. “I have ideas. But I will need help.”

Arabella nodded. “You’ll have it. I’ll provide whatever you need.”

Sam said, “What about the other contestants? They all invited?”

Arabella nodded. “Anyone you want. There might be early guests that can be invited, too. Andy’s bachelor party might be fairly slim, otherwise. I'll loan you Mildreds as bartenders or event support.”

Sam grinned wider. “Can I get a stripper?”

Arabella raised an eyebrow. “You have twelve potential ones. But I’d recommend someone who won’t outshine the guests.”

Liesa said, “What about the bachelorette party?”

Arabella looked at her. “That’s up to you. You want to do it here, or somewhere else? You want to keep it classy, or not?”

Liesa’s face lit up, mischief flickering there. “I want to make it unforgettable.”

Arabella stood, smoothing her dress. “That’s all I ask.” She looked at Sam and Liesa, both still half-wrapped in the sheets. “Thank you. I knew I picked the right team.”

She moved to the door, paused, then turned back. “If you want a party for yourselves after, I’ll make it happen. Just ask.” She left, closing the door behind her.

For a second, neither of them spoke. The light shifted on the bed, making patterns on the sheet.

Then Sam said, “You thinking what I’m thinking?”

Liesa grinned. “I am. You want to do something crazy, don’t you?”

Sam nodded. “Let’s make it the best party anyone has ever seen.”

Liesa rolled over, straddling Sam, and pressed her mouth to Sam’s ear. “You are very bad for me,” she whispered.

Sam reached up, pulling Liesa close. “You have no idea.”

They laughed, a sound that filled the room, and the morning went on, the two of them already plotting.