Day 1: Helena (Freya's Interview)

The next morning you head back to Rebekah’s house. She’s left the door open and told you to just come in and join her for a strategizing session. Pushing the door, you step inside. Dust motes float in the air, lit by sun beams through the blinds. Jada is sitting on the couch, studying. She looks at you and nods.

“She’s in her room. Second door on the left upstairs.”

You nod and start climbing the stairs.

You hear the tapping before you enter the room. It’s not nervous or erratic. Rebekah’s fingers hit the tabletop in a steady rhythm, a metronome beat she’s already memorized. Her other hand flips open a notebook to a tabbed page—your week, apparently. Her coffee sits untouched, the condensation already soaking into a stack of printed spreadsheets.

She doesn't look up when you enter. “Close the door. Sit down.”

You obey more out of momentum than obedience. Since Week 5, she’s been like this—focused, fast, two steps ahead and rarely wrong. Part of you likes it. Part of you wonders what she was like as a kid. Chess board with no opponent. Debate club with no one talking back.

She finally glances up. “Three girls. Three cards. Three chances. You're going to love this.”

You wait.

She flips to a new page. “First up: Helena Vasquez. Nine of diamonds. Graham signed off on any challenge. You give her the **** contract. Boom. Ten-point multiplier on a nine-point girl. She's yours to use this week however we need—intel, logistics, running interference. She’s not a conquest. She’s support.”

That throws you slightly.

She raises a brow. “What? You thought just because someone might sign a contract, they couldn’t also run logistics?”

“No, I—"

She waves it off. “Next. Delilah Zheng. Eight of diamonds. You’re going in with a blowjob card.”

You blink. “You think she’ll go for that?”

“She won’t if you act like you’re collecting teeth. She’s all about diplomacy. So make her think she’s extracting a favor. You’re the emissary. She’s the empress. Give her a reason to say yes. Remember, blow job is just how they refer to oral. You can perform on her. Or each of you on each other. That’s what I want - a deal signed on page 69.”

You glance at her notes. You already know how the third Lady of the College Spread deck is, and why you’re not going to go after her. “And the third?”

She doesn’t even flinch. “Sabine Moreau. Jennie of diamonds. Anal.”

The word lands harder than it should. You feel it settle somewhere just behind your ribs.You’d been hoping she wouldn’t bring her card up at all. Maybe let that card stay tucked away for now. But of course Rebekah doesn’t do soft pauses.

You hesitate. The air shifts just a little. Surely she sees that that’s inappropriate.

Rebekah raises an eyebrow. “What?”

You shift in your chair. “She’s... in a wheelchair.”

Rebekah stares. “So?”

You pause. “It just feels... different.”

She frowns. “Why?”

You open your mouth, close it again. You don’t really know how to explain it.

“She’s a Jennie,” Rebekah says slowly, like explaining basic math. “Great points and critical here if we go for a straight flush. You can’t possibly be thinking of giving up something like that! You pulled the card. You go for the card. What’s the hesitation?”

You look away. “I don’t know. It feels like taking advantage.”

She leans back. “We haven’t done anything. You haven’t even talked to her. You’re acting like she’s a glass sculpture. Like asking her to consent is already some kind of violation.”

She says the word like it’s unfamiliar. Or maybe just irrelevant.

You try again. “I just don’t think it’s the same.”

Rebekah watches you for a moment longer. She sighs and shakes her head once. Her expression doesn’t change, but her tone sharpens just slightly.

“Fine. She’s in free reserve. That means we’ve got time. We’ll talk about it later. Just don’t throw six points away because you’re feeling weird. We need the flush.”

You nod. But it sticks in your throat. She’s acting like this isn’t a thing and that gives you pause. You nod, but it doesn't feel like agreement. It feels like letting her talk past something you’re not ready to name. The conversation ends with more silence than closure. You're still chewing on it when—

There’s a knock at the front door around noon. You’ve barely finished your second cup of coffee. Rebekah’s talking her way through plans and strategies—laptop open, tabs multiplying, notes laid out like a war table. You rise, brushing crumbs off your shirt, and open the door to find Freya Andersen standing on the porch with a canvas backpack, tripod in one hand and iced chai in the other.

“Hey,” she says with a smile. “Got approval from the board AND the faculty. They’re even talking about expanding what I can cover… For now it’s just you and me though. You ready?”

You nod. “Come on in.”

Rebekah doesn’t look up from her screen. “You’re in the kitchen. Keep the angles tight. No backdrops.”

“Already planned for that,” Freya replies. “We’re only filming the people, not the place.”

She follows you in, already unpacking her gear with practiced ease—camera, clip mics, small ring light. You offer her a seat at the little table near the window. The blinds are mostly drawn. The light hits just enough to silhouette, not expose.

“You cool to be on camera?” she asks you, checking her levels. “We can blur, distort voice, the usual, but raw makes the best footage.”

You nod. “Raw’s fine. Like you told me, I’m already having sex for everyone involved in the game to watch.”

She grins. “Excellent. Just talk to me, then. Not the lens.”

You sit. Take a breath to prepare yourself. Then—

Buzz.

You glance at your phone. There’s a message from Claire.

You read it and it makes your chest tighten: "So what now? I’m supposed to just learn to get off to Chopin and shame? Not blaming you. I signed the contract. I let you take me apart on camera. But you moved on, like you had to in the game. I’m here trying to figure out if I can ever play piano again without crying or coming. You made me see that the music, the intensity, the control–that’s my sex. Don’t know who I am now. Don’t know if I can even find someone who wants to strip me naked while I play and just leave it at that. But I know I can’t go back to what I was."

You read it twice. Then a third time.

Freya’s voice cuts in softly. “Everything okay?”

You hesitate. “It’s a message from the girl I challenged last week,” you admit.

Freya pauses her setup. “Oh? What was her story?”

You sigh. “She’s into music… and I mean REALLY into music. She’s a pianist who just found out she likes to be stripped in front of people and caressed til she has an orgasm while having to play perfectly. I suppose it’s like a self-contained form of bondage.”

Freya studies your face. “Interesting? And?”

You open your mouth. Close it. “I thought… it was just a scene. Something she wanted. Something that made sense in the moment.”

“And now?”

You look at the screen again. The message stares back like a confession left on a doorstep. “I don’t know what I gave her. Or what I took. She just asked me what she’s meant to do with it now. She doesn’t think she can find someone to give her what she wants and now she knows what it is…” you shrug, “She can’t go back.”

Freya is quiet a moment. Then, with the mic still in her hand, she says: “Do you feel responsible for how they change?”

You blink. This is only the second of the Ladies of the College Spread deck you’ve been with who has changed. The first, Colleen, wanted to get laid but didn’t know how to drop hints at all. You made her first time as good as you could and put her in touch with Kailani to improve her flirt game. She’s probably doing good. But Claire seems like she’s aching for her new passion, her new ****.

Freya adds, gently but pointedly, “Or just responsible for getting the shot?”

The camera isn’t even rolling yet. But the interview’s already started.

You glance down at the message again, rereading the words even though you’ve already memorized them. “What the hell am I supposed to do with this now???”

The three question marks hit harder than they should. You lock your screen and look up.

Freya is sitting across from you now, recorder on the table, posture upright, her notepad resting beside a half-sipped can of Diet Coke. Her eyes are clearer than before. Whatever nervous energy she walked in with has settled into a kind of calm intensity.

“So,” she says. “Let’s start there.”

You blink. “With last week’s Lady?”

“With what she said. With what you did. And how it made you feel.”

You hesitate. Rebekah shifts beside you but doesn’t interrupt. You lean forward slightly, forearms on your knees. “It wasn’t… I mean, I didn’t plan it to go that far.”

“But it did,” Freya says gently. “You stripped her, watched her come from it, captured the whole thing on camera, and now she doesn’t know how to live with what she discovered about herself. She’s texting you about it. That’s not just performance anymore. That’s fallout.”

You sit back. You don’t like how that feels. “She consented.”

“She did,” Freya nods. “But did you stop to ask what it might mean for her afterward?”

You glance at Rebekah. She doesn’t blink.

“I thought it was just part of the challenge,” you say slowly, shifting uncomfortably in your seat. She’s transformed… but can she survive the transformation?

You can still feel the heat of Claire’s message behind your ribs. Freya waits—quiet, steady. Her pen is poised but not moving, the mic a silent sentinel on the table.

“So,” she prompts, “who are you targeting this week?”

You glance at Rebekah. She doesn’t look up from her laptop.

You exhale. “Some of the diamonds. The suits indicate the academic focus of the Ladies of the College Spread deck. Diamonds are business and law. The first has already signed a **** contract with another player but he’s letting us go after her too. We’re going to do the same, but just for this week. Rebekah wants her for logistics.”

Freya raises an eyebrow. “Not for a filmed encounter?”

“Technically, yes,” you admit. “But the plan’s not to use her like that. She’s a known quantity. She wants in. It’s… functional.”

She jots something. “Interesting. Next?”

You hesitate. “A woman who seems to be hard to get anywhere with, someone demanding, proud, independent. We’re aiming for mutual oral.”

Freya gives a small, almost impressed blink. “How do you sell something like that?”

“By making her feel like she’s extracting the favor. She's all diplomacy. She wants control, not conquest. Rebekah thinks I can sell it if I play supplicant.”

Freya hums thoughtfully, then tilts her head. “And the third?”

You pause.

Rebekah’s voice cuts in without looking up. “The Jennie of diamonds. A professor’s assistant and niece of a professor. Wheelchair user. So the positioning’s going to be interesting with that one.”

Freya blinks.

You shift in your seat. “We’re not going for her.”

Freya turns back to you. “Why not? Sounds like a strong card. I head from the admins that the card value of each card affects the points you score and the face cards score high.”

You shrug, uncomfortable. “It just… feels like taking advantage. She’s already got enough shit to deal with. I’m not adding to it.”

Freya studies you. “You didn’t mention her when I asked who you were targeting.”

“No.”

“Because?”

You sigh. “Because I don’t want to make her into a challenge. Not like this. She’s…” You search for words. “She’s… different.”

Rebekah snorts quietly but says nothing.

Freya leans in slightly. “Because of the chair?”

“Yeah… She already deals with stairs, doors, narrow hallways, people staring at her chair like it’s a costume. If I show up and say ‘Hey, I pulled your card, can I fuck you for points?’ I’m just one more asshole treating her body like it owes me something.”

Freya’s voice softens, but the edge is still there. “So you’re protecting her.”

You look away. “Trying not to be part of what breaks her.”

“And the girl from last week?”

You glance back sharply.

“She had something awakened in her, and now she’s wrecked by it. You feel like you did that. So you’re trying to stop it happening again.”

She waits, then asks it gently: “You want to save the PA from being a target in the game. Just like you want to save last week’s girl from facing her truth. Do you think this savior complex is healthy?”

You don’t answer at first. You look at the mic, then the camera, then the notepad, as if any of them might let you off the hook. But Freya just waits. Not impatient. Not smug. Just… waiting. “I don’t think it’s a complex,” you say finally, slower than you expected. “I think it’s guilt.”

She nods, scribbles once, then looks up again. “Guilt about what?”

You shrug. “About changing someone. About showing them something they didn’t know they wanted. Something they can’t unsee. Maybe about making a mistake I can’t fix. Fucking up someone’s life.”

Freya tilts her head. “You think you’re the only catalyst in that equation?”

You blink.

She gestures lightly. “Last week you showed a girl something that seems to have been a profound truth for her. Yes, you were the trigger, not the weapon. She was probably already primed and loaded.”

You lean back, folding your arms. “That’s a really tidy way of saying I’m not responsible.”

“Not what I said,” she replies. “Just that you might be overestimating your control. You’re not writing their desires from scratch. You’re giving them space to explore. And some of them might already walking that edge. With or without you.”

You look down. “And if they fall?”

Freya’s voice is softer now. “Maybe they needed to. Or maybe it’s up to them to pick themselves up. Just like all of us when we fall.”

You rub a hand over your mouth. “That sounds like something someone says after they’ve already pushed.”

Freya doesn’t argue. She lets the silence settle. Lets it breathe.

Rebekah finally speaks up. “Look, you’re not gonna win any ethics prizes for any part of this game. If you want to back out, say it. Otherwise stop wasting time pretending this is some kind of morality play.”

Freya turns toward her slightly, but doesn’t flinch. “It is a morality play. Whether you script it that way or not.”

You glance between them. One eyeing the pieces. One asking what they cost.

Freya lifts the mic again. “Let me rephrase.” She clicks her pen, leans forward. “Who are you doing this for?”

You stare at her.

“The girls? Yourself? The prize? The game? Or are you just trying to be the kind of man who wouldn’t screw this up too badly?”

You don’t answer.

She gives you a gentle smile, one that somehow doesn’t mock. “That’s okay. We don’t have to solve it today.”

She checks the levels, then switches off the mic. “That’s good for a first segment.”

As she turns the camera off, Freya gives you a long, assessing look. “Why not TALK to the PA? Find out what she thinks before you start making assumptions?

Freya packs up without fuss. You offer to walk her out, but she waves you off.

“Reflect on that stuff,” she says, looping her gear bag over one shoulder. “It’s not about answers. It’s about knowing which questions are really yours.”

Then she’s gone. You watch the door swing shut behind her.

Rebekah’s already unplugging her laptop. “Well, that was a whole lot of hand-wringing for something that’s supposed to be fun.”

You raise an eyebrow.

She shrugs. “Not saying she’s wrong. Just saying it’s like watching a documentary about the emotional toll of poker. You knew the game when you sat down.”

You reflect on that, on how wrong she is. some kind of game where you get to have lots of sex with different women… sure, you know that. But all the implications of it? All the ways it’s challenging your sense of self? No, you had no idea.

Your phone buzzes again.

Helena: “Daddy says I have to be a good girl for you. Can I come see you tomorrow so we can talk about it?”

You stare at it for a second. The phrasing catches you off guard—not because it’s crass, but because it’s… earnest. Like she’s already halfway into roleplay, warm and willing.

You text back: “Tomorrow’s perfect. Come by in the morning.”

Rebekah catches your expression and lifts an eyebrow. “Helena?”

You nod.

“That didn’t take long.”

You shake your head. “She’s coming over tomorrow. Looks like she’s bringing her own collar.”