Unraveling the Weave, Part 3

Arabella turned to the last remaining contestant, her gaze settling on Liesa, who had been sitting very still, as if hoping the rules would forget she existed.

“Liesa Claes,” the Host intoned, “it is finally your turn.”

Liesa squared her shoulders, and the circle drew in its collective breath for the final act. She stood up, her sneakers planting with a loud, flat smack on the wooden floor. For a split second, Andy thought she might run, but instead she strode toward the center, shoulders set, mouth a hard line. She gave Arabella a look so full of contempt it could have curdled paint, but the Host only smiled, inviting her forward.

“Are you ready, Liesa?” Arabella asked, voice inflected with a hint of mischief.

“Is er een keuze?”* Liesa replied. The accent was thicker than usual, her nerves sharpening every consonant.

Arabella shook her head, her expression seemingly regretful. “Not anymore. But don’t worry, this one is rather… gentle.”

Liesa shot Andy a look—a mix of challenge, apology, and something softer he couldn’t name. Then she squared her feet, arms crossed, and faced the Host.

“Ga maar,”* she said. “I will survive.”

Arabella stepped forward. “The judges have chosen:

• Approachable: Liesa becomes unable to initiate sexual contact by herself; she needs to be pursued or at least flat-out asked, otherwise she will never initiate anything erotic.

Otherwise, you will never begin anything erotic or intimate.”

The words landed with a thud. Liesa’s face fell. “So I am not… allowed? Even if I want to?” She looked at Arabella, then at Andy, horror blooming across her features.

Arabella shook her head. “You can respond, but not instigate. It is not a punishment, only a… rebalancing. The judges believed your natural inclination is to run from what you desire, so now, you must let others come to you.” Her tone was not unkind, but it had the finality of a school bell.

Norah muttered, “If only every guy on the internet could be transformed that way. The world would be a better place.”

Liesa hugged herself, clearly stung. She didn’t meet anyone’s gaze, just stared at her shoes and shuffled her feet.

Andy found himself bristling on her behalf. “That’s not fair. She’s not hurting anyone—why would you make her… less herself?”

Arabella regarded him with the patience of a parent watching a child resist vegetables. “Because, Andy, some obstacles are not to be climbed over, but to be understood. It will **** her to accept pursuit, to believe she is worth wanting.”

Liesa blushed, then **** a laugh that nearly worked. “It is fine,” she said, voice brittle. “If you want something, Andy, just ask. That was always the rule, wasn’t it?” She tried to wink, but the effort collapsed into a sheepish smile.

Arabella approached, but this time she didn’t even touch Liesa. She simply looked into her eyes and said, “Are you ready?”

Liesa nodded, lips pressed tight.

Nothing happened—no wave of sensation, no visible shift in her body. But Andy saw it anyway: a momentary flicker in her eyes, a ripple of confusion and loss, and then the slow rebuilding of resolve atop it. Liesa squared her shoulders, took a deep breath, and faced the circle with a shrug.

Sam caught her eye and made a lassoing motion, then pointed at Andy and made exaggerated come-hither eyebrows. “Just don’t expect him to take a hint,” Sam said. “You might be waiting a while.”

Liesa grinned, some of her old warmth returning. “That is okay. I have patience. And maybe now, I will not ruin everything by running away.”

She looked at Andy and, for the first time since her arrival, he saw not the mask of the invincible Liesa, but the uncertainty she always tried to bury. He wanted to say something comforting, but the words failed him, so he just gave her a thumbs-up—borrowing from Claire’s new repertoire.

Norah snorted. “Enjoy it while it lasts. Next week you’ll probably grow feathers or something.”

Andy, fighting a blush, cleared his throat. “Arabella, this is—these are not harmless changes. You’re turning everyone into, into—”

Arabella held up a hand, silencing him, but he saw a strange look in her eyes when he spoke up. Almost like… surprise. Almost like… pride? “They are not harmless. But neither are they fatal. And each of them will find, as time passes, that the transformations offer new strengths as well as new weaknesses. That’s the nature of the game.” She gestured to the group, now complete in their revised forms. “It is, after all, only the beginning.”

The group watched her, some in envy, some in awe, some just happy it was over. Emi, now somewhat more at peace with her new arms, whispered something to herself and offered Liesa a quick thumbs-up. Dawn looked exhausted, but her eyes shone with admiration. Claire, silent now, only smiled and scribbled something in her notebook.

Andy slumped back in his throne, feeling the air go out of the world. He stared at his hands, then at the group, then at Arabella, who watched with the faintest shadow of real compassion in her eyes.

With the last transformation finished, Arabella allowed the silence to breathe, let it fill up the space and the women’s lungs, until the only sounds were Emi’s hiccuping breaths and the distant crash of the sea.

Then, with the poise of a ringmaster, she stepped to the front of the semicircle and clapped her hands. “Ladies, and Andy of course, congratulations. You have each completed your introduction to the Harem Hotel. I want you to take a moment to acknowledge your courage.” She swept her arm to encompass the group. “You’ve all endured a very challenging introduction. You should be proud.”

No one responded. Dawn’s head drooped, Emi cradled her new arms, Norah glared daggers at the floor. Even Liesa, whose change was the most benign at this moment, only managed a weak smile and a shrug. Claire seemed serene.

Arabella continued, undeterred. “Now, as for your schedule. After tonight, there are eight days before the first challenge. That means eight nights to acclimate, to bond with one another, and with Andy.” She lingered on the words, letting the implication sink in. “I remind you that, beginning tomorrow, each evening a different one of you will be assigned to spend the night in Andy’s Suite. You will have to be there by sundown and will only be able to leave after sunrise. You will sleep in his bed. The order I gave you - starting with Dawn, followed by Claire, Emi, Erin, Sam, Liesa, Norah, and Marissa - is posted on the Commissary.”

Dawn looked up, startled. “What if we don’t want to sleep in his bed?”

Arabella smiled gently. “Then you will be punished. But do not misunderstand me. I said you must sleep in his bed, nothing else. There is no compulsion to do anything further. However, as mentioned, points are often awarded for… engagement.” She glanced at Andy. “But please remember, autonomy is paramount. You are free to refuse.”

Claire, unable to speak, scribbled something and passed it to Emi, who read it aloud: “Claire asks… can we switch nights, or is the schedule fixed?”

“Fixed, I’m afraid,” Arabella said. “But starting next week, you are allowed to invite another Contestant with you, if you wish, so long as you do not withdraw from interacting with Andy in favor of that Contestant.” She addressed the group, but her eyes never quite left Andy. “Tonight, there are no assignments. Andy will dine alone in his Suite, and have a night’s rest alone in his bed. You will all have dinner together in the Banquet Hall. I highly recommend you take the opportunity to get to know one another... and your new forms.” She let her gaze rest on Emi, then on Norah’s curvaceous form.

Sam raised a hand, grinning. “Did you say we are allowed to visit Andy? You know, as friends?”

Arabella’s lips curled in approval. “Excellent memory, Sam. Yes, tonight only, you may request a private audience with the Master by buzzing his Suite from the elevator. However—” and here her voice sharpened, “only one at a time, and half an hour at most. The buzzer will notify Andy someone is waiting, but the elevator will not work if someone is with him already. And I expect each of you to respect the privacy of others.” The look she shot around the group was a subtle dare. “That means give each other time. If one of you is with Andy and someone else buzzes, be mindful.”

The women exchanged glances. Some nervous, some intrigued, some—like Norah—openly disgusted.

Arabella clapped her hands again, lighter this time. “That concludes the ceremony. Now, to continue orientation, please accompany me to see your rooms and acquaint yourselves with the hotel’s amenities.” She looked at Andy kindly. “Andy, you are required to go back to your Suite for now. Dinner has been provided for you. After eight, any of the Contestants who wishes to speak with you, will come to you. Try to rest. You will need your energies, in the coming days.”

As the women trickled away from the gazebo, following Arabella’s leisurely walk, Andy lingered at the edge of the wooden platform. He watched as Liesa drifted towards the shore for a moment, arms wrapped around her torso. He followed, feeling a need to say something, to be there even if he couldn’t fix what had been done.

They stood side by side, staring at the dusky sweep of the sea.

“I’m sorry,” he said, after a long silence.

Liesa shook her head. “No. Do not be. You did not do this. Maybe… maybe I needed it.” She looked at him, really looked, her green eyes bright in the gloom. “Now, if you want me, you must say so. No more games.” She smiled sadly. “They do not work well for me.” She nudged him gently with her shoulder, then turned to go. “See you in the morning, Andy.”

Andy watched her hasten her steps to reach Arabella and the others, heading towards the main lobby. He didn’t feel like joining them, knowing that Norah and Erin, at least, needed distance from him. He waited until they disappeared inside the building, then walked straight up the path, through the marble lobby, and into the elevator that would take him to his new prison. As the doors closed, he caught one last glimpse of the group walking down a corridor—Liesa adjusting her hair, Emi trying to gesture chaotically with her six hands, Dawn hugging Sam, and Norah and Marissa locked in a whispered, fierce debate. Only Claire stood apart, stopped, turned and watched him. She waved at him faintly, as if knowing his mind. Which, he realized, now she probably did, at least to an extent.

He felt the full weight of what had happened—not just the humiliation, but the responsibility. He was their jailer now, in a way. Their Master, as Arabella so loved to say. But he also saw, in that last moment, a strange kind of solidarity emerging from the chaos. For better or worse, they were in it together.

The doors shut, and he was alone.

The elevator ride to the Master’s Suite was fast and silent, moving upwards with glacial precision. When the doors slid open, Andy stepped into a space that felt less like a reward and more like a sentencing.

The Suite in which he had awakened, the Suite he was given was—there was no other word for it—palatial. Not in the gaudy, gold-plated sense, but in the way every detail seemed calculated to impress upon him his centrality. The floors of the living room were a deep blue carpet, soft as memory foam underfoot. Floor-to-ceiling windows wrapped the entire bedroom’s ocean-facing wall, offering a panorama of moonlit waves and flickering resort lights. The bedroom was dominated by the enormous four-poster bed in which he had regained his senses, its headboard upholstered in purple leather, sheets crisp and perfecly folded, purple and white. In the living room, an L-shaped red velvet sofa hugged the far corner, and a low glass coffee table held a bottle of single malt and two cut-crystal tumblers that had not been there when he woke up in the morning. Even the lighting was perfect—indirect, glowing, making every surface and skin tone look Instagram-ready.

The only ugly touch was the steel buzzer panel by the Suite elevator. It looked like an afterthought: a keypad, a red light, a tiny intercom. Andy walked over, examined it, and saw that the first eight buttons were already labeled with names—Dawn, Norah, Sam, Erin, Marissa, Emi, Claire, Liesa. Underneath was a button marked: "Master: Permit Visitor Access." He assumed he could press a button to buzz one of the women if they were in their room, or he could press the Master button to allow someone by the elevator to come up.

He stared at the panel, then at his reflection in the black glass. In the strange, funhouse mirroring of the window, he looked both taller and more brittle than he felt, his tailored shirt already wilted and sweat-dark at the armpits. He touched the bracelet on his wrist—Laura’s bracelet. He pressed a finger to it and tried to slow his breathing.

He’d thought there might be a moment of exultation, maybe even relief, at being alone, finally out from under the eyes of Arabella and the women. But what settled over him was something closer to dread.

He walked the perimeter of the Suite, a prisoner counting paces. The space was huge: a bathroom with a soaking tub and a rainfall shower, a closet with enough clothes for a year. There was even a kitchen—stocked with all his favorite snacks, and a fridge stacked with Diet Coke, beer and hard seltzer. The bottom floor had a gaming den, a study, a balcony. And the top floor? A large open-air observatory, with recliners and side tables just demanding a cold glass of gin and tonic to sit on them. But every room, every inch, felt like a stage set for something he’d already lost control over.

He returned to the main room, poured two fingers of whiskey, and walked up to the observatory. The sea was a blank, infinite black, the moon a sharp chip out of the horizon. He could smell the salt on the air. He watched the waves for a few minutes, searching for a metaphor, then gave up. There were no metaphors left. Only the facts: eight women, all changed forever, all because he’d once been close to them, or hurt them, or simply been a witness to their pain.

He brought the glass to his lips, then set it down untasted. He ran his hands through his hair, and muttered, “Fuck this. Fuck. This.”

He didn’t know how long he stood out there, but eventually the cold from the glass and the sea breeze drove him back inside. He wandered to the bed and sat on its edge, head in hands. The mattress gave just enough to make him feel weightless, unmoored. Tomorrow night, and every night after that, one of the women would be **** to share this bed with him. Whether either of them wanted to or not.

He tried to picture what Arabella was doing right now—drinking champagne, maybe, or watching him on a bank of security monitors, jotting notes about his emotional adjustment.

He made himself a promise, then and there. He would not be a bystander. He would not let the Harem Hotel break these women—his friends, his ghosts, even the ones who hated him. He would protect them, or at least try, even if it meant making a fool of himself in front of the world. Even if it meant fighting Arabella or the rules of the place itself. They were here because of him.

He stood, stretched, and caught sight of the painting, framed in black, hanging over the fireplace. It was the painting Arabella had called ‘Katherine’. A nude, but not the usual lounge-lizard fare. The woman in the painting was standing on the foreground in a field of wildflowers, legs splayed open, her arms crossed with some difficulty beneath enormous breasts, a look of baffled amusement on her face. Her hair was black, her eyes—bright green.

Andy stared at the image for a long time. The look in the painted woman’s eyes was familiar, like a joke only the two of them were in on. He wondered if this was a warning, or a promise, or just a reminder of how weird his life had become.

Eventually, hunger got the better of him. He walked to the dining table, where a covered platter waited, and lifted the silver dome. Inside was a perfect steak, potatoes, asparagus, a tiny pot of bearnaise. There was even a single, perfect cupcake for dessert. Sighing, he sat down, facing the fireplace and the painting, and began eating.

* "Is there a choice?"

* "Go ahead."