Sparks Beneath the Waves, Part 1

After breakfast, and after the dishes had been stacked in the dishwasher with all the false bravado of two people pretending not to care about the future, Andy sat in the empty living room, coffee cooling in his hands, and let the silence settle in. There was a specific kind of hush that lingered after Dawn left—a hush different from when the Suite was vacant, more deliberate, like a room waiting for its next scene.

He realized, with a prickle of guilt, that he hadn’t really spent any time with Katherine since he had tried (and failed) to find a better way to communicate with her. He could still remember the expression on her face. He had left for the day, leaving her on the deck, and had retrieved her before Dawn’s arrival, but had said nothing else. Like she was a given, not a living soul.

She hung on the mantel, opposite the couch, the frame just out of direct sunlight so her painted skin didn’t yellow with glare. She wasn’t moving, at first—she often froze like this when he was with other women—but as soon as she caught his eye, her expression softened, and she did a little theatrical startle. Like she’d been waiting for him, or maybe she’d been watching him this whole time.

He set his mug down and crossed the room. He stood in front of the painting, hands in his pockets, feeling strangely like a teenager trying to apologize to a favorite teacher.

“Hey,” he said, then immediately regretted it. She couldn’t answer, not with words. Still, she tilted her head, waiting.

He took a step closer, to bring himself eye-level with her. “Sorry. I should’ve checked in. I guess I got… distracted.”

She nodded, the motion delicate and full of dignity, then pointed at his chest with one finger and did an elaborate, exaggerated “tsk-tsk,” wagging her head back and forth.

“Yeah,” Andy said. “I know. It’s a pattern.”

Katherine rolled her eyes in the most tragic, overacted way, then softened it with a sly smirk. She pantomimed a little violin under her chin, then mimed crying, then winked at him.

Andy laughed. “I deserve that.”

She shrugged, as if to say, What can you do? Then she pressed both hands to her painted chest, fingers splayed, and held them there for a long moment, her face shifting into something a little more raw. Her eyes glistened in a way that wasn’t possible with paint, but here, nothing was impossible.

Andy sat, cross-legged on the floor. “Do you want to talk?”

Katherine hesitated, then nodded, and pointed to the couch.

He moved there, pulling it closer so he could see the painting as if she were sitting across from him. The pose today was less pinup than usual: she’d managed to angle herself so her body faced him, but her hands lay atop the upper slope of her breasts. The rules of the canvas meant she couldn’t actually conceal anything, but the effort was touching.

He leaned forward. “So. What’s on your mind?”

She pointed at him, then at herself, then pantomimed writing in the air, holding her hand as if gripping an invisible pen.

Andy squinted. “You want me to… write something down?”

She shook her head, then repeated the gesture, slower this time: she pointed at him, then at herself, then formed her hand into a puppet-mouth, opening and closing it in short bursts. Then she repeated the writing motion.

“Oh,” Andy said, understanding dawning. “You want more… communication. Not just watching.”

Katherine nodded, relieved.

He rubbed his chin. “You want to be in the room more, don’t you?”

She pointed both index fingers at him like twin pistols, then mimed walking her fingers through the air, then pointed at the bedroom. She shrugged, tilted her head, then did a “maybe” hand-wobble.

Andy suppressed a smile. “You want to be in my room.”

She rolled her eyes, but her cheeks (such as they were) turned a faint pink. She mimed a heart with her hands, then pointed at him, then at her own chest.

Andy grinned. “I’m flattered, really. But are you sure? I’m not exactly quiet, and you’d probably see some things you can’t unsee.”

Katherine shrugged, as if to say, That’s the point.

He laughed, leaning back on the couch. “You want to be a part of it. Not just a fixture.”

She nodded, then pantomimed watching something very intently, then covered her eyes in mock horror. Then she parted her fingers and peeked through, winking at him.

Andy raised his eyebrows. “Are you… a voyeur?”

Her blush deepened. She shrugged, then nodded, then covered her face with both hands.

“Oh my God,” Andy said. “Is that why you got—”

She nodded, then did a little “zipper the lips” motion.

He blinked, then said, “Was that the reason behind your exit transformation?”

Katherine nodded, then mimed a rectangle, then pointed to herself. She pointed at the ceiling, then did a little jazz hands motion, which he interpreted as “on display.”

“Wait,” Andy said. “Was it your idea? Or did someone—?”

She shook her head. Then she pantomimed grabbing something, clutching it tight, then letting it go. She pointed at herself, then at him, then at herself again.

Andy leaned forward. “So, you… you liked to watch? And then the show—”

She pointed at him, then did a gesture that looked like someone jerking off.

He blinked. “Wait. You like watching guys…?”

She nodded, but added a hand-wave, then pointed at herself, then at him, then at the painting, as if to say, That’s all I can do now.

Andy sat there, processing. “Have you ever—” He trailed off, feeling suddenly absurd. “I mean, did the other Masters ever…?”

She rolled her eyes, then did a gesture like tossing something over her shoulder. She pantomimed someone standing with hands on hips, looking proud, then slouched and looked bored.

“They used you as decoration,” Andy guessed. “Or as… motivation, but not as a person.”

Katherine nodded, then pressed both hands to her heart, then pointed at him. Andy felt a heaviness in his chest. “You want to be part of the group. Or at least, you want to be seen. Is that it?” She hesitated, then nodded, and then—very slowly—touched one finger to the center of her breast, then moved it downward, the barest suggestion of tracing a line.

Andy averted his gaze, not out of prudery, but out of sudden, sharp empathy. “Is it ****? Not being able to touch, or…?”

Katherine shook her head, then did a little “so-so” gesture. She mimed crying, then shrugged, then pointed at him, then did a “thumbs up.”

He tried to piece it together. “It was **** before, but now… not as much?”

She nodded, then did a gesture like pulling two things together, hands touching, then pointed at him, then at the painting.

He thought, then said, “You want to be closer. You want to be with me, or at least in my life.”

She nodded, then—very slowly—did a little hand-motion that was unmistakably masturbatory.

Andy’s jaw dropped. “Wait. You—when someone…?”

She nodded, blushing furiously, then mimed fireworks exploding from her head.

“Is that part of your transformation?” he asked, stunned.

Katherine nodded, then made a “keep it secret” motion, finger to lips.

Andy leaned forward, elbows on knees. “Does it work if it’s me?”

She nodded, then shrugged, as if to say, I’ve never tried, but it would be nice.

He exhaled, a strange mix of arousal and pity and guilt swirling in him. He looked at her, the beautiful, tragic woman frozen in time, and wanted to do something—anything—to make it better.

He stood, crossing to the painting. He pressed his palm to the canvas, and though there was no give, no warmth, he imagined he could feel her heartbeat through the brushstrokes.

“I’m sorry,” he said. “I’ll… I’ll think about it. And I’ll talk to you more, I promise.”

Katherine smiled, the sadness in it so human that it hurt to look at. She put her hand against the spot where his touched, then let it drop.

Andy left the living room, heart pounding, mind spinning with questions he wasn’t ready to answer.

Behind him, the painted woman watched, her gaze following him long after he disappeared from view.

The sun had just cleared the eastern ridge of the volcano when Andy found himself striding the tide line, letting the wind and salt scrub at the thoughts lodged in his skull. He wore gym shorts and a threadbare hoodie, and tried to convince himself he was just walking for exercise, not fleeing the Suite’s silence or the haunted look in Katherine’s painted eyes.

At first, he let the ocean noise drown out his mind: the gentle drag and collapse of surf, the sharp cries of gulls, the endless, shifting hiss of wet sand underfoot. But as he reached the curve of the beach where the headland shadowed the bay, the distractions faded, and it was just him, the sea, and the awkward throb of being needed by so many women, all at once.

He hadn’t expected to like it. That was the problem. The idea of the Harem Hotel was supposed to be a joke—an absurd, horny riff on reality shows, one that he could coast through on dry wit and avoidance until they sent him home. But now it was day what, twenty? More? And every night he felt himself sinking deeper, making promises with his body and his words that he didn’t know how to keep. Each woman wanted something different, but all of them wanted him to be present, to matter, to fix a little of what the world had broken in them.

He reached the rocks at the far end of the cove and climbed up, seeking the wind and the pale, scrubby privacy of the headland. For a while, he just sat, knees hugged to his chest, watching the waves break and reform. He wondered what it would be like to swim out, let the salt and cold erase the shape of him. He wondered if, when he came back, anything would be different.

He was lost in the rhythm of the surf when a shadow fell across his feet. He didn’t look up. He knew the silhouette, the impossible length of leg, the flash of auburn in the sun.

“Care for some company, Andy?” Arabella’s voice was its usual hybrid: elegant, teasing, warm enough to make him believe she’d never hurt anyone.

Andy grunted, then said, “I thought you’d be sleeping in.”

She sat beside him with a dancer’s grace, folding herself so her knees mirrored his. She wore a scarlet beach robe that was probably from the 1930s, and a straw hat that would’ve looked stupid on anyone else. On her, it was iconic.

“I heard you had a rough morning,” she said, not looking at him, but instead scanning the horizon as if waiting for a yacht to arrive.

He shrugged. “I’ll live.”

“I suspect you will,” she said. “Katherine told you the truth, you know. About the transformation. But it only works when she’s seen as a person, not an object. When you think of her, during the act. For what is worth.” Then, after a pause: “You’ve been making excellent progress with the women.”

Andy laughed, the sound harsher than he meant. “Is that what you call it?”

She turned to him, emerald eyes bright. “You’ve been intimate with every contestant now. Except Chloe.”

Andy snorted. “Is this a contest? Am I behind schedule?”

Arabella smiled, then let the mask drop, just a little. “No. I’m genuinely impressed. I worried, at first, that you’d run away from the responsibility, or try to game the system without ever letting yourself feel anything real.”

Andy drew a circle in the sand with his toe. “Maybe I’m still doing that.”

“I don’t think so,” Arabella said. “You care about them. Even when it hurts you. Andy, let’s take off the mask, shall we? You demonstrated just how much you care when you rigged the votes in the last challenge.”

He was silent, letting the wind answer for him.

She continued, “You should consider reaching out to Chloe, you know. She’s not as fragile as you think. And you’d be surprised at how much she wants to be part of the story. Not a side character, but a real one.”

Andy looked at her. “You really want me to sleep with all of them, don’t you.”

Arabella shrugged. “Not all Hosts care about that. Some—most, really—just want the drama, the spectacle. But I like when people finish what they start.” She traced a line along her thigh, as if measuring the distance between them. “And besides, Chloe deserves a happy ending as much as any of them.”

Andy considered this, then said, “It’s weird how none of them seem jealous. Or if they are, they get over it in like, a day. Is that you, or is it the magic of the show?”

Arabella smiled. “Why does it bother you so much?”

He shrugged. “It’s not… normal. I’m not sure it’s even ethical, sometimes. Like I’m being rewarded for splitting myself into pieces.”

Arabella shook her head. “You don’t understand women at all, do you.”

He bristled, but she continued, “Most of them spent their entire lives being told to compete, to judge, to measure themselves against each other for the affection of some man who rarely deserved the attention. But here… you treat them like people. You listen. You learn their stories. You’re not a god, Andy, but you’re the first man in years who’s tried to make them whole.”

He was quiet for a long time. The words hurt, but only because he recognized the truth in them.

Arabella shifted, dusting sand from her robe. “Are you still afraid of power?” she asked, suddenly serious.

Andy blinked. “I don’t want power over them. I like that some of the women have upgraded their transformations, so they’re less—” He struggled for the word. “Compelled. It makes me feel less like a creep.”

Arabella shook her head, slow and deliberate. “Power isn’t about control. Not really. It’s about what you do with the trust people place in you.” She leaned in, her perfume heady and impossible. “You could have made this whole game about yourself. About pleasure. But instead, you keep trying to help them be better. To heal them. That’s real power.”

Andy was quiet, the phrase sinking in.

Arabella touched his arm, feather-light. “Most Hosts are happy if the contestants just get naked and make a scene. They like the spectacle. Some of them—” her voice dropped “—would have pushed you to choose favorites, to create villains, to break the girls so they’d fall harder when you made them whole. But I want to see something more.” She smiled, a little wistful. “I want to see if you can give them what you never had. Not just a night, but a future.”

Andy looked at her, really looked. “Is this your wish, then? To see if one of us can make a difference?”

She laughed, bright and sharp as sea glass. “Maybe it is.” She stood, brushing her legs off. “Don’t forget what’s coming. The challenges will get harder now. But the rewards will be greater, too. The women will need you, Andy. All of you. And if you fail them, it’s not just points they lose.”

He swallowed, but nodded.

Arabella leaned down, face close enough that he could smell the wild rose in her hair. “I’m proud of what you’re becoming,” she said, and for a second he thought he saw real sadness in her eyes.

Then she was gone, the wind and the sun closing in around him, and in the distance, a smaller figure picked its way across the rocks: Sam, hair spiked and windblown, hoodie wrapped around her waist. She spotted Andy and waved, already talking before she reached him.

Arabella was right: there was no rest for the living, not here.

Sam reached Andy in a blur of kinetic energy, climbing the rocks with the surety of someone who’d grown up on playgrounds where every surface was a dare. She wore cutoffs and a t-shirt that read "GIRLS INVENTED THE INTERNET," and her sneakers left little crescent imprints in the wet sand as she found a seat beside him.

“Yo,” she said, arms hugging her knees, gaze already on the horizon. “Did you know there are at least two different scoring systems running in parallel right now?”

Andy looked at her. “Is this about the leaderboard?”

“No,” Sam said, and elbowed him. “It’s about me. Dude, I have a new rule set! Arabella told me last night.”

Andy blinked. “What do you mean?”

Sam spread her hands, palms up, as if displaying invisible evidence. “I don’t have to do any of the, you know, harem stuff. Not if I don’t want to. I still get points, just… for being myself. For supporting you. For helping the other women. And, uh, getting intimate with them. Isn’t that wild?”

Andy stared at her, then burst out laughing, the tension he’d been carrying since dawn breaking in a rush. “You’re serious?”

Sam grinned, wide and genuine. “Dead serious. Apparently, there’s an Interpersonal Vector Adjustment toggle or something. It means I’m not here to be the sexy comic relief. I’m here to be your friend. Officially.”

Andy shook his head, amazed. “Why didn’t you tell me sooner?”

Sam shrugged, but her eyes were bright. “I found out yesterday, Andy. I guess I wanted to see if it would stick.”

“I was worried you’d feel left out. Or worse, after that little bizarro chat we had during the night you came to the Suite, like you had to play along.”

Sam kicked at a shell fragment. “I did feel like that, for a while. But after last night… I think I’m okay. I think I’m more than okay.”

They sat for a moment, the silence less tense now, more companionable.

Andy said, “You know you’re my best friend, right? That’s never changing. You’re stuck with me.”

Sam smirked, then leaned her head on his shoulder. “Yeah. I know.”

After a minute, Andy said, “I talked with Liesa. She, uh… she has a thing for you. Has for a while, I think.”

Sam sat up straight, processing. “She told you?”

“Not in so many words,” Andy said. “But it wasn’t subtle.”

Sam was quiet, but the faint blush on her cheek said a different story. Then she said, “You’re okay with that?”

Andy looked at her, then at the water. “Why wouldn’t I be? I want you to be happy, Sam. That’s all I’ve ever wanted.”

She laughed, almost giddy. “God, you’re such a dork.”

He took the insult as the compliment it was.

Sam said, “You think this whole polycule thing is gonna work? Or is it just, you know… a reality show mirage?”

Andy shrugged. “I think it works if the people in it care about each other. I think Erin and Claire have it figured out. Maybe we can, too.”

Sam grinned. “Is this the part where we do a group hug?”

Andy snorted. “Maybe later. For now, just… be you. That’s enough.”

She nudged him, and for the first time in days, he felt like maybe it really was.

They sat together, two friends against the wind and the world, and let the future come as it would.

The library was Claire’s favorite room on the whole island. Even when the shelves were lined with faux-Victorian erotica and the dust motes were thick enough to trigger allergies, it still felt like a safe place to hide. The windows were narrow, the furniture heavy and old, the light from the sconces always a little dimmer than it needed to be. Most importantly, it was the only space Mildred never cleaned or rearranged.

Claire sat at her usual table, notebook open, a teacup balanced on the edge and filled with Earl Grey from her morning stash. She was copying a passage from an old treatise on Egyptian ritual magic, translating it from French into her own cramped shorthand, when she heard the click of heels in the stone corridor.

She tensed. None of the other women would wear heels unless they planned to spend time with Andy. That left Arabella.

The Host entered with her trademark grace, pausing just inside the door. She wore a high-collared blouse and a forest-green skirt, as if cosplaying a 1930s librarian. She let the silence hold for a second, then gave a slight bow.

“Claire,” she said, her voice all velvet. “Do you have a moment?”

Claire closed her notebook, blinked twice, then nodded.

Arabella smiled, took the seat across from her, and folded her hands atop the table. “I wanted to continue our conversation from the other day. The one about your transformation.”

Claire raised an eyebrow, inviting her to go on.

Arabella’s eyes sparkled. “You know, it’s easy to focus on the cat ears and tail. The surface. But that’s not what’s important. It’s the myth, Claire. The Bastet part.”

Claire’s tail flicked, betraying her interest. She slid her notebook across and wrote, in neat block letters:

I’ve looked Bastet up. Protector of women, goddess of secrets. Punished men who hurt women. Also, goddess of pleasure. Not just a cat meme.

Arabella read, then laughed softly. “Exactly. She was also the only goddess who ever tricked her own creators, did you know that?”

Claire shrugged.

Arabella leaned in. “She learned how to be both a weapon and a comfort. She guarded her own heart, and the hearts of others. Most people forget that part. I think you understand it better than most.”

Claire’s ears dipped in a polite nod. She wrote:

Is that why you picked this transformation for me?

Arabella considered, then shook her head. “Not entirely. The system picks what you need, sometimes. But it’s my job to see what comes of it. You’ve done very well so far, Claire. Sharper than anyone else I’ve seen.”

Claire’s cheeks colored. She hated compliments, but also craved them. She tried to move the conversation along:

Have you watched the tapes? The other seasons?

Arabella smiled, delighted. “You’ve been watching them?”

Claire wrote:

Finished Shar’s season last night. Thought her Mistress was fascinating. And Shar is very different from you. Nimue is closer.

Arabella laughed, loud and free. “Shar can pretend to be a monster, in her way, but I for one suspect she's a vampiric teddy bear. And Nimue is a dear friend. As for the Mistress… Laura Black is her name, yes. Did you enjoy the show?”

Claire nodded. She scribbled:

If Andy met her, they’d be friends. Or drinking buddies. Maybe both.

Arabella considered this, then said, “You’re not wrong. They’d recognize each other, I think.”

She reached out, gently moved Claire’s teacup so it wouldn’t teeter off the edge.

"What about Genet's season, or Lucian's?" Arabella's eyes sparkled. Claire nodded.

Those were quick ones so far. She paused, then added, Marissa wrote to Maeve? Also, is Lucian really a demon?

Arabella nodded. "Yes. During the last round of fanmail. I'm expecting her to ask me to set up a meeting any time now." She smiled fondly. "And yes, Lucian is a demon. With a fondness for durians, for some reason."

Can that happen? Meeting other contestants, or Masters, I guess.

Arabella hesitated. "It could, yes. Provided both myself and the other Host agreed on... terms." She shrugged. "Time flows differently between sets, too. That can make alignment difficult. But in principle, it can be arranged." She paused. “Have you started Sylvia’s season yet?” Arabella asked.

Claire hesitated, then nodded. She wrote:

I just started it. I watched the episode when she takes Nick to the island. She’s strange. Also manic.

Arabella’s eyes danced. “Keep watching. It gets even better.”

They sat for a while, the only sound the soft tick of the wall clock and the distant hush of the sea.

Then Arabella said, “I need your help, Claire.”

Claire stiffened, every muscle going alert. She hadn’t expected this.

Arabella held up a hand. “Nothing difficult. I just want you to help Andy open up. About Laura, I mean his Laura. Not just how she died, but who she was when she lived.”

Claire blinked, then scribbled:

Why? And why me?

Arabella shrugged. “Because you’re the only one he won’t lie to. You can hear his heart, not just his words. You’re the only one who understands how memory works. And you’re the only one, I think, who sees him as he truly is. Another gift of your transformations.”

Claire’s ears went flat. The request terrified her.

Arabella said, “He needs to remember her as a person, not a tragedy. If you can help with that, I think he’ll finally be free. And so will you.”

Claire thought for a long moment, then wrote:

What do you get out of it?

Arabella’s smile was less Host and more human, this time. “Nothing, except the satisfaction of seeing someone escape the story that’s trapped them. Isn’t that what we all want, in the end?”

Claire considered this, then nodded.

Arabella stood, smoothing her skirt. “Thank you, Claire. You’re the best partner a Host could hope for.”

She glided out, leaving the library quieter than before.

Claire opened her notebook, stared at the blank page. Then she drew, quickly, a sketch of Bastet, all claws and eyes, holding a tiny figure in her arms.

Underneath, she wrote: NOT JUST A CAT MEME.

She closed the book and smiled, just a little.