The Ladies Are Chosen

Milo leans forward in his chair, resting his elbow on the table like he’s ordering drinks, not throwing down a gauntlet. He taps the mic. “I'll take the Jenny. J♠. Nyx Caldwell.”

There’s a murmur from the crowd. One of the other players whistles low. You’re not sure if it’s respect or pity. But Milo isn’t done.

Before Rhett can even react, Milo clears his throat and raises his voice again. “And I’d like to reserve the 8 of Spades.”

That gets a reaction. The room actually gasps. A few scattered laughs follow, then a pop of applause from someone clearly here for chaos. The scoreboard adjusts with a sharp beep, and next to Milo’s name, the number –80 pulses in angry red.

Rhett stares at it, then blinks. “Milo… You’re now sitting at negative eighty. You sure you want to start playing financial chicken with the elimination rules?”

Milo leans back, arms crossed behind his head. “Yeah, I’m sure. I’ve got two Spades in my hand. Nyx makes three—if she doesn’t kill me. The eight gives me four. One more draw and I’m in flush territory.”

Rhett raises an eyebrow. “Flush territory with no backup plan?”

Milo grins. “If you’re gonna crash, crash big.”

Rhett watches the scoreboard plunge to –80, then turns slowly toward the screen as the reserved card flips into place. The glow settles on a woman with a steady gaze, a white coat, and a synthetic heart in her palm like it’s a conversation starter.

He tilts his head. “Well, Milo, here's your card.”

A pause. The camera zooms in slightly.

“Eight of Spades. Amara Okoye. Shes in Biomedical Engineering and twenty-three years old. Judging by the expression—and the prop—I’d say this one doesn’t just study anatomy. She collects it.”

A few murmurs from the crowd. Someone snickers.

Rhett nods toward the image. “Her tagline says: ‘Breaks hearts—prints replacements.’ Which is frankly more mercy than most of your exes ever offered.”

He grins, stepping aside with a flourish. “Let’s hope you brought something stronger than charm, because I have a feeling she’s not impressed by bedside manner.”

There’s a mix of cheers, groans, and someone near the back mutters, “God, I hope he pulls it off.” You kind of do too, even if he is your opponent.

Tank stretches slowly, rolling his neck like he’s limbering up—not for the challenge, but for the decision itself. The screen shows what’s left: no Clubs in sight, and everyone knows it. Still, you can feel the tension as he eyes the lineup.

Then he taps the mic. “Melissa Tran. Five of Hearts.”

There’s a beat, then a few nods ripple through the crowd. It makes sense. He’s holding 2♣, 3♣, 4♣. Now he’s calling the 5.

Rhett whistles low. “No Clubs left, but you’re not letting that stop the sequence.”

Tank just shrugs. “You build your team with the best you have, not the best you wish you had. Every coach knows that.”

Someone near the front mutters, “Two, three, four, five…” and a small wave of laughter follows. A voice from the back calls, “He’s laying track!”

The Five of Hearts glides into his column on the screen, a single red spark added to his green run. One more card and he’s staring down a straight. Maybe even a comeback.

Rhett grins. “Well, Melissa’s not a Club, but she might just keep you from going down the drain. Let’s see how hard she makes you work for that step up.”

Cassie doesn’t bother pretending to deliberate. She just taps her mic, eyes already on the card that’s practically glowing for her.

“Dr. Isabella Aragon. Queen of Diamonds.”

The audience rumbles with energy—less surprise, more recognition. Rhett grins before she even finishes the name.

“Ohhh, that takes me back,” he says, stepping forward with open arms like welcoming an old friend. “I wasn’t on this side of the stage back then, but I remember it. Four Queens, one crown. You had the crowd howling.”

Cassie gives a little bow from her chair, then shoots a glance down the line toward Graham.

“And you’re not the only one who can rely on women you already know, Graham. Mine’s a Queen, not just a Ten.”

That lands hard—gasps, laughter, and a drawn-out "Oooooohhh!" from the front row. Graham doesn’t flinch, but the corner of his mouth tightens.

Rhett chuckles, delighted. “Well played. Let’s see if Isabella’s still got her royal touch… or if this time, the Queen demands tribute.”

Professor Rourke looks out over the audience with the solemnity of a man approaching a lectern rather than a card draft. His gaze flicks across the remaining options with all the urgency of someone selecting a teabag.

Then he taps his mic. “Karen Lindström. Three of Spades.”

There’s a pause—one beat, maybe two—and then the room reacts exactly as expected: with a mix of groans, laughter, and someone in the back yelling, “Professor, this isn’t Sudoku!”

The screen slides the 3♠ into his column with as little fanfare as the card can manage. No sparks. No shimmer. Just a quiet blip as if even the software is embarrassed.

Rhett steps forward, eyebrows already climbing. “Ah, yes. Continuing the proud Rourke tradition of riskless rigor. For those following along, that’s a thrilling sequel to his last successful performance—Week 1’s Four of Diamonds, Kiss ×1.”

The crowd chuckles. Rhett doesn’t stop. “You may not be racking up points, Professor, but you are singlehandedly keeping the concept of chaste foreplay alive in a modern media landscape. And for that, we salute you.”

Even Cassie cracks a smirk. Milo mutters something that sounds suspiciously like “Rizzless Rourke.”

Simon, of course, says nothing. Just sits back with the kind of quiet dignity usually reserved for retiring headmasters.

And just like that, the Three of Spades becomes the quietest move of the round—technically sound, emotionally baffling, and exactly what we’ve all come to expect from Simon Rourke.

Graham leans forward, resting his elbows on the desk like a man settling in to close a deal, not play a game. The screen flashes, the last card sliding into his column. Morgan Blake. Six of Diamonds. He nods once—slow, deliberate—and reaches for the mic.

“Much obliged,” he says, his voice rich with dry amusement. “To the rest of you, I mean. I was hoping someone might leave me exactly what I needed, and wouldn’t you know it—here she is. Six of Diamonds. You’re all too generous.”

The audience catches the shade immediately and breaks into scattered laughter and knowing applause. Cassie’s smirking. Milo rolls his eyes and mutters something under his breath. Even Rhett raises both eyebrows like he’s watching the slow drop of a guillotine.

Graham isn’t done.

He lifts the mic again. “And while we’re feeling generous—Proctor, I’ll be reserving the Five of Diamonds.”

That one lands hard. Audible gasps. A few shouts of “Ohhh!” ripple across the room as the numbers update and Graham’s score drops into the red.

Rhett whistles. “Bold move, Chairman. Going into the negative to secure the low end of the blade.”

Graham just sits back, fingers steepled, unreadable.

Cassie leans into her mic. “Planning to cut heads or play cards, old man?”

Graham doesn’t flinch. “Either works.”

It’s not flashy. It’s not loud. But the table knows what just happened: Graham’s no longer just holding a hand—he’s aiming to break the game. And if he pulls the right card next week, no one’s catching him.

The details of his reserved card appear on the screen:

Rhett turns toward the board as the reserved card flares into view, slotting neatly beside Graham’s already dangerous Diamond trio. The screen displays her stats with a chime that feels almost embarrassed to be here.

“Ah. And here she is—Kaitlyn Reid. Five of Diamonds.”

He paces a slow half-step, eyes on the camera, letting the audience read the tagline with him: "Tries hard. Doesn’t stand out. Well, that’s a harsh tagline for someone whose biggest crime appears to be showing up to class prepared. But you’ve got to admire it—Graham saw something in her none of you did. Or more precisely, he saw something the rest of you forgot to take.”

The camera cuts briefly to Graham, still unbothered, still smug.

Rhett nods with mock solemnity. “In poker terms, it’s a low-value pull. In game terms? It might be the missing piece of a multi-thousand-point straight flush.”

He looks at the audience. “So remember, folks—next time you ignore the quiet one with the laptop? She might be the reason you lose the championship.”

The crowd chuckles, and the 5♦ locks into place beneath Graham’s column, glowing not with power, but with possibility.

Rhett claps once, loud enough to hush the last of the murmurs, and paces to center stage like he’s introducing a burlesque halftime show at a philosophy convention.

“And that, my friends, wraps up the Week 3 draw phase. Eight new Ladies have entered the fray—six through the draw, two from reservations. We've got queens and question marks, sweethearts and statistical anomalies. Frankly, I’m proud of you degenerates.”

He gestures to the contestants, tablets lighting up in front of them with a chime.

“Check your screens. Each of you has just received your Lady’s bio card—a charming little dossier with her background, fertility rating, availability score, kinkiness level, and of course, one highly suspect sexual rumor. Think of it as your starter kit for wooing, wagering, or wildly misjudging someone’s boundaries.”

“Oh, and while you're all busy scoping stats, don’t forget—your new challenge card has been added as well. You now have five acts of debauchery to pick from. Make it strategic. Make it sexy. Or hell, just make it count. Consensually, of course.”