Written in the Night, Part 4

By the time Andy returned to the Master’s Suite, the last warmth of the bonfire had faded from his skin, but the buzz of the evening still crawled in his blood. The Suite, as always, was shiver-quiet, the only company Katherine’s painting on the far wall of the bedroom. In the hush, it almost glowed, colors blooming in the low light.

He paused at the threshold, trying to will his body to relax. His shirt still smelled of smoke, ocean, and the sweat of the night’s close calls. His jaw ached from smiling; his chest from something else. For a minute, he just watched her.

Katherine’s frame hung between the balcony doors and the king bed, where her painted toes would be just above eye level if you sat on the bed with your back to the wall. But Andy had long since stopped seeing her as a display. He saw the restlessness in her stance, the way her arms hung at her sides as if resisting the urge to move, to step out of the painted field of wildflowers and into the cool night with him.

Tonight, her hair was a waterfall of black behind her, tangled down to her ankles. Katherine’s gaze tracked him as he moved around the room, her green eyes sharp and hungry and alive.

He dropped into the armchair facing her and rubbed at his forehead, the way you do when you’re not sure if the pain is physical or just a symptom of too much feeling. He said, “I can’t decide if they’re all going to save each other, or if I’m just here to watch it happen.”

Katherine’s painted head tilted, the barest motion, but it pulled his focus like a magnet.

He laughed, dry. “You know what’s funny? When this started, I thought it was going to be a harem show. Pick the best girl, unlock the next level, get your happy ending. And I hated it, because of what it would make me, because it would mean others would be unchosen, and some could be hurt. But tonight, at the bonfire, it felt more like a family reunion for people who thought they’d never be let back in.”

Her lips quirked. The curve was sly and familiar. He’d seen it in the gallery, in the challenge, and in the stolen moments before sleep when he’d talk to her like a prayer.

“I should let you know,” he said quietly, “Emi saw a replica of your portrait in the Museum of Pleasures Past, and knows you are an eliminated contestant, now. She doesn’t know you can move and are aware, but do not be surprised if she asks questions about you, or tries to talk to you on her next date night.”

Katherine blinked, then blushed. She touched her mouth, then pointed at Andy’s, and shook her head vigorously.

“I won’t tell her,” Andy nodded, “I promised you. You decide when you want the others to know.”

Katherine seemed to sigh in relief. She gave him a thumbs-up, although she still looked unconvinced.

He stretched his legs out in front of the chair and let his head drop back. “Riley almost broke, earlier. I thought she’d run. But she stayed, and the others just… closed in around her. No one asked them to. They just did.” He paused. “I keep waiting for the catch. For someone to ruin it, or for me to do something stupid and lose them all.”

Katherine’s hand moved, a gesture almost like a wave, or maybe a warning. Her thumb traced the line of her thigh, never crossing her body, never hiding anything. She wasn’t allowed to. But the movement had meaning. He’d gotten good at reading her.

“I know,” he said, as if she’d spoken. “It’s not my job to protect everyone from everything. Marissa said the same. But if I could…” He trailed off, unsure how to finish. He wanted to say: If I could, I’d bring you with me. I’d take you out of the frame and give you a seat at the fire, or a place in the hammock, or a spot on the beach next to the rest. But it sounded dumb, even in his head.

He reached for the glass pitcher on the nightstand and poured himself a half-glass of water. The sound was loud in the quiet. When he raised it for a sip, he caught Katherine doing the same—her hand, lifted in perfect parallel, fingers curled around an invisible glass. It was absurd and beautiful.

He toasted her, and she held the pose for a second, then set her hand gently at her side, as if she didn’t dare toast back too hard.

He swallowed the water, then stared at the ceiling. “I keep thinking about that time you told me—” He broke off, lips quirking. “Well, you didn’t tell me. You pantomimed it, but I got the message: If I ever get a real night off, I have to go dancing.” He sighed, softer. “You’d hate tonight’s playlist. Too much ‘girl power,’ not enough house or disco.”

Katherine’s expression changed, almost a pout. The motion was tiny but unmistakable.

He grinned. “Maybe I’ll request Abba next time. For you.”

The room settled. The silence wasn’t awkward, exactly. It was full. He’d gotten used to talking to Katherine; it was easier, sometimes, than talking to people. She never lied. Never flinched. Never turned away.

He set the glass down and ran his hand through his hair, scratching at his scalp until it hurt. “I wish you could be there. For them. For me, too, if I’m honest. When I see Riley or Dawn or even Claire—the way they open up, how they start to believe they belong—I think about you. What it would have been like if you’d had a shot at it.”

He thought about the other times he’d talked to her, the long nights when his brain wouldn’t shut off and all he wanted was to be heard by someone who didn’t need anything from him.

Tonight, the wish was sharper. Maybe because the party had felt so close to perfect, and he knew it wouldn’t last. Maybe because the others—Marissa, Claire, even Erin—seemed to have found their way, but Katherine never would. She was fixed, immortal, locked in a moment that could never change.

He looked at her, really looked. The green of her eyes was deeper than before, the skin at her collarbone paler, almost glowing in the lamplight. She was always beautiful, but tonight there was a charge in the air, a wordless urgency.

He said, “I haven’t forgotten you, you know. Not when I’m with them. Not when I’m with anyone.” He paused. “If I could give you more, I would.”

Katherine leaned in, just a fraction. In the painting, it was nothing. On her side of the glass, it was everything. Her eyes shone with something that wasn’t light—a kind of devotion, or maybe just a yearning to be seen. Andy met her gaze, and in the hush, the night felt like it might hold, for just a minute, the possibility that she was as real as anyone.

He closed his own eyes and let the silence settle, steady and kind. In the dark, he imagined a future where he could pull her out of the frame, even if just for a night.

When he opened them again, Katherine was still watching him. He nodded, once, a promise he meant to keep.

He must have drifted for an hour or more, somewhere in the dreamless borderland between sleep and waking. The elevator buzzer jolted him upright—a harsh, mechanical intrusion that sent his pulse racing before his brain could catch up. Andy stumbled to his feet, rubbing his face as he crossed to the intercom panel.

"Yes?" His voice came out sandpaper-rough. When no answer came, he pressed the access button anyway, too tired to care who needed to see him at this hour. The doors slid open to reveal Arabella, standing perfectly still in the elevator car. She wore an old-fashioned dressing gown, deep blue and cinched loose at the waist, her hair falling in lazy waves around her face. In one hand, she carried a bottle of white wine and two glasses by the stems. The effect was so human, so off-brand, that Andy took an involuntary step back.

She smiled. “I thought you’d still be awake,” she said, voice low. “Or at least pretending.”

Andy grunted, then tried to smooth the lines from his shirt. “You caught me in my element.”

Arabella grinned, then crossed to the small table beside him. She set the glasses down, and Andy couldn’t help but notice the difference in the Host tonight: the posture less formal, the eyes less shielded, the edges of her composure slightly undone by the hour and the lack of cameras. He gestured to the second chair.

“Please,” he said. “It’s been a while since I had a midnight wine with a goddess.”

She gave a short laugh and poured for them both. “It’s not midnight anymore. Technically, we’re closer to dawn. And I thought I told you before, Andy, I am not a goddess.”

He looked at the window; sure enough, a faint band of silver had begun to rise over the sea, just visible beyond the sheers. The first light of morning always made him feel both hopeful and hunted, as if he were about to face the firing squad and the parole board all at once.

“Don’t worry,” she said, holding up her hands as if to show they were empty, “there’s no hidden agenda. I just wanted to talk. Or, if you prefer, to drink in absolute silence.”

Andy laughed. “I don’t believe for a second that you do anything without an agenda.”

Arabella considered, then inclined her head in fair concession. "Only the best kind, I assure you. No tests, no games. Just you and me." She took a sip of wine, and when she set the glass down, her eyes lingered on the shadows beneath his. "Two hours isn't enough, even with your new stamina bonuses."

He shrugged. "It would be, if I could actually use them."

"The nightmares," she said, not a question. "Laura at the river."

His fingers tightened around the stem of his glass. "Every time."

She nodded, watching him over the rim. "Your achievements can boost your physical resilience, but they can't heal what's beneath." She reached for her glass again, twirled it once. "Did you know you cry out her name? During the worst ones?"

He looked away. "The cameras catch that too?"

"Most contestants break down eventually," she said. "But you—you broke before you ever arrived." She leaned in, elbows on the table. "That's why you're still standing when others would have fallen. You've been carrying the weight so long, you've forgotten how to put it down."

Andy sipped his wine. “If this is your way of buttering me up before the next challenge, you should know I’m immune to flattery at four in the morning.”

Arabella’s smile widened a fraction, then she leaned back in her chair, making a show of stretching her legs. “You wound me,” she said. “But I suppose I deserve it. The Host’s reputation precedes me.” She sipped again, then cradled the glass between both hands. “I thought you might want the company tonight.”

Arabella sipped first, then set her glass aside. “You did well last night, Andy,” she said, the words weighted in a way that made them feel like more than a compliment. “Better than I predicted, honestly.”

He took a drink, letting the chill cut through the last of the fog in his head. “I feel like I got lucky. The others saved each other.”

She shrugged. “Luck favors those who work for it. I believe you’ve done more than you realize.” She regarded him, steady and unblinking. “You should be proud.”

Andy shot her a look, skeptical. “I guess you mean I’m still acclimating to the whole ‘people might be horribly twisted if something goes wrong’ thing.”

Arabella set her glass on the table and folded her hands in her lap. “No one’s been eliminated yet, Andy. Not on your watch.”

Andy let the silence stretch, then asked, “Does that matter, in the end? Or is the only real test whether I keep my harem happy until the season ends?”

She rolled her eyes in theatrical exasperation. “You persist in misunderstanding me. The contest matters, yes, but not because of some tally at the finish line. You were brought here because you have a stubborn belief in your own capacity for care. You won’t be satisfied with just surviving, and neither will the women.”

He hesitated, then said, “It’s hard. I see how much they’re growing—how much better they’re getting at all of it—but every time someone almost goes, it feels like I’m the one making the cuts.”

Arabella’s smile faded, not unkindly. “That’s what it means to lead,” she said. “To want the best for them, even when it hurts.” She took another drink, then added, “Most men who sit in that chair just want to be adored, or obeyed. You’re different. You ache for their happiness, more than for yours. That’s rare.”

The words had the ring of truth, but also the chill of prophecy.

He tried to pivot. “And what about you?” he asked. “Are you happy with how it’s gone?”

She considered this, tracing a drop of wine around the rim of her glass. “I am.” She sounded surprised, as if happiness were a flavor she’d forgotten. “I like to see the shape of things change. I like to see people become themselves.” She met his eyes. “You’re not the only one who wants something for these women.”

He believed her. He also sensed, for the first time, how tired she was.

They drank for a minute in silence, the only sounds the soft ticking of the air system and the faint, far-off hush of waves. For a moment, neither spoke. The day’s exhaustion settled around them like a weighted blanket. He felt himself relaxing, the way you did when you realized you weren’t going to be interrogated or betrayed. “So why are you really here?”

She hesitated, then shrugged. “To warn you. And to ask you something.”

He waited, but she didn’t go on. Instead, she poured herself more wine, then looked at him, eyes luminous in the lamp glow.

She topped off her glass and sipped, not rushing, waiting for him to close the loop. The light caught on her bare ankles beneath the hem of the robe, and Andy found himself thinking, for the first time, that Arabella looked younger than she ever did on stage. It wasn’t the makeup or the clothes; it was the way she let herself relax, shoulders sloped, jaw unclenched, a few stray hairs curling over her brow.

He said, “You had a question?”

She tilted her head, considering. “I do.” She tapped her finger against the rim of the glass, a nervous tick he’d seen before in the moments before a difficult reveal. “I wondered what you’d want, if you could ask for anything.”

He stared at the ceiling, thinking. “Maybe just… for things to end well. For everyone.”

She laughed, and it was a good laugh—bright and not at all condescending. “You really are a glutton for punishment.” She sipped again, then said, “If I could grant you that, I would. But the game will take what it takes. All we can do is keep each other afloat until the tide turns.”

He looked at her, then at the window. The sky was still black, but the horizon had the faintest smudge of gray. “What about you?” he said. “If you could ask for anything?”

She leaned back, considering. “Something different,” she said, not quite joking. “Or maybe a night off, somewhere with bad music and too much cheap wine.”

Andy grinned. “I’ve got half a bottle of Château de Convenience here and an endless playlist of the worst ‘90s ballads ever recorded. We could probably manage the second.”

Arabella rolled her eyes, then softened. “You know, I think I’d like that.” She let the silence grow, then: “Do you miss her?”

He didn’t have to ask who. “Every day,” he said.

She nodded. “The others—Riley, Erin, Chloe, Dawn, Liesa—they all carry their losses like shields. But you carry yours like a blanket. You wrap yourself in it.” She reached across the table, stopped just short of his hand. “I wish I could take it from you, just for one night. Let you remember what it feels like not to be haunted.”

He swallowed, throat tight. “I’m not sure I’d know what to do with myself.”

Arabella withdrew, refilling both their glasses with a steady hand. “You’d figure it out,” she said, voice soft. “You always do.”

They sat for a long time, just drinking and listening to the mechanical hush of the vents. It was easy, the way it sometimes was with strangers on a train, or people you knew you’d never have to impress.

Arabella smiled and said, “You’re not alone in this. Even if it feels that way sometimes.”

Andy wanted to say thank you, but it sounded stupid in his head. Instead, he asked, “How do you do it?”

She blinked, surprised. “Do what?”

“Care so much, and then pretend you don’t.”

Arabella exhaled, slow. “You get used to it,” she said, but the lie was too thin to stand on its own. She met his eyes. “The truth is, I don’t know. Some nights, I think I’m made of glass, and that if I slip I’ll break and the pieces will cut everyone else. Other nights, I think maybe that’s the point.” She smiled, tired. “We’re not here to stay whole. We’re here to be broken in the right ways, at the right time.”

He studied her face, and for a second, he could almost see the weight she carried. Not the burden of the game, or even of the contestants, but something older, more permanent—a kind of cosmic loneliness. He wondered if all Hosts felt it, or just the ones who’d lived long enough to know how every story ended.

Arabella must have seen something in his gaze, because she shook her head and said, “Don’t try to fix me, Andy. I’d hate you for it.” But her voice was kind, and she didn’t look away.

They drained another glass in companionable silence. Outside, the first streaks of color bled into the horizon—violet and pink, barely visible through the sheers.

He set his glass down and said, “Why are you really here, Arabella?”

She took a deep breath, then exhaled, the air whistling through her teeth. “Because the coming week is going to be harder than anything that’s come before. Because you need to know that it isn’t your fault. Whatever happens.” She tapped the table, once, hard. “You did what you came to do. The rest is… gravity.”

He felt the temperature in the room drop a degree. “You mean the next challenge?”

She nodded. “And the elimination. The girls have come together, and that means the choices will cut deeper. The game cannot end unless someone pays the price.” She studied her hands, then looked up at him with eyes clear and open. “I wish it could be otherwise, but there is a gravity to this place.”

Andy's jaw tightened. "You made this rule though, didn't you?" When she didn't answer, he pressed on. "I've seen your face when someone gets eliminated. You hate it as much as I do."

Arabella's fingers traced the stem of her glass, her eyes not meeting his. "There are reasons," she said finally, voice barely above a whisper. "I've told you before, I can't explain them."

He drained his glass, then poured himself a second, and Arabella allowed herself a refill as well. The ritual felt almost ordinary, like the closing hours of a wedding after most of the guests had left.

He watched her as she drank, watched the pulse at her throat, the steady hand that never quite betrayed how much she cared. For a wild second, he wanted to ask her if she’d ever been tempted to step into the painting herself—if she’d ever wished she could be one of the women, if only for a night.

Instead, he said, “You know, I used to think you were here to test me. Like, personally. Not just in the context of the show.”

Arabella’s eyes sparkled, and she let out a small, genuine laugh. “Of course I am. But the test is not what you think.”

He raised an eyebrow. “Then what is it?”

She leaned in, elbows on knees. For a moment, Andy could see every detail of her face—the pale constellation of freckles, the faint creases at the corners of her mouth, the way her lips seemed to hover between a smirk and a sigh.

“The test,” she said, “is whether you can love without possession. Whether you can let them go, when it’s time.” She set her glass aside, hands folding together. “You’ve passed every other challenge. But the last one is always the hardest.”

He swallowed, feeling the wine settle somewhere heavy in his gut. “I’m not sure I want to pass that test.”

She reached across the table, her fingers brushing his knuckles, feather-light. “No one does. That’s why it matters.”

He let her hand rest on his for a beat, then turned his palm up, catching her fingers in his. There was nothing romantic in it—just the warmth of two people sharing the knowledge that tomorrow might hurt more than tonight. They stayed like that until the first hint of sunlight broke through the window, painting the room in shades of blue and white.

Arabella withdrew her hand gently, then rose, her robe swirling around her. “I should go,” she said. “There’s an audience somewhere, waiting for me to be perfect.”

He grinned. “You’ll do fine.”

She paused at the door, then looked back. “I’m proud of you, Andy. Truly. I think you’re ready for what comes next.”

He nodded, not trusting himself to speak.

When the door clicked shut behind her, Andy sat in the hush for a long while, the taste of wine and the promise of pain lingering on his tongue.