Chapter 4 Sadie
SADIE
The red wine sloshes dangerously close to the rim of my glass as I curl my legs underneath me on my worn leather sofa.
Across from me, Jolene expertly uses chopsticks to snag a dumpling from the takeout container balanced on her knee.
The Friday night ritual we’ve maintained since college feels comfortable—a stark contrast to most social interactions that leave me mentally drained.
“This is exactly what I needed after that hellish week,” Jolene says, closing her eyes in appreciation as she chews. “Those new interns are going to be the death of me.”
I nod, taking a sip of wine. With Jolene, I don’t have to fill every silence. She understands my preference for observation over participation—one of many reasons our friendship has endured.
“So,” she continues, reaching for the wine bottle between us, “what’s new with you?”
My visit to Purgatory flashes in my mind. I hesitate, fingers tightening around my glass. Part of me wants to keep the invitation secret—my algorithms automatically calculating risk factors of disclosure. But Jolene has always been my one safe input channel.
“I, um, got invited to this thing,” I start, my voice quieter than intended. “And I accepted.”
“Oh? A date?” Her eyebrows lift hopefully.
“No. It’s called the Hollow’s Hunt. At that club, Purgatory.”
Jolene freezes mid-sip, her eyes widening. “The Hollow’s Hunt? That super exclusive thing the Blackwood brothers host? How did you even get invited to that?”
I shrug, uncomfortable under her sudden, intense focus. “Black envelope on my desk. No idea who left it.”
“And you’re actually going?” She sets her glass down with a decisive clink. “I mean you declined the last three company happy hours because ‘people are exhausting’?”
“I know it sounds crazy—”
“No, it sounds amazing!” Jolene’s face breaks into a wide grin. “Good for you! It’s about time you loosened up a bit and had some fun.”
I shift uncomfortably, tracing the rim of my wine glass with my finger. Jolene’s enthusiasm isn’t surprising—she’s always pushing me to step outside my comfort zone. But she clearly doesn’t know what the Hollow’s Hunt actually involves.
Should I tell her?
The thought of articulating the explicit details of what I’ve signed up for makes heat creep up my neck. But if anyone deserves my honesty, it’s Jolene.
“Jo, it’s not just some exclusive party,” I say, my voice dropping. “It’s a... sex thing.”
Jolene pauses mid-bite, dumpling hovering inches from her mouth. “I’m sorry, what?”
I take a large gulp of wine. “It’s basically a game where fifteen men hunt five women through this elaborate maze for seventy-two hours. And when they catch you...” I trail off, unable to finish the sentence.
“When they catch you, what?” Jolene’s eyes are wide as saucers now.
“They claim you. Sexually. For the duration of the Hunt.”
“Holy shit.” She puts down her chopsticks. “And you agreed to this? You wouldn’t even download Tinder when I suggested it!”
I nod, wondering if I’ve made a terrible mistake.
“Wait, wait, wait.” Jolene holds up her hands. “Your only sexual experience is with Melvin the Missionary, and a couple of losers you picked up at bars, and now you’re signing up for some elite sex labyrinth run by the Blackwood brothers?”
I wince at the reminder of my ex. Two years together, and Melvin approached sex like a task to complete—get in, finish, roll over. Any suggestion of change was met with dismissal.
“That’s exactly why I’m doing this,” I admit. “I’m tired of playing it safe and analyzing everything to death. For once, I want to do the unexpected—something that scares me a little.”
Jolene studies me for a long moment. “Sadie, Melvin was a mediocre nerd who wanted to get his rocks off. He didn’t care about whether you enjoyed yourself. Are you sure jumping into the sexual deep end is the answer?”
I fiddle with the stem of my wineglass, avoiding Jolene’s concerned gaze. “That’s the thing—I’m not sure of anything anymore.”
“What do you mean?”
I take another gulp of wine, liquid courage for what I’m about to admit. “I met one of them when I dropped off the signed invitation. One of the hunters. Landon Blackwood.”
Jolene’s eyebrows shoot up. “And?”
“He’s...” I struggle to find the right words, the memory of our encounter sending electricity through my veins. “Intense. Scary, actually. The way he looked at me, Jo—like he could see the thoughts in my head.”
“But?” Jolene prompts, clearly sensing there’s more.
“But he’s also ridiculously gorgeous.” Heat creeps up my neck as I remember his steel-blue eyes, the way they pierced through me. “And the things he said to me... God, Jo, I’ve never had anyone talk to me like that.”
“What did he say?” She leans forward, practically vibrating with curiosity.
I shake my head, embarrassment mixing with lingering arousal. “I can’t even repeat it. These explicit, filthy things about what would happen during the Hunt. What he would do to me if he caught me.”
“And you hated it, right?” Jolene’s tone is skeptical.
“That’s the problem,” I whisper, staring into my wine. “I didn’t hate it at all. The whole drive home, I couldn’t think straight. I was so—” I stop, mortified by what I’m about to admit.
“So...?” Jolene prods.
“Turned on,” I finally confess. “I’ve never experienced anything like it. I practically ran to my bedroom the minute I got home to grab my vibrator.”
“Well, shit,” Jolene says, looking impressed. “Maybe this Hunt is exactly what you need.”
I press my fingers to my temples. “Or maybe I’m making a terrible mistake. What if it’s too much? What if I freeze up? What if I hate it?”
“What if you love it?” Jolene counters.
Her words hang in the air between us, highlighting the terrifying uncertainty of what I’ve signed up for.
I set my wine glass down with a decisive thud. “Seriously, Jo, am I completely insane? Should I just fake my death and move to Alaska to get out of this?”
Jolene bursts into laughter, nearly choking on her dumpling. “You’re such a goof! Fake your death? Really?” She wipes a tear from the corner of her eye. “That’s a bit dramatic.”
“I’m being serious!” I protest, though I can’t help the smile tugging at my lips.
“No, you’re not.” She points her chopsticks at me accusingly. “You wouldn’t have signed that invitation if you didn’t want this on some level. Besides, I’m pretty sure faking your death is a felony.”
“Probably less dangerous than what I’ve actually signed up for,” I mutter, reaching for a spring roll.
Jolene appears to sense my discomfort and shakes her head. “Enough Hunt talk,” she says, though there’s reluctance in her tone. “Tell me about the project you’re working on. The one with the security protocols you were excited about last week.”
Grateful for the subject change, I launch into an explanation of my latest coding challenge, the tension in my shoulders gradually easing. Jolene nods along.
The conversation flows naturally from work to the novel Jolene’s been reading, to her latest dating app disaster. The familiarity of our friendship wraps around me like a cozy blanket, temporarily pushing thoughts of masked hunters to the back of my mind.
“Oh! I almost forgot,” Jolene says, digging through her purse. “I found this at that vintage shop on Maple.” She pulls out a small robot keychain, its metal body tarnished with age. “Reminded me of that collection you had in college.”
I take the keychain, turning it over in my palm. The unexpected thoughtfulness of the gesture makes my throat tight. “You remembered that?”
“Of course I did.” She refills our wine glasses. “Now, tell me more about this disaster of a presentation Alan gave yesterday. You mentioned him using clip art from 2003?”
I launch into a detailed account of Alan’s disastrous presentation, complete with his outdated looped clip art and Comic Sans font choices. Jolene laughs in all the right places, and I smile along, but my mind keeps drifting back to the Hunt.
“And then,” I continue, “he actually used star wipe transitions between slides. In 2025!”
“No!” Jolene gasps dramatically, hand over her heart.
“Yes. It was like watching someone’s first PowerPoint from middle school.”
We fall into comfortable laughter, but even as I reach for another spring roll, I feel the weight of the Hunt like a physical presence in my apartment. Two weeks. Just fourteen days until I’ll be running through a maze, hunted by masked men with explicit intentions.
Jolene starts on about some workplace drama, but I find myself only half-listening. Instead, my mind replays my encounter with Landon Blackwood earlier. The deliberate way he moved into my personal space, close enough that I could smell his cologne—woodsy and expensive.
His voice plays on repeat in my head as he described exactly what would happen to me during the Hunt. What he would do to me. I’ve never met someone so... intense.
Most men I’ve known have been like Melvin—predictable, safe, boring.
But Landon Blackwood feels like a wolf in an expensive suit, his danger barely contained beneath a polished exterior.
The memory of his steel-blue eyes studying me makes my skin prickle.
He looked at me like I was a complex equation he was determined to solve.
What terrifies me most isn’t his intensity—it’s how much that intensity appeals to me. How desperately I want to know what it would feel like to be the sole focus of all that power.