Chapter 5 – Chrissy #2
I hesitated at my lingerie drawer, then pulled out the red lace set I’d bought two years ago and never got the chance to wear before my last boyfriend up and ditched me with no explanation, and not even a goodbye.
Just in case, I told myself.
I scanned the QR code and checked the Game’s website again.
The button still waited at the bottom of the screen, patient and damning.
Accept.
Like it knew I would. Like it had all the time in the world to wait for my answer.
I stared at it while my thumb hovered above my phone’s screen, the weight of my choice pressing harder than any courtroom verdict I’d ever heard delivered.
My finger twitched and tapped the accept button before my brain had the chance to catch up, and then… darkness.
The screen went black.
I frowned down at my phone.
Did it glitch? I hadn’t even realized I was holding my breath.
I tapped the refresh button to reload the site, and my reflection stared back at me in my phone’s black glass.
I looked tired, determined, and just a little bit haunted.
The moment the site reloaded, the Accept and Decline buttons were still waiting for me to make my decision.
I didn’t second-guess myself this time. Sucking in a deep breath, I pressed my thumb to the screen and watched the button light up gold.
Three little dots popped up on the screen, and then came the message.
Confirmed.
No flashy animation. No dramatic music. Just a quiet hum of data moving beneath the surface. Then a new screen appeared, clean and cold.
You have accepted, and your acceptance is regarded as an electronic signature on the contract that has been emailed to you. Please read the contract before you arrive.
You may not bring a guest.
You may not record, document, or disclose your location to anyone.
All cellular devices, tablets, and laptop computers will be collected upon arrival.
The rules, as detailed in the contract, are absolute.
Failure to comply means forfeiture of the prize.
You have one goal: survive the week without failing the only requirement… do not fall in love with the wrong person.
I read the line three times. It felt like a joke and a threat all at once. Mostly, it felt like a dare.
I set the phone down and stared at the half-packed suitcase on my bed. My hands were shaking, but my pulse had gone calm.
This wasn’t a maybe anymore. I was going to show up for the Game tomorrow, and I was going to win, come hell or high water.
For Granny Irene.
For the version of me that couldn’t sleep anymore without dreaming of drowning.
And maybe — maybe — for the part of me that wanted to touch and be touched without unnecessary complications.
I wanted to let go of all my responsibilities, save one: winning the game. Once the decision was made, I moved like I’d been handed a case file.
Clean. Precise. No emotion.
I sat at my desk, laptop open, fingers flying over the keyboard as I blocked off my calendar.
I filed an emergency time-off request through the mediation center’s clunky internal system, citing ‘a family matter’ that needed my full attention.
It wasn’t even a lie. Not really. I just didn’t say which part of my family. Or why.
Then I opened a tab and Googled the address I’d been given. Apparently, this ‘retreat’ would be taking place at the Old Stonewood Hunting Lodge, buried in the woods on the far outskirts of Stonewood.
I frowned at my computer screen.
“I thought that place had been closed down for years,” I murmured to my empty bedroom.
Odd.
I clicked between map and weather, checking the ten-day forecast like I was prepping for something normal. A cabin getaway. A solo reset. Except I wasn’t going to rest, I was going to win.
I shuddered when I saw the words ‘polar vortex’ and ‘potential for an ice storm’ in the forecast. Ick. I’d definitely have to pack my warmest clothes.
I guess the polar vortex didn’t get the memo that this is Alabama.
I double-checked my suitcase. Added gloves. A scarf. A flashlight. A portable charger, even though I knew they’d take my phone. It felt stupid not to bring one. Like not bringing a weapon to war.
I sat back and exhaled through my nose. I wasn’t scared… not really.
I was ready.
At least, that’s what I told myself.
By the time I stepped away from my laptop, the apartment had gone completely still.
No music. No TV for background noise. Just the quiet stretch of midnight pressing against the windows, and the occasional pop of old pipes shifting in the walls like ghosts making their rounds.
I stood at the window with a chipped mug of hot cocoa in my hands and stared out into the back parking lot, watching the yellow halo of a streetlamp flicker over cracked pavement.
Somewhere in the distance, someone was yelling at someone else.
A siren wailed as it pulled into the hospital across the street. Normal sounds. Normal night.
I pulled my cardigan tighter and let my forehead rest against the cool glass.
I sipped the cocoa and made a face. It was watery and weak.
Fitting.
Because no matter how much planning I did, no matter how many routes I mapped or how many outfits I packed, this wasn’t something I could control.
I drifted back to my laptop and typed ‘Old Stonewood Hunting Lodge + The Game’ into Google expecting… I don’t know. Nothing. A scam warning. Maybe a PDF of rules with terrible graphic design.
I wasn’t expecting a dozen dead ends, a few conspiracy threads, and then… an article on page six of the Stonewood Times.
It was fresh, only three days old. My stomach flipped.
I clicked the article and read.
It is rumored that Benjamin Stonewood, the reclusive billionaire heir to the Stonewood fortune, has arranged a game to help select the woman who will become his wife.
I blinked. Hard.
A wife?
The article kept going, breathless and dramatic in that way the Stonewood Times got when they had first dibs on a juicy piece of gossip:
In a highly exclusive, private bachelor-style game (with a twist), nine women will compete to uncover the real Ben Stonewood’s identity among the group of men inhabiting Old Stonewood Hunting Lodge for the duration of the game.
Only one woman will win the $750,000 prize and become the future Mrs. Stonewood.
My pulse roared in my ears.
Bachelor-style meant shenanigans… sexy ones. It was practically guaranteed that people were going to sleep with each other.
And because my brain hated me, the first image that flashed across my mind wasn’t some faceless billionaire. No, it was a pair of big hands, a low voice, a scarred face, and the most beautiful, piercing blue eyes I’d ever seen in my life. Heat crawled up my throat.
Jacob.
I’d met him once in Stonewood Hardware, four years ago, then never seen him again. I would have thought that I’d imagined him, if the bloodstains from where he cut his hand hadn’t permanently stained the concrete floor there.
But then the rest sank in, cold and heavy:
I was going to have to compete against other women for the chance to be Benjamin Stonewood’s wife.
A complete stranger’s wife. A man I’d never met. A man no one had seen in years, not since the accident.
The article mentioned that too:
Sources claim Mr. Stonewood underwent extensive reconstructive surgeries overseas after his tragic accident, meaning he could look like anyone. His true appearance is currently unknown.
I sat back in my chair. If I won, I’d have to marry a man who could be anyone. Give up my freedom to become some billionaire’s… what? Prize? Investment? Doll?
My chest tightened. It sounded completely insane.
But then I saw Granny Irene’s face again. I thought about the good day she’d had, and how quickly it had slipped away.
$750,000.
That would pay every hospice bill, wipe out my debt, and give my grandmother comfort for whatever time she had left.
Freedom wasn’t free. Mine sure as hell wasn’t.
I closed my eyes and exhaled, steadying the trembling inside me.
“If winning means she gets to stay where she’s cared for…” I whispered to the empty room, “then it’s worth it.”
Even if the cost was my freedom.
I was stepping into the unknown, and shocked to discover that I wanted it.
God help me… I wanted it.
I wanted the silence. The hunger. The touch of someone who didn’t know my past or need my résumé. I wanted to give in without having to explain myself.
And whatever I had to do to win Stonewood’s Game? So be it.
As I went to shut down the laptop, there was the soft ding of an incoming email.
I almost ignored it, but then I remembered that the website had said a contract would be emailed to me.
I opened the email app, and stared at the email sitting there for a long minute before I clicked to open it.
The attachment took a few seconds to open, and yes, it was a contract.
I hated legal documents… I spent far too much time looking at them at work, so the sight of it made me flinch.
But I made myself at least skim through it.
There were a bunch of rules, the sort that grated a bit, and some that made no sense – no kissing?
– which felt like a really weird rule to impose on grown ass men and women, but whatever.
And… ‘must work with your assigned partner when directed, or both fail’, plus ‘no names – you are each to be addressed only by your assigned number, for the duration of the game’.
What the hell was that about? Something about giving us all numbers felt a little bit dehumanizing, but I supposed that billionaire recluses could afford to have their quirks.
I scanned to the end, and nothing really registered much, so I closed it down. I could read it in detail later.
Sleep didn’t come easy.
I lay awake for most of the night, staring at the ceiling like it might offer answers, then flipping to my side, then my back, then curling in on myself with the covers tangled around my legs and the weight of what I’d agreed to when I hit accept pressing hard against my ribs.
Every time I closed my eyes, I saw that screen again.
You have one goal: survive the week without failing the only requirement… do not fall in love with the wrong person.
I saw the number, too — $750,000 — burned into the inside of my skull like a neon tattoo.
When morning finally came, it arrived like a dare.
Grey light spilled through the slats of my blinds, pale and dull, the sun hiding behind clouds that looked too heavy to bother with. The kind of Alabama winter day that pierced you with a wet chill.
I dressed in layers. Leggings. A soft thermal. A jacket I hadn’t worn since last February. Just in case.
It was supposed to get colder as the week went on.
I brewed the strongest coffee my tiny machine could manage and drank it standing up, suitcase already waiting by the door. My phone buzzed with notifications I ignored. My calendar reminded me of a call I’d already canceled.
I spent the day watching garbage TV and trying to ignore my nerves until it was finally time for me to leave. I double-checked the address in the card I’d been given, checked the arrival time, grabbed my keys, and walked out the door.
The drive to the Old Stonewood Hunting Lodge this evening would be a short one, and I didn’t know what I’d find at the end of it, but I knew one thing for sure: whatever happened during the course of the Game, I wasn’t coming back the same.