Chapter 9 – Ben #2
“Yes,” he said. “Which means there’s no point pretending you’re just another anonymous number. The mask goes on anyway — we need to keep the visual language consistent — but no one in that dining room is going to mistake you for anyone else.”
My fingertips brushed the ruined side of my face.
“The scars will give it away.”
“So will the height, the voice, the way you hover around her like a storm front,” Henry said dryly.
“The other women already know Jacob, the groundskeeper, is number eighteen’s partner.
The gag is not ‘who is her partner’. The gag is ‘which of these nine men is the real prize’.
And as far as they know, the groundskeeper is just a bone thrown to keep her from being unfairly eliminated, nothing more. ”
“She’s the only one who was ever going to win,” I said.
“And that,” he said, “is information only you and I are allowed to have.”
He turned back to the monitors, tapping one knuckle against the frame.
“From their point of view, it must look fair,” he went on.
“They need to see you in the mask, at the table, playing the same Game they are. You’re Chrissy’s partner in every challenge.
You show up when she’s called. You follow the rules.
You bleed with her if you have to. Everyone else?
Decoys. But the cameras need footage that says the other women at least stood half a chance at winning. ”
I watched Chrissy on the top right feed. She’d chosen the green dress, just like I knew she would. She turned sideways in the mirror, frowning at herself, then rolled her shoulders back like she was physically shrugging the doubt off.
“Then get me a mask,” I said. “And something that isn’t my groundskeeper jacket.”
Henry snorted.
“Already ten steps ahead of you.”
He crossed to the wardrobe built into the far wall and opened a panel I hadn’t bothered with yet today. Inside: a neat row of garment bags, plastic still crinkling around them.
He pulled one down and unzipped it.
A black tuxedo, clean and sharp, but not mine.
Not tailored.
“You’ll hate the fit,” he said, holding it up, “which is why I picked it. Off-the-rack groundskeeper trying to pass for a contestant. The narrative sells itself.”
“I have suits downstairs that cost more than most of the surveillance equipment in this room put together,” I said.
“Exactly,” he said. “And if you walked into that dining room in one of them, they’d smell money before you sat down. You’re supposed to be Jacob tonight. Jacob wouldn’t own a Tom Ford. Jacob borrows an off the rack tux from wardrobe.”
He was right, which was irritating.
He crossed back, set the tux on the back of my chair, and then opened a narrow drawer near the console. He took out a black mask — smooth, simple, an elegant Mardi Gras-style cut that covered only the area around the eyes and the bridge of the nose.
It was identical to the others.
“Number Seven,” Henry said, handing it to me.
I turned it over in my hands. The thing felt light. Harmless. A prop.
The monitors said otherwise.
“Mask doesn’t cover the scar,” I said.
“It’s not supposed to,” he replied. “They need to know you’re Jacob. They need to see you as a risk, not a reward. The rules forbid fraternizing with the help. You are the embodiment of that line getting blurred. That’s the tension.”
“And if they start thinking the help might actually be Mr. Stonewood?” I asked.
He gave me a cool look.
“Then you’ve slipped,” he said. “And you’re not going to slip, are you?”
I didn’t answer that with words.
I took the mask instead.
Henry checked his watch.
“Twenty minutes until we start moving pieces,” he said. “Go change. I’ll brief the actors.”
“Warn them not to improvise,” I said. “Tonight is for tone-setting, not unnecessary theatrics.”
“You say that like they aren’t all failed theater kids and soap extras,” he muttered. “But I’ll do my best.”
He headed for the door, then paused with his hand on the knob.
“Ben.”
“Yeah?”
“Whatever you do at that table,” he said, “don’t make her feel trapped. Let her feel chosen. There’s a difference.”
The door shut behind him.
I stripped out of Jacob’s jacket and shirt, folded them over the arm of the chair, and pulled on new shirt and the tux.
The fit was decent enough, if you didn’t look too closely, with the sleeves a touch long, and the jacket a hair too broad in the shoulders.
Exactly what wardrobe would toss to a staff member who’d been roped into a rich man’s game.
In the small mirror bolted to the wall, I barely recognized myself.
Not the billionaire recluse.
Not the scarred stranger in a hoodie and gloves at the hardware store.
Just a man in an ill-fitting tux with a mask in his hand and too much riding on how one woman chose to look at him.
I slid the mask on, tied it in the back, and stared.
The scar cut clean around the edge of the black, visible from temple to jaw. The mask made my blue eyes look darker and sharper.
Untrustworthy.
Good.
I went back to the control room long enough to see the next piece fall into place.
On the Room Eighteen feed, a maid entered with careful deference and delivered the line exactly as rehearsed:
“Mr. Stonewood has reviewed the footage of your arrival. You’re on thin ice, ma’am. Mr. Stonewood said that if you have one more misstep, you will be ejected from the game and escorted off the property.”
Chrissy’s spine went ramrod straight, but her voice stayed even.
“Yes, ma’am,” she said. “I understand.”
She understood more than she should, and less than she needed to.
The maid left. Chrissy stood alone in the center of the room for a long second, then put on her heels and moved for the door like she’d decided that, if this place was going to chew her up and spit her out, it was damn well going to choke on her in the process.
I cut the feed before I started talking to the screen.
Time to get to work.
The blue room off the dining hall had been turned into staging for the men. None of the women would see it tonight; they were being funneled by a different route, all chandeliers and theatrics.
The blue room was pure backstage.
Nine tuxedos. Nine masks. Nine versions of the same fantasy. Eight hired actors. One real billionaire.
The actors were already there when I stepped in, numbers pinned discreetly to the lapels of their jackets, masks in hand. Some were stretching like they were about to go on stage. One was checking himself out in the mirror. Another was fidgeting idly, as if missing his phone, bored.
Henry stood near the door, arms folded.
They all looked up when I walked in.
Silence rippled out from the center, just a beat.
Then Brandon — the man who’d kissed Chrissy in the foyer and taken the fall like a champ — grinned from his spot by the window.
“Look who’s leveling up,” he said. “Groundskeeper’s got a tux.”
“Brandon,” Henry said in warning.
“It’s fine,” I said. “He earned the right to get a line in after that performance.”
Brandon tipped an imaginary hat.
“Happy to be the sacrificial creep,” he said. “My contract said ‘humiliating exit’, not ‘subtle one’.”
“You’ll get your bonus wire tomorrow,” Henry said. “For now, you’re done. No stepping back into frame. You were eliminated. Stay eliminated. In fact, kindly disappear, never to be seen on this property again, and do it pronto.”
Brandon gave a lazy salute.
“Copy that, boss.”
He clapped me on the shoulder as he passed.
“Good luck,” he murmured. “She’s got more spine than the other ones. I like her.”
I didn’t answer. When the door shut behind him, Henry straightened.
“Gentlemen,” he said, pitching his voice into that calm, authoritative register, “this is your final reminder: you are not here to win. You are only here, being paid very well, mind you, to make the Game look believable. No one freelance-seduces Chrissy Jones. No one suddenly grows a conscience. You flirt, you brood, you banter, you posture. You do not try to steal the spotlight from Number Seven.”
A couple of them glanced at me.
I kept my expression blank.
“Your job is to muddy the water,” Henry went on. “She needs to see nine viable options, nine different temperaments. She needs to see tension between you. Rivalry. Ego. Not incompetence. Not obvious villainy.”
One of the guys — Number Three, a lean guy with dark brown hair, sharp cheekbones, and a SAG card — raised a hand.
“Regarding our lines about the groundskeeper,” he began, “Are we still leaning on the ‘he’s beneath you’ angle or backing off since he volunteered?”
“You can throw the occasional jab,” Henry said.
“But you are not to openly question his promotion to the position of number eighteen’s partner.
Mr. Stonewood’s decision stands. The help was allowed into the Game.
If you overplay your resentment, it’ll look like we’re trying to steer her away from him, and she’ll dig in out of spite. ”
“She already digs in out of spite,” I muttered.
Henry ignored me.
“One more thing,” he said. “Masks stay on until you’re told otherwise. You’re numbers. Not names. Not backstories. If she asks personal questions, deflect, or answer in vague archetypes. You’re here to be types, not individuals.”
A chorus of nods.
Henry turned to me last.
“Seven.”
“Yeah?”
“You’re Jacob until the moment this is all over,” he said. “To her, to them, to anyone in earshot. No slips. No indulgent hints.”
I inclined my head once.
He studied me for a beat longer, then stepped aside and checked his watch.
“Places in five,” he said. “Dining room doors open at seven-thirty. Remember: tonight is optics and vibes. No one wins, but anyone is up for elimination. Are you ready?”
The actors filtered out in twos and threes, masks on, laughter low and performative.
I was the last one left.
Henry waited until the room was empty, then spoke without looking at me.
“You ready?” he asked.
“No,” I said. “But I’m going anyway.”
“Good answer,” he said. “Move.”
The dining room looked different in person than it did on the camera feeds…
warmer, louder, and more alive. Candles threw soft light over polished wood and crystal, catching the dark green of the walls and the glint of silver.
The long table was set like a painting of comfort layered over something feral.
The other eight men took their places, masks on, numbers already fixed in my head by build and posture, as well as the numbered pins on their lapels.
I sat where Henry had marked for me on the left side, third seat down, beside the chair that would be pulled out for Chrissy when she arrived.
My scar itched under the edge of the mask. I let it.
Staff moved like ghosts, finishing last-minute details. A bottle of wine set here, a napkin folded there. Somewhere in the distance, a clock chimed the half hour.
The doors at the far end of the room opened at 7:30 on the dot.
Henry stepped to the head of the table, looking every bit the Master of Ceremonies he’d promised he’d be. The man was the epitome of calm. His presentation was immaculate and his nerves were unshakeable.
He met my eyes for a fraction of a second.
Don’t fuck this up, that look said.
I breathed in, out, and waited for the maid to bring my girl to the table.