Chapter 11 – Chrissy
Chapter
Eleven
CHRISSY
At the head of the table, Henry rose. He’d traded his earlier dark suit for something even sharper, the white of his shirt crisp against his tanned skin. No mask. He didn’t need one.
“I’d like to welcome all of you to the Game properly,” he said, voice smooth as the tablecloth. “My name is Henry. I’ll be the Master of Ceremonies for your stay at the Old Stonewood Hunting Lodge.”
So, that seemed to confirm the answer to one question. He wasn’t a butler or a manager. He was purely the ringmaster for this insane circus otherwise known as the Game, as he’d named himself in the foyer earlier, as well as now.
His gaze swept the table, unhurried. When it passed over me, my lungs constricted, not because he looked cruel — he didn’t — but because there was nothing soft in his eyes, either. There was only assessment. It seemed to say:
Are you good enough to win this, or are you going to be the first to get eliminated?
“As you’re all aware,” he continued, “you’ve been invited here to participate in a very particular experience.
One real Ben Stonewood hides in plain sight among the men gathered here.
Nine potential brides must compete with one another in the planned challenges over the next ten days.
At the end of your stay, Mr. Stonewood will have the opportunity to extend an offer of marriage to one of you, should any of you manage to pass his tests, including identifying which one of these men is the real Ben Stonewood.
That lucky lady, whoever she may be, will find herself married to a billionaire before Christmas Eve is over, as well as in possession of a very large sum of money, personally. ”
Someone down at the far end of the table sucked in a breath.
My stomach twisted. Marriage.
It sounded so old-fashioned when he said it like that. Like we’d all been presented at court. Like this wasn’t a glorified, morally questionable gauntlet being run in the woods to help a reclusive billionaire pick a wife.
Henry clasped his hands behind his back.
“The rules are simple,” he said. “You’ve seen them already, of course, but I find it helps to hear them aloud.”
We all stared at Henry as he continued, nine men in masks and nine contestants all hanging on every word the Master of Ceremonies breathed. My throat went dry.
“No names,” Henry said. “You’ll be addressed and will address each other by numbers only. No professions. No specific personal identifiers. You are here to be seen for how you act, not what you profess yourself to be.”
Someone shifted in their chair. Crystal chimed softly against porcelain as number eleven took a sip of her water.
“No kissing,” he went on, “outside of sanctioned challenges. Any unsanctioned intimate contact is considered a breach of contract. If you break that rule, you will be asked to leave. Immediately.”
Heat crawled up my neck, and I kept my eyes on my water glass.
Unsanctioned intimate contact?
I could still feel Jacob’s mouth on mine, his big hands on my hips. I could still hear the gravel in his voice when he’d warned me, You can’t tell anyone this happened.
“And the third rule and most important rule of all,” Henry said, letting a beat of silence hang, “no falling in love with the wrong person. If you make the mistake of falling in love with a man who is not the real Ben Stonewood, you will be eliminated.”
A low ripple of nervous laughter moved around the table, but Henry didn’t smile.
“You may find yourself drawn to someone who is not your assigned partner, and then again, you may find yourself falling for your partner, but either one could be dangerous if you choose the wrong man,” he continued calmly.
“You may be tempted to sabotage others. To form alliances. To use what you know — or think you know — to undercut the competition.”
His gaze landed on me for half a second. It felt like being pinned to the table with a fork.
“Be very careful,” he said. “Your contracts include a clause about intentional sabotage. Attempting to get another guest disqualified or removed, by any means, will result in an immediate elimination — both for you and your partner.”
The air went thin. I hadn’t known that last part.
For you and your partner.
I snuck a look at Jacob. His jaw was tight under the mask. The scar stood out, pale against the black.
Henry’s expression didn’t change.
A tight, uneasy silence followed. Henry let it settle for a breath before speaking again.
“On that note,” he added, his tone still smooth, but with an undercurrent sharp enough to cut, “there are additional clarifications I presume our contestants will appreciate hearing aloud.”
Nine masked men didn’t move a muscle. The eight women I was here to compete with all held their breath, and so did I. My fingers tightened around the napkin in my lap.
“The gentlemen assisting us,” Henry said, “are being compensated very generously for their participation. An obscene amount of money per day, in fact.”
A few women’s heads tilted, minds clearly racing. Mine included.
“However,” he continued, “that compensation ends the moment a contestant is eliminated. The man assigned to her will be dismissed immediately, and his contract — and his pay — terminate with her departure.”
Silence fell on the dining room, sharp and brittle.
I thought that was the worst of it, but I was wrong.
Henry’s gaze slid deliberately to Jacob.
“There is,” he said, “one unique situation among our participants that we were not prepared for.”
The air shifted and crackled with an electric undercurrent, like the whole room took a single, collective breath and held it.
“Contestant Number Eighteen’s original partner — the previous Number Seven — was removed from the premises prior to the Game’s commencement. In order to prevent an automatic disqualification for her, our groundskeeper, Jacob — Number Seven, now — volunteered to take his place.”
Heat crawled up my spine. Every woman in the room turned and stared at him. Jacob didn’t move. He barely seemed to be breathing.
“Mr. Stonewood,” Henry went on, “was… unimpressed by this breach of protocol.”
My heart dropped.
“However, in the interest of being a good sport, he agreed to allow the substitution under very specific terms.”
Henry’s voice remained placid, but a razor edge glinted beneath every word.
“Number Seven will receive the compensation that was originally intended for the eliminated participant, provided that Contestant Eighteen remains in the Game.”
Every hair on my arms stood up.
Henry clasped his hands behind his back again.
“However… if Contestant Eighteen is eliminated, disqualified, or otherwise leaves the Game for any reason, Number Seven must return all funds earned during his participation in the Game, including his usual wages.”
The room went deathly still.
“And,” Henry added, the final stroke of the blade, “should she be eliminated, upon her elimination, Number Seven will also be required to tender his resignation from his position as Mr. Stonewood’s groundskeeper.”
My breath punched out of me and the room spun.
Resignation. Jacob could lose his job — lose everything — because of me… all because he’d tried to help me.
A low, rippling shock spread across the table as the implications sank in. The other women looked at Jacob with sudden, sharp curiosity, like realizing a man might be far more invested in his partner’s performance if his entire livelihood was tied to it.
But Jacob? He didn’t flinch, not even once.
He just sat there across from me, masked and unreadable, the candlelight catching on the pale ridges of his scars, looking like a man carved out of stone. And somehow that was worse.
“Number Seven accepted these terms,” Henry finished calmly, “and so the Game proceeds.”
I couldn’t breathe. He’d risked everything for me, a girl he barely knew, a girl who could barely keep her hands from shaking in a room full of women who all outranked and outclassed me in one way or another.
And if I failed, if I messed up, if I guessed wrong…
Jacob would lose everything.
My chest tightened until it hurt.
I hadn’t known I was capable of hating Ben Stonewood… not until that very moment.
“Now.” Henry lifted his glass, suddenly the picture of polite, cheerful hospitality. “Eat. Drink. Observe. Tonight is about acclimating to the house and to one another. Your first challenge will be announced tomorrow.”
He sat.
Staff appeared from side doors, moving with quiet efficiency, setting plates in front of us, salad first, something intricate and leafy and drizzled with dressing I couldn’t name.
My stomach tied itself in one big, painful knot of anxiety. I took a bite anyway and tried to ignore how shaky the fork was in my hand. I chewed and swallowed without tasting a damn thing.
Jacob poured more water into my glass before I could reach for the pitcher. His sleeve brushed my arm.
I felt the brief contact like an electric jolt.
“Careful,” he leaned forward and murmured low enough that only I could hear him. “You’re holding the fork like it offended you.”
I looked down. The metal was bending just a little under my grip. I loosened my fingers and huffed out a breath that was almost a laugh.
“You okay?” he asked.
“No,” I whispered back. “Yes. I don’t know.”
His leg brushed mine underneath the table, and the touch had to be deliberate because we were seated across from each other and there was plenty of space between my side of the table and his.
I pressed my lips together to keep from gasping, but the warmth of him radiating through the silk of my dress anchored me in a way I wasn’t prepared to examine.
“Shoulders back,” he said quietly. “Chin up. Don’t let them see you rattled.”
Easy for him to say. He wasn’t the one on probation.
But he could lose his entire livelihood over this, idiot. He’s trying to be supportive, and he’s on the chopping block, too. Count your lucky stars you got a kind partner and move on.