Chapter 22 – Chrissy
Chapter
Twenty-Two
CHRISSY
I knew something was wrong the second Henry strode into the great room and killed the noise with a single look. Not a word, not a raise of his voice, just that sharpened, clipped stillness that meant whatever he was about to say was going to ruin everyone’s day.
“Ladies,” he said, hands clasped behind his back, “I’m afraid we have a problem.”
Conversation died. Forks went still. A few girls tensed, like he was about to announce eliminations out of nowhere.
His eyes swept the room, cold as the frost on the windows. “Due to the worsening ice storm, the lodge is officially sealed in. All roads are closed and deliveries are suspended until the roads reopen.”
Someone actually gasped like he’d announced nuclear war.
Henry’s expression didn’t soften.
“Which means the pantry, freezer, and kitchen stores are all you have. Tonight’s dinner will be prepared by you.”
A chorus of complaints erupted instantly.
“But that’s not fair—”
“We’re not chefs—”
“I can’t eat canned food—”
“What kind of place is this?”
Someone actually asked if she could ‘just call GrubRun.’
I tried not to laugh, or maybe scream.
Henry waited, impassive, until silence returned like it was afraid of disappointing him.
“This is not optional,” he said. “Think of it as today’s challenge. The housekeeper and kitchen staff will assist you only within reason. The rest is on you.”
He turned on his heel, challenge issued and chaos unleashed.
And with it came the unmistakable punch of dread sinking low in my stomach because I couldn’t imagine how the other contestants might try to handle things.
Just focus on one thing at a time and problem solve as you go, I told myself.
The other contestants scattered immediately, some rushing to the windows to whine about the weather, some demanding that their phones, which were confiscated at the beginning of the retreat, be returned to them because they couldn’t ‘order groceries properly’ without it, and one absolute genius shouting, ‘Can’t someone just drive to town? ’
Drive to town in an ice storm… in Alabama. This far south, we were all woefully inexperienced in navigating icy roads.
Fucking idiot.
I walked in the opposite direction, heading straight to the kitchen.
The difference in atmosphere hit me instantly. Warmth, steam, and scents of onions and leftover stock simmering on the stove washed over me in a welcoming wave. Someone was washing mixing bowls in the giant farmhouse sink, sleeves rolled up past her elbows.
She turned as I stepped in and arched a dark eyebrow at me. She had to be in her mid-forties with a sturdy, capable build. Streaks of silver threaded through dark hair she had pulled back into a neat bun. Her dark eyes were both kind and tired in equal measure.
“Um… hi.”
I gave her a small, awkward wave.
She blinked at me, her mouth twitching with a mixture of confusion and amusement.
“Hello. I’m Lucia, the head housekeeper and cook. Can I help you with something, dear?”
The ‘dear’ wasn’t patronizing, surprisingly. It was motherly and soft and personal.
It wrapped around my heart and squeezed.
“I heard about the ice storm boxing us in,” I said. “And Henry said we’re on our own for dinner, so… I wanted to check what supplies we do have so I know what we’re working with.”
One of her eyebrows lifted, like she hadn’t expected any of the women from her employer’s sick little Game to speak the language of common sense.
“You want to see the pantry?”
“Yes, please… unless there’s a secret underground bunker of food I should know about,” I joked.
That got a real laugh out of her, warm and surprised.
“You’re the first person who actually thought to ask that,” she said. “I heard several of the others ran back to their rooms to ‘regroup’ after Henry’s announcement.”
Of course they did. I rolled my eyes so hard it hurt.
She motioned me over and opened the main pantry door, revealing a walk-in lined with tall shelves full of supplies. Flour. Rice. Pastas. Canned tomatoes. Broths. Beans. Dried herbs. Onions and potatoes stored in crates at the bottom. Jars of preserved vegetables from the summer harvest.
She watched my face like she was testing me.
“It’s not much,” she said, “but we can make do until the ice storm is over.”
“It’s plenty,” I said immediately. “We could do a soup. Or a stew, and bread, maybe? If the yeast is still good, that is.”
Her brows shot up.
“You cook.”
It wasn’t a question.
“My granny taught me,” I said, shrugging. “And when you grow up broke, learning to stretch five ingredients into a week is a survival skill.”
Lucia’s eyes softened in that way people look at someone they suddenly understand better.
“Well,” she said, “I suppose that makes two of us.”
And just like that, we were a team.
The next hour felt nothing like a challenge. It felt… normal and human. It was the most normal thing that had happened since I arrived at the hunting lodge, honestly. It felt good.
I took inventory while Lucia pulled old recipe cards from a drawer.
We talked, laughing more than I expected, as we weighed what we could make with the food on hand.
She told me she grew up in a huge Italian family where feeding twenty cousins was standard.
I told her about the time my grandmother made gumbo in a hurricane using only a camp stove and a prayer.
Then the conversation shifted subtly, growing personal, quiet, and a little bit painful.
“My husband…” she said, trailing off as she kneaded dough. “He’s making the divorce difficult. He thinks I owe him another chance. After what he did. After who he did it with.”
My chest tightened.
“Lucia… I’m so sorry.”
She shrugged a shoulder, but it didn’t hide the ache in her expression.
“I thought leaving would be the hard part, but no. The hard part is him refusing to let me go.”
I swallowed.
“When this is all over… I can help. I can put you in touch with the best mediator in Stonewood. He’s my boss, actually. We can get you resources or whatever you need to make things easier for you.”
She blinked quickly.
“You’d do that?”
“Of course.”
Something in her cracked, just a little, and she smiled a smile that brought tears to my eyes for a second.
“You remind me of someone,” she said softly. “Someone good… one of the kindest women I’ve ever known, actually. Mrs. Stonewood… Ben’s mother.”
A warmth spread through my ribs that had nothing to do with the oven preheating behind us.
Then Lucia’s smile dimmed. “You should know… the staff likes you. And the groundskeeper especially.”
My heartbeat stumbled.
Jacob.
“He’s a good man,” she said. “Lonely and far too good for most of the women here.”
I swallowed hard.
“I… I know. I think he’s probably too good for me, too, if we’re being honest.”
Her smile turned sly.
“He watches you the way my husband used to look at me when we first met.”
My face heated instantly.
“Lucia…”
“I’m old, not blind,” she teased. “And I know chemistry when I see it.”
I didn’t know how to respond because she wasn’t wrong, and the heat rushing through my stomach only confirmed what I wasn’t ready to say out loud.
But before I could come up with an answer that wouldn’t get me eliminated for falling in love with the wrong person, the doors slammed open.
Four contestants stumbled in, frantic and angry.
“We’re not doing this,” Thirteen snapped. “Where’s the food delivery?”
“There is no delivery,” Lucia said patiently.
“Well call one!” Thirteen crossed her arms and glared at Lucia.
“It’s unsafe for anyone to be on the road in these conditions,” Lucia said.
“So?”
Ten snorted and rolled her eyes.
“So? So someone could skid off the road and wreck if they tried to deliver during this ice storm, that’s what.”
Ten threw her hands up.
“I don’t care if someone skids off the road. I’m not eating peasant food.”
Lucia stiffened, sucking in a sharp breath.
Something cold unfurled inside me.
“No one is risking their life to bring you lazy, helpless brats dinner,” I said flatly.
They all turned to glare at me.
“Stay in your lane,” Thirteen hissed.
“Fine,” I said calmly. “While you starve tonight, I’ll be eating something Lucia and I made from scratch. I would offer to share, but what did you call it again? Peasant food?”
Lucia’s smirk was small but satisfied.
Eventually they stormed out, still complaining, and I knew in my bones they’d just tanked their standings. Lucia would likely report everything that had happened to Henry, if I had to guess.
Good. Maybe it’ll separate the wheat from the chaff.
Dinner came together beautifully between Lucia and me, soft rolls, herb-potato soup thick enough to stand a spoon in, and roasted vegetables we found tucked in the back of the fridge. It was simple, warm, and comforting.
And when Henry evaluated the meal at dinner, his mask slipped for half a second. Surprise and approval flickered in his expression, followed by something like a private smile. Then, he announced the actual rules.
“Ladies,” Henry purred in that lethal tone that made the hairs on my arms and the back of my neck stand on end. “Today’s challenge wasn’t about cooking, though I will say the meal Eighteen pulled together for us was quite delightful. It wasn’t about presentation or creativity.”
“Then what was it about, huh?”
Henry smirked.
“It was about competence, being able to function under pressure, and not being a spoiled, helpless disaster when life stopped catering to you.”
Henry set his spoon down with that same deliberate care, the soft clink somehow louder than the crackle of the fireplace.
The table went dead quiet. I could feel the remaining women freeze — Fifteen’s spoon halfway to her mouth, Sixteen’s perfect posture stiffening, Seventeen’s red lips parting just a fraction.
Henry let the silence stretch, then continued, voice dropping lower.
“And two of you failed spectacularly.”
His gaze slid to Thirteen first.
“Contestant Thirteen. You stormed into the kitchen demanding food delivery during an ice storm. When Lucia explained the roads were unsafe, you insisted anyway. And when Eighteen reminded you that real people could get hurt — or worse — you hissed at her to ‘stay in her lane’.”
Thirteen’s megawatt smile vanished. Color flooded her cheeks, then drained just as fast.
Henry turned to Ten, whose icy-blonde composure finally cracked — just a flicker around her eyes.
“Contestant Ten. You threw your hands up and announced that you didn’t care if a driver ‘skidded off the road and wrecked’, as long as you didn’t have to eat ‘peasant food’.”
Ten opened her mouth — maybe to protest, maybe to deny — but nothing came out.
Henry leaned back, folding his hands like a man who’d just finished a satisfying meal.
“This Game isn’t about who looks best on camera or who can charm a room. It’s about who you are when things get hard. When no one’s watching. When the world doesn’t bend to accommodate you.”
He nodded once toward the doors. Two staff members stepped forward, silent and expressionless.
Henry leaned back in his chair, the picture of calm satisfaction, and let the silence settle like fresh snow.
“Contestants Ten and Thirteen — and your partners — your time in the Game is over.”
He paused, just long enough for the words to sink in, then tilted his head with a faint, humorless smile.
“Normally, transportation would be waiting to take you home tonight. And believe me, the thought did cross my mind to send you on your way immediately — after all, Contestant Ten made it perfectly clear she doesn’t care if someone skids off the road and wrecks.”
Ten’s flawless posture faltered; her shoulders jerked as if she’d been slapped. A flush crept up her pale throat.
“But unlike some,” Henry continued, voice silk over steel, “I won’t risk lives for the sake of convenience — or spite. The roads are iced over. No driver will be sent out tonight.”
He gestured lazily toward the staff waiting by the doors.
“So you will be escorted to your quarters and confined there until the roads are safe to travel. Meals will be brought to you. You will have no contact with the remaining contestants. Consider yourselves… guests of the house, for now.”
Thirteen’s chair scraped back first, the sound harsh in the stunned quiet. She stood too quickly, her pageant smile long gone, replaced by something raw and furious.
“This is ridiculous,” she snapped, voice trembling at the edges. “You can’t just—”
“I can,” Henry cut in softly. “And I am.”
Ten rose more slowly, that runway grace finally cracking — her hands clenched at her sides, knuckles white. She didn’t speak, but her eyes flicked once toward the windows, where the storm still raged against the glass.
Their partners followed in silence, faces unreadable.
The staff moved forward — polite, firm, inescapable — and guided them out.
Four chairs emptied.
The doors closed with a heavy, final click.
Henry lifted his glass again, this time to the entire table, though his gaze settled firmly on me.
“To those who remain,” he said quietly. “Enjoy your dinner. It’s excellent.”
Across the table, Jacob’s scarred fingers found mine under the linen cloth and squeezed once, and then it was over.
Four couples left… just four, and one of them was us.