26. Helen
HELEN
My client hugs me. “I can’t wait to see those photos,” she says for the third time, one hand still resting on her dog’s broad head. “He never sits still for anyone.”
“He did for me,” I reply, rubbing behind the Labrador’s ears. “He’s a professional. He just needed the right co-star.”
Alaska huffs, as if clarifying she’s more than that.
“I’ll send previews by the weekend,” I say.
Now that I’m no longer obligated to someone who turns a declined dinner into a three-day mood, I can make that promise with confidence.
“I’ll frame all of them!” She waves me goodbye.
It’s one of those cool afternoons where the air carries a crisp edge of fall. I leave the studio door open, letting the scent of dry leaves and distant woodsmoke drift in.
Alaska turns to me slowly, her eyes full of despair.
“What’s that face? Snack time?”
Her spine goes straight, eyes alert.
“That’s what I thought.”
The kitchenette nook is tucked behind the backdrop wall, the part clients don’t see. Narrow counter, tiny bar fridge, shelves of cleaning supplies and packaging materials. And on the highest shelf, in a ceramic jar shaped like a bone, Alaska’s carefully rationed stash.
“Don’t look at me like that,” I tell her as I reach up. “You know the rules.”
She sits immediately. Too immediately.
“Overachiever.”
I pull a puzzle toy from the basket beneath the counter, tuck the treat inside, and twist it shut. “Work for it.”
She takes it from my hand and trots toward the open door, tail swaying with purpose. For a moment she stands just outside, breeze lifting the fur at her neck. Then she circles back in and drops the toy at my feet, as if saying I’d rather you supervise this.
“Sorry, girl, I’ve still got work to do.”
She freezes, evaluating my priorities.
“You can play here.” I tap at the floor.
That satisfies her. She drops down onto the studio rug and noses the toy, rolling it before clamping her jaws around it. I smile and return to my desk.
The new laptop sits there, paid for in full with money I never imagined I’d have. Money earned in a world where a real mouse darts across a hedge while a man in a mouse mask watches from the shadows. Where a Red Fox rescues you—and you want him to.
I open the editing software. “Look at you go,” I murmur as the machine hums through the rendering process without so much as a stutter.
Outside, a leaf scrapes along concrete.
Alaska’s chewing slows. Her head snaps up.
Then she barks. Not the bright, attention-seeking bark she uses when she wants me to admire her cleverness.
“Okay, I hear you.” I move toward the open door.
The yard sits quiet. The maple along the fence quivers. A few leaves skitter across the concrete path. Late afternoon light pours over the grass. Nothing else. Except—a box. Plain brown paper. Alaska reaches it first. She noses the edge, then lifts her head and looks at me.
“Oh my…”
I glance up and down the street. Carroll Gardens carries on as usual, entirely ordinary.
Finally I pick up the box. So the Game continues even after Victor? Or is Victor still playing something I can’t see?
The thought follows me inside as I close the door with my heel. I set the box on the table. Brown paper gives way with a soft tear.
Gold appears first. A paper box that seems to hold its own glow beneath the overhead lights. Beneath it is a mahogany case. It’s dark, polished, and unmistakable.
I open the gold box first.
“My God…”
I free the ivory dress from the box and it spills like a downpour of light. The fabric is weightless, almost liquid beneath my fingers. The skirt cascades in layered chiffon, sheer as breath yet shaped to hold its form. It’s the most beautiful gown I’ve ever seen.
A small card rests against the silk lining. Handwritten.
Hellion.
The name hits somewhere warm and I smile involuntarily. I smooth the chiffon back into place, and slide the gold box aside.
Because the mahogany box is waiting and I can hardly contain my excitement. Just like the last time, a tablet rests inside. As soon as my face hovers over the screen, it comes alive.
Alaska shifts closer to my leg, her flank warm against my calf.
“It’s alright, girl.”
Sometimes I think she notices the change in me before I do. The quickened rhythm beneath my ribcage isn’t fear, but maybe she doesn’t know the difference.
The screen brightens fully.
We meet again, Hellion.
A slow breath leaves me.
You moved through the last Game with rare instinct and exquisite resolve. We would be honored to welcome you again this Saturday.
Your arrival will follow the same discreet path as before. A car will collect you at the appointed place at 7:45 p.m.
This time, there is no monetary prize. Instead, the Game offers something far more elusive.
Heat climbs my throat, then drops low, way low.
As always, nothing is given freely. You will encounter temptation. You will meet resistance. You may employ any strategy you deem worthy in pursuit of your objective: the man of your choosing.
I read the line twice. That night unfolded under watchful eyes, no doubt about it. They know who I refused. They know who I truly chose. And this is a challenge to do it again.
We trust you will accept.
After all, desire remains the only currency no institution can mint and no power can withhold.
Beneath the text, there’s only one button: YES.
Alaska nudges my thigh with her nose.
“You think I shouldn’t?”
Her tail sways.
There’s no prize money this time. No practical justification. Just an ivory chiffon gown waiting in its box. The Hellion mask tucked at the back of my closet. And the memory of walking through something surreal and discovering how alive I felt inside it.
The man of my choosing.
My pulse evens out, settling into something certain. My finger hovers above the screen.
This is playing with fire.
This is a choice I can’t justify.
This is exactly what I want.
I press YES.
The screen clears in a single motion, the invitation dissolving into a simple confirmation.
You’re in, Hellion.
Alaska leans her weight against my leg again.
“It’s just a game,” I murmur. “But you’re right. Victor could still be behind it.”
That thought doesn’t frighten me. We ended it. I won’t step into Saturday unprepared.
If he’s there—likely under a different mask—I’ll know. I know his voice, his movement, and the way his attention pricks against me. And if he thinks this is an opportunity to pull me back into something that ends with me in his clutch, he’ll discover very quickly that I don’t run.
I choose.