15. Helen
HELEN
Alaska curls around my feet like living slippers while in front of me, my editing monitor glows. Tampa fills the screen in slashes of sun and fur.
I laugh under my breath, dragging a slider to sharpen the image of Diego vaulting over a pile of cabana cushions. “You ham,” I murmur, remembering how he’d stolen my reflector and trotted off with it.
The doorbell rings as I’m fine-tuning the exposure.
Alaska springs from my feet the moment I straighten. Through the narrow glass panel beside the door, I catch sight of a man in a brown uniform. UPS.
“Alaska, stay.”
She holds as I open the door.
“Helena Mercer?”
“Yes.”
He hands over a parcel wrapped in plain brown paper and extends the scanner toward me. I sign without thinking too much about it, only seeing my name printed on the label. The driver gives a brief nod and walks back down the path toward the street.
I close the door and turn the lock.
Only then do I really look at what I’m holding.
UPS labels usually shout logistics, all tracking numbers and origin stamps, barcodes stacked over barcodes. This one is sparse, with no return address. And I don’t recall seeing a UPS van outside when I signed. Maybe it was parked farther down the street. Still, something doesn’t track.
Alaska noses the box, then lifts one paw as if volunteering to help.
“You’re cute like that, you know?”
The paper crackles as I set the package on my worktable. Expectation gathers under my skin as I run the box cutter through the tape.
Inside are two boxes.
A silver presentation box sits inside, tied with a silver ribbon that looks hand-knotted rather than machine-looped. Beneath it rests a second box, deeper in tone. Solid mahogany, I think, judging by the grain and weight.
I lift the silver one out of the carton.
There’s a card tucked beneath the ribbon. Thick stock with a light texture and the words are in delicate calligraphy.
For you.
Someone wrote this. Actually wrote it.
I lift the lid.
Charcoal velvet lies folded, resting on the box’s satin lining. Darker than my usual palette, but I want it immediately. The straps are delicate and the sweetheart neckline is edged in crystals with exquisite craftsmanship.
“Wow…” I breathe, my fingertip gliding along the crystals.
I hold it against myself and step toward the mirror.
The tailoring is there, but it isn’t aggressive.
I can imagine wearing this for hours without counting the seconds until I escape it.
This isn’t just a gown. It’s elegance threaded with seduction and common sense, clearly meant for something far beyond an ordinary party.
“The Game,” I murmur.
Did Victor choose this?
It’s not his usual taste. He prefers something more obvious. This has a lighter touch.
I fold it carefully and settle it back into its satin-lined case. I set it aside then reach back into the carton and lift the second piece.
“Would you look at this…” The mahogany grain is fine and even beneath my fingertips. Now that it’s free of the packing, the scent rises properly—warm timber and a trace of resin, with that subtle sweetness only real wood carries.
The lid lifts without resistance.
A tablet rests inside, its screen dark. Beneath it lies a case in smooth black leather. Before I can decide which to reach for first, the tablet flickers to life as I lean over it.
Greetings, Helena Mercer.
Read this message in full before opening the black case.
Victor did say I’d receive an invitation, but I pictured an embossed card tucked inside some beautifully overdone envelope. Not this.
You are invited to The Velvet Game. This Saturday.
The dress has been selected for you. No other participant will know what you are wearing. Not even the man who facilitated your entry.
“Jagger…” I murmur.
So he won’t know.
A slow thrill moves through me.
You may be tested and you may be hurt. In return, you may do whatever it takes to defend yourself or claim what you desire.
Men may stand in your path. They may pursue you. Whether you resist them or invite them closer will be entirely your choice.
The man who ensured your invitation will be present. You may choose him—if you recognize him beneath his mask.
“Mask?” I mutter. Images flash through my mind: secret-society galas, eyes-only masquerades, rooms filled with strangers.
So that’s why Victor stayed vague during that wine cellar dinner when we talked about the Game.
Maybe it’s part of the logistics. Or maybe it falls under his “every game is different” rule.
Either way, I’m glad he didn’t explain more. It would’ve spoiled this.
Or you may surrender the night to the one who makes your body answer.
“Shit…you want to test me, Jag?”
Victor did tell me he’d get some say in the kind of game I’d receive.
Doubt follows. Would I recognize him in a room full of masked men?
I’m ready to ignore the rest and reach for the leather case when the screen swipes on its own, revealing the next instruction.
The Organizer operates on consent alone. If this invitation does not align with your will, decline now and accept our gratitude for your discretion. Disclosure of this invitation to anyone will result in immediate forfeiture.
Two options appear beneath the text.
DECLINE — $50,000 transferred immediately, with no further obligation.
ACCEPT — Complete the Game and receive $100,000, provided you place your trust wisely.
“Holy shit…”
This is insane.
And the problem with insanity is that it can sound reasonable when it offers you something you want.
Victor talks about risk the way boys talk about fireworks. This doesn’t feel like that. It feels arranged. Like someone sat down and thought through every objection I might raise and removed it.
Fifty thousand dollars for walking away. It isn’t pocket change, it would solve practical things immediately. Olivia’s tuition for another quarter. Her textbooks and rent. A new laptop for me. Proper insulation instead of the draft that whistles under the door every winter.
But I was the one who called Victor boring, and now I’m staring at the proof that he isn’t.
Walking away now would be smart. It would also mean backing away from what I told him over that twenty-year-old French dessert wine—that I was looking forward to whatever complications the Game might bring. That maybe it would reveal who we really were to each other. Maybe even pull us closer.
“Come on, Helen.”
And it isn’t only pride keeping my hand suspended above a damn button. One hundred thousand dollars buys more than time.
The terms are right there. Consent. Exit. Payment either way. There’s nothing coercive in the language, no fine-print trap.
I’m not reckless. But I’m not cashing out early like some quitter. I will finish this and collect the damn hundred.
My finger hovers only a second longer.
I press ACCEPT.
The response is immediate.
Wise decision, Helena Mercer.
Your stepmother will be at the Cultural Arts Circle on Saturday evening. You are free to leave the house at 7:45 p.m. and wait at the corner of Sackett and Clinton. Someone will collect you.
Seriously? They know Anna’s calendar?
From there, the night proceeds. One rule stands: Never unmask another participant.
If you wish to terminate the Game at any time, your safe word is: Alaska.
I look at my dog. “They know you too.”
Of course they do. She’s all over my social feeds. Nothing about her is private. Still, that word isn’t random. I adopted her from the ASPCA when Mercer & Paw almost folded two years ago. They chose the one word that carries weight for me.
Your discretion is expected. Breach of confidentiality carries consequences.
The screen fades to black.
Then, in larger, elegant lettering:
Welcome to The Velvet Game, Hellion.
Hellion?
A muted mechanical click comes from the carton that held the boxes. The black leather case—the last item—seems to have unlocked itself.
I lift the lid.
“My God…”
The mask inside is both delicate and defiant—black and white, shaped in sweeping curves that rise like wings along the temples.
The mouth remains uncovered. The eye openings are cut sharp.
At first glance it looks almost fragile, but when I lift it, the frame holds firm.
It’s been designed to stay on, and to survive the night.
Victor promised lavish, decadent and intense. This feels more exact than that. More thought through.
I reach for the velvet dress again and step into it properly this time. Now that I’ve seen the mask, the charcoal makes sense. The fabric settles along my body exactly as I imagined—defined without squeezing, supportive without forcing me into shape. I fasten the straps and turn toward the mirror.
I raise the mask and set it lightly against my face.
Holy hell. I barely recognize the woman staring back.
I am Hellion.
And whatever this Game turns out to be, I’m ready.