FIVE HUNDRED AND THIRTY-FIVE DAYS, EVE
I quietly openthe door to the staff room, and Cal nods to me as I slide into the last remaining seat, trying to compose myself though my heart is still pounding from my unexpected morning run. I wipe the sweat from my brow and will myself to slow my breathing.
I made it.
“As I was saying,” Cal continues, “the post offers a forty-five percent salary increase and on-site housing. In return, you’ll submit to enhanced security protocols, accept reduced personal privacy, and agree to mandatory relocation. If you can’t relocate, you may leave now. No penalty. No questions.”
A few seconds pass in silence, then three people rise, muttering about kids, spouses, or elderly parents. Their exit thin the field to three people. A woman chewing her lip, a man stroking his phone, and me.
Cal hands each of us a single sheet of paper. One page, double-spaced, and almost insultingly vague.
When Cal asks who's interested, the lip chewer wilts first, saying she has a boyfriend she can’t go radio silent with, noteven for a couple months. Then the phone stroker whispers something about an elderly beagle.
“I volunteer,” I say, trying to keep the excitement from my voice.I’m so happy I got off that damn bus.And then I think about Pythia and wish I could tell her that she was wrong.
Cal smiles. “Glad you made it after all, Eve. I just want to reiterate one question before we proceed. You’re sure there’s no one who relies on you?”
“I’m sure, Cal. It’s just me.”
“Good. Once the contract is signed, you’ll inform any essential contacts of your promotion—family, close friends, anyone who might notice your absence. After that, you’ll enter immersion. No communication until the Ascendant Alliance clears you. Standard protocol. I trust you understand.”
“I understand.”No one will notice the silence at my end.“When will I start?”
“You begin the moment the authorization registers,” he says.
“What about my belongings? My lease? I still owe seven months’ rent.” Although, I will be relieved not to have to pay the rent on my studio apartment.
“The Ascendant Alliance will settle your lease in full. Anything you wish to keep will be shipped once your probationary period concludes. We take care of our own.”
It all sounds frictionless. Too frictionless, if I’m being honest, but this is the Ascendant Alliance after all. And I know from working here that polishing over inconveniences is their brand.
And I understand the math. The worth of everything I own wouldn't equal what some guests spend on a single day's amusement. I've arranged enough frivolities to know; private jets, expensive jewelry, luxury fashion, Michelin-star restaurants, you name it. Nothing surprisesme anymore.
“If you have no further questions, there are documents to sign, and then we'll get you on your way.”
Part of me feels like this is happening way too fast, but another part of me is internally screaming with delight at this new opportunity and says, ‘Relax, predators don’t leave this much paperwork.’
Cal leads me into his office, and as I follow, my thoughts drift to the exotic locales where this “mystery hotel” might be located. Some blue lagoon in the Maldives, the sun-kissed shores of Fiji, or maybe even somewhere I've never even heard of that only billionaires disappear to, but not the infamous type with scandalous headlines attached.
Once we're in his office, he settles behind his massive desk and dramatically places an electronic contract before me. The Ascendant Alliance insignia is emblazoned across the top. A stylized gold-toned spire encircled by eight starbursts. It’s so familiar to me it almost makes me feel more comfortable with the situation.
I scroll through the pages, noticing that most of it mirrors my current role. Uniform standards, confidentiality clauses, no social media posts about guests. Room, board, even entertainment is included. It's only when I spot the term “five hundred and thirty-five days” that my eyes narrow.
Cal stands, giving me space. “Take your time. If you have any questions, let me know. I'll be right outside.”
I watch him go, his polished shoes clicking on the marble floor like the game show Jeopardy! song, measuring the time I have left to read the contract and sign it.
Alone, I skim the contract again, pressing my lips together at that oddly precise number. I think of Denise, who left for a similar promotion and never came back.
When Cal returns, I point to the contract. “Everything looks fine, but I have some questions.”
He sits down across from me. “I’d be surprised if youdidn’t. Go ahead.”
“Five hundred and thirty-five days? That's a strange length of time.”
He smiles. “The owners are fascinated by certain numerical sequences tied to orbital periods and celestial alignments. They like to think of it as their lucky number. You know how eccentric wealthy people can be.”
“Yes, but it's usually the number seven or eight. Eight-eight-eight if you're Chinese, one hundred and thirty-seven if you’re a physicist, or six-six-six if you’re a Devil worshipper, but I’ve never heard of five hundred and thirty-five,” I say. I leave off saying,I’m worried it’s a cult like Heaven’s Gate for billionaires.
