By the time I stepped away from my laptop, the apartment had gone completely still.
No music. No TV for background noise. Just the quiet stretch of midnight pressing against the windows, and the occasional pop of old pipes shifting in the walls like ghosts making their rounds.
I stood at the window with a chipped mug of hot cocoa in my hands and stared out into the back parking lot, watching the yellow halo of a streetlamp flicker over cracked pavement. Somewhere in the distance, someone was yelling at someone else. A siren wailed as it pulled into the hospital across the street. Normal sounds. Normal night.
I pulled my cardigan tighter and let my forehead rest against the cool glass.
I sipped the cocoa and made a face. It was watery and weak.
Fitting.
Because no matter how much planning I did, no matter how many routes I mapped or how many outfits I packed, this wasn’t something I could control.
I drifted back to my laptop and typed ‘Old Stonewood Hunting Lodge + The Game’ into Google expecting… I don’t know. Nothing. A scam warning. Maybe a PDF of rules with terrible graphic design.
I wasn’t expecting a dozen dead ends, a few conspiracy threads, and then… an article on page six of the Stonewood Times.
It was fresh, only three days old. My stomach flipped.
I clicked the article and read.
It is rumored that Benjamin Stonewood, the reclusive billionaire heir to the Stonewood fortune, has arranged a game to help select the woman who will become his wife.
I blinked. Hard.
A wife?
The article kept going, breathless and dramatic in that way the Stonewood Times got when they had first dibs on a juicy piece of gossip:
In a highly exclusive, private bachelor-style game (with a twist), nine women will compete to uncover the real BenStonewood’s identity among the group of men inhabiting Old Stonewood Hunting Lodge for the duration of the game. Only one woman will win the $750,000 prize and become the future Mrs. Stonewood.
My pulse roared in my ears.
Bachelor-style meant shenanigans… sexy ones. It was practically guaranteed that people were going to sleep with each other.
And because my brain hated me, the first image that flashed across my mind wasn’t some faceless billionaire. No, it was a pair of big hands, a low voice, a scarred face, and the most beautiful, piercing blue eyes I’d ever seen in my life. Heat crawled up my throat.
Jacob.
I’d met him once in Stonewood Hardware, four years ago, then never seen him again. I would have thought that I’d imagined him, if the bloodstains from where he cut his hand hadn’t permanently stained the concrete floor there.
But then the rest sank in, cold and heavy:
I was going to have to compete against other women for the chance to be Benjamin Stonewood’s wife.
A complete stranger’s wife. A man I’d never met. A man no one had seen in years, not since the accident.
The article mentioned that too:
Sources claim Mr. Stonewood underwent extensive reconstructive surgeries overseas after his tragic accident,meaning he could look like anyone. His true appearance is currently unknown.
I sat back in my chair. If I won, I’d have to marry a man who could be anyone. Give up my freedom to become some billionaire’s… what? Prize? Investment? Doll?
My chest tightened. It sounded completely insane.
But then I saw Granny Irene’s face again. I thought about the good day she’d had, and how quickly it had slipped away.
$750,000.
