“Of course she did,” he muttered. “Of course, you found the one woman in Baldwin County who looks at your face and thinks ‘upgrade’.”
I almost laughed, but didn’t quite get there.
“She’s attracted to you,” he said. “We established that four years ago when she grabbed the first aid kit before anyone else and didn’t so much as blink. The road test today just confirmed it. So now we proceed as planned.”
“Planned.”
The word tasted thin.
“Yes,” he said. “Planned. You remember that concept? We spent months building this structure. You need a plausible process for eliminating the other candidates, a pattern of fair play for the lawyers, and a trail of footage that will stand up in court if your stepmother contests the will.”
He pointed toward a different monitor, where the male Ben decoys were getting last-minute notes from a staffer, ties straightened, domino masks in hand.
“All nine male decoys wear identical masks,” he reminded me. “Same style. Same color. Same cut. You’re one of them now. That was always the plan if she passed your tests.”
“I get to replace number seven,” I said.
Henry’s brows ticked up.
“As we planned.”
“I had you assign Brandon as her original partner for a reason,” I said. “So you could ‘eliminate’ him in the foyer. He earns his money, plays the horny idiot, gets theatrically removed from the Game, and suddenly there’s a vacancy. I step in. Jacob becomes number seven. Number Seven is Chrissy’s new partner in the challenges. It’s the perfect inroad to get to observe her closely.”
Henry’s mouth twitched.
“Brandon did play it well,” he allowed. “Overacted the whole thing just enough to make you look justified when you volunteered.”
“He’ll be compensated,” I said. “Bonus for taking the public hit. He did so well I wanted to throttle him, honestly.”
“Good. I’ll see that it’s paid.”
One less variable on the board, and one less decoy between me and my girl.
Henry adjusted his cufflinks, eyes sweeping the wall of screens again.
“She will be allowed to go to dinner,” he said. “On probation. We’ll stay with the script you wanted: a maid knocks at seven-twenty, tells her Mr. Stonewood has reviewed the footage and chosen to give her ‘one chance’. It will reinforce the idea that the Game is strict but fair.”
“She already knows I’m her partner,” I reminded him. “They all do. I volunteered in front of the entire foyer.”
“Yes,” he said. “Which means there’s no point pretending you’re just another anonymous number. The mask goes on anyway — we need to keep the visual language consistent — but no one in that dining room is going to mistake you for anyone else.”
My fingertips brushed the ruined side of my face.
“The scars will give it away.”
“So will the height, the voice, the way you hover around her like a storm front,” Henry said dryly. “The other women already know Jacob, the groundskeeper, is number eighteen’s partner. The gag is not ‘who is her partner’. The gag is ‘which of these nine men is the real prize’. And as far as they know, the groundskeeper is just a bone thrown to keep her from being unfairly eliminated, nothing more.”
“She’s the only one who was ever going to win,” I said.
“And that,” he said, “is information only you and I are allowed to have.”
He turned back to the monitors, tapping one knuckle against the frame.
“From their point of view, it must look fair,” he went on. “They need to see you in the mask, at the table, playing the same Game they are. You’re Chrissy’s partner in every challenge. You show up when she’s called. You follow the rules. You bleed with her if you have to. Everyone else? Decoys. But the cameras need footage that says the other women at least stood half a chance at winning.”
I watched Chrissy on the top right feed. She’d chosen the green dress, just like I knew she would. She turned sideways in the mirror, frowning at herself, then rolled her shoulders back like she was physically shrugging the doubt off.
“Then get me a mask,” I said. “And something that isn’t my groundskeeper jacket.”
