“No one is risking their life to bring you lazy, helpless brats dinner,” I said flatly.
They all turned to glare at me.
“Stay in your lane,” Thirteen hissed.
“Fine,” I said calmly. “While you starve tonight, I’ll be eating something Lucia and I made from scratch. I would offer to share, but what did you call it again? Peasant food?”
Lucia’s smirk was small but satisfied.
Eventually they stormed out, still complaining, and I knew in my bones they’d just tanked their standings. Lucia would likely report everything that had happened to Henry, if I had to guess.
Good. Maybe it’ll separate the wheat from the chaff.
Dinner came together beautifullybetween Lucia and me, soft rolls, herb-potato soup thick enough to stand a spoon in, and roasted vegetables we found tucked in the back of the fridge. It was simple, warm, and comforting.
And when Henry evaluated the meal at dinner, his mask slipped for half a second. Surprise and approval flickered in his expression, followed by something like a private smile. Then, he announced the actual rules.
“Ladies,” Henry purred in that lethal tone that made the hairs on my arms and the back of my neck stand on end. “Today’s challenge wasn’t about cooking, though I will say the meal Eighteen pulled together for us was quite delightful. It wasn’t about presentation or creativity.”
“Then what was it about, huh?”
Henry smirked.
“It was about competence, being able to function under pressure, and not being a spoiled, helpless disaster when life stopped catering to you.”
Henry set his spoon down with that same deliberate care, the soft clink somehow louder than the crackle of the fireplace. The table went dead quiet. I could feel the remaining women freeze — Fifteen’s spoon halfway to her mouth, Sixteen’s perfect posture stiffening, Seventeen’s red lips parting just a fraction. Henry let the silence stretch, then continued, voice dropping lower.
“And two of you failed spectacularly.”
His gaze slid to Thirteen first.
“Contestant Thirteen. You stormed into the kitchen demanding food delivery during an ice storm. When Lucia explained the roads were unsafe, you insisted anyway. And when Eighteen reminded you that real people could get hurt — or worse — you hissed at her to ‘stay in her lane’.”
Thirteen’s megawatt smile vanished. Color flooded her cheeks, then drained just as fast.
Henry turned to Ten, whose icy-blonde composure finally cracked — just a flicker around her eyes.
“Contestant Ten. You threw your hands up and announced that you didn’t care if a driver ‘skidded off the road and wrecked’, as long as you didn’t have to eat ‘peasant food’.”
Ten opened her mouth — maybe to protest, maybe to deny — but nothing came out.
Henry leaned back, folding his hands like a man who’d just finished a satisfying meal.
“This Game isn’t about who looks best on camera or who can charm a room. It’s about who you are when things get hard. When no one’s watching. When the world doesn’t bend to accommodate you.”
He nodded once toward the doors. Two staff members stepped forward, silent and expressionless.
Henry leaned back in his chair, the picture of calm satisfaction, and let the silence settle like fresh snow.
“Contestants Ten and Thirteen — and your partners — your time in the Game is over.”
He paused, just long enough for the words to sink in, then tilted his head with a faint, humorless smile.
“Normally, transportation would be waiting to take you home tonight. And believe me, the thought did cross my mind to send you on your way immediately — after all, Contestant Ten made itperfectly clear she doesn’t care if someone skids off the road and wrecks.”
Ten’s flawless posture faltered; her shoulders jerked as if she’d been slapped. A flush crept up her pale throat.
“But unlike some,” Henry continued, voice silk over steel, “I won’t risk lives for the sake of convenience — or spite. The roads are iced over. No driver will be sent out tonight.”
