Burning Ultimatum (Trevor's Harem #4) (13 page)

“Ridiculous,” Welty says.
 

Here’s where I lie. Here’s where I stick my neck out this one last time. But if I can pull this single untruth off, the rest might hold together.
 

“We’ve stayed apart,” I say. “But if you look at her new profile, from the footage, I think you’ll see that she hasn’t considered anyone else. You saw her with Caspian, then with Trevor. If that doesn’t prove she actually has an uncanny ability to outthink her impulses —
without
the sexual outlet I provided her earlier, against board approval — then I don’t know what does.”
 

Or in other words, Bridget’s remained moderate and centered even after we’ve stopped fucking.
 

Which will be a convincing argument as long as the board never figures out that we
haven’t
stopped fucking.
 

In the blind spots.
 

In the hidden room.
 

Like rabbits.
 

Alexa seems to think then slowly shakes her head.
 

“I almost want to agree with you, Daniel,” she says. “And if you were right, she really might fit the profile. What we need more than any single other talent is critical thinking. Almost nobody is self-aware enough to resist the things she has, and that suggests an incredible amount of front-brain ability. But there’s just one problem: She’s fucked up. We all know she’s fucked up. She didn’t have a mother growing up. She has a dysfunctional attachment style. She’s … what’s the nerd way to say this?” Alexa turns toward Welty.
 

“She lacks the proper receptors in her nucleus accumbens.”
 

“Less
nerdy,” Alexa clarifies, rolling her eyes.
 

But I’ve studied my neurology. And I can’t believe Welty is giving me this opening.
 

There are two factors that affect the way genes express themselves.
 

There’s the genetic code itself.
 

And then there’s our world and the situations surrounding us, which can be a powerful pen and eraser for the hand that nature’s dealt us.
 

“You’re ignoring epigenetics,” I say.
 

“What? You’re saying that somehow, something in Bridget’s environment is
changing her genes?”
 

Keeping my face carefully straight, I nod.
 

“What?”
Welty says, his voice practically dripping condescension. “What force could
possibly
be strong enough to rewrite DNA expression in a girl who was born to a dissociated mother with her own history of neglect? What
super-amazing, all-consuming force of nature
could do that, Daniel?”
 

I look Welty right in the eyes.
 

“Love,” I say.

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

Now that I know about Halo, so many things around the mansion make a lot more sense. Like the way lights turn on and off as we walk through rooms. Like the way the thermostat adjusts — not only to a standard temperature, but to preferences we ourselves have expressed in the past combined with the rooms somehow scanning our bodies. According to Daniel, Halo uses the home’s sensors to surveil us for the competition, doing double duty to run many of the facility’s systems at the same time. Halo knows I like an even 70 degrees — a bit cooler at night, slightly warmer in the mornings. But what’s creepy is that if my mom went into one of these rooms alone in the middle of a hot flash, Halo would cool the room, knowing exactly how uncomfortable she’d be otherwise.
 

It explains why, after turning my bedside lamp on every night to read, it was suddenly on all the time when I returned to my room in the evenings. And it explains why, after Kylie left, there stopped being peanut butter on the breakfast buffet. Kylie ate the peanut butter (on the sly; bitch only ate salads in public, I swear), but ever since I mentioned my peanut allergy to Kylie that one random time, it vanished.

It even explains the single-serving helpers. The house probably has a massive staff, but they stay invisible like the Oompa Loompas before Willy Wonka gave them too much freedom. Halo presents most of what we need, before we know we need it — like having a mind-reading assistant doing your bidding all the time, whether you want it or not.

We’re sitting around a small four-top table in the dining room, near the big picture window, looking out over the snow-capped mountains. A sense of abiding peace is on my shoulders. The view is majestic, but for me, this is a place to vacation, not stay. For the first time since I’ve been here, I can appreciate it as such. There may be a final challenge to separate me from Jessica, but it’ll be moot. We’re not in competition. Jessica wants the house, the view, the fortune, and Trevor.

I only want Daniel.
 

Under the tablecloth, Daniel’s hand slides up my leg. I feel a tingle but take his hand instead of letting it go farther. Right now, I just want to love him. I want to feel his love for me. There will be plenty of time for more once this is finally over, after I’ve gone home with my second-place prize. We can’t discuss details at this table because the risk of deleting too much from Halo and attracting attention is too great so close to the finish. But I can squeeze his hand under the table and smile. We don’t need words.
 

Later
, I tell him.
There’s time later for that, when Halo isn’t watching.
 

And Daniel’s eyes say to me,
Let’s visit the secret room after breakfast.
 

A tiny, dirty little smile forms on his lips, and I hear him mentally say a thousand other things that flutter my heart, and turn my panties wet.

A man brings us coffee. Another single-serving helper I’ve never seen. My coffee arrives light and sweetened because Halo has fine-tuned food deliveries to all the preferences I’ve ever expressed in this strange place.

“Which one of us do you think will win?” I ask Trevor.
 

Trevor says he doesn’t know. Though of course he does.
 

“I could get used to this view,” Jessica says.
 

And she will. With Trevor’s billions, Jessica will have this view and any others she wants. Because although the contest is a ruse, the winner
will
become his bride. He needs a counterbalance in the public eye. Everyone knows Trevor Stone, but he can’t stay a playboy forever. Even for a sex company, the fresh face leading it needs stability. There are stockholders to consider. There’s a board — I’ve abundantly heard in private — to please. Trevor has a reputation. It’s fine for a young man, and Eros for now. But if he doesn’t settle, stock prices will suffer. It’s dumb luck that the arranged wife this farce has found for him — a wife with an ulterior purpose, though I believe what Daniel is up to will smash those obligations before Jessica learns what they are — happens to be his
perfect
wife. Trevor and Jess will make a cute couple. And I couldn’t be in the next room and expect to sleep, the way Jessica rocks the bedposts.
 

“Don’t get
too
used to it,” I say. “I might be the winner, you know.”
 

Jessica rolls her eyes. She really should act better, and not make it clear to anyone watching that we’ve made a plan. Everything is perfect now; these are the short roads to the finish line. We should all be on our best behavior, to keep this ship from rocking until after the final elimination when Jessica claims her crown. But she can’t help her excitement. And because I don’t want to marry Trevor no matter the dowry, I’m happy, too. I’m happy for her. And I’m happy for me — and my future with Daniel and more money from second place than I ever thought I’d earn in my entire life.
 

Three million dollars.
 

I could buy that hip little building in downtown Inferno Falls — the one with the all-glass lobby, the third-floor balcony over the topsy-turvy out-jut of the second floor offices, the siding that looks like horizontal slats of cedar. It’s more than I need right now, but I already have talent I could hire. If I want to produce audio instead of just recording it myself, I’ll need to up my game. Three million will get me there. I could even dabble in music production. Why not? Abigail and Gavin’s band could have better sound, and I think their current producers are ripping them off.
 

“Seriously,” I say as Jessica continues to goggle comically at me. She stops rolling her eyes. It also makes her stop licking the air and making blowjob pantomime using one hand and her tongue in her cheek. She’s my kind of asshole.
 

“Sorry.”
 

That’s just as bad as rolling her eyes. How could anyone not watch this idyllic little breakfast and not know we were in collusion? We’re not supposed to plot our win; we’re supposed to let Halo make the call and abide by its decision. I gather, from Daniel, that trust in Halo is
very
important to the board. He’s counting on how much the board trusts Halo so he can snap its neck if he has to. But that part is something I barely understand, nor do I care to.
 

Another man brings us toast. Bagels. Nothing but carbs, because fuck it. How and what we eat doesn’t matter.
 

All that matters is that we’re all in agreement.
 

All that matters is that our enemies and threats are all gone.

Kylie. Ivy. Roxy. Caspian White.
 

Jessica was never an enemy. Now everyone knows where everyone stands. Now everyone knows we coast to the storybook ending we’ve all discussed in the hidden room, without the house watching, and Halo judging everything we do.
 

All that matters is that I made it.
 

All that matters is that, thanks to a ton of last-minute Bridget sabotage, there’s
no way in hell
I’ll win this thing. Daniel’s been erasing my rivals’ accomplishments to get me this far, but now he and Jessica have deleted mine. Gone through the footage, removed anything that might give me points from Halo’s memory.
 

How could Jessica not win now?
 

How could I not lose, and be
forced
to accept my three million, my dream recording studio … and, as an unexpected bonus, my dream man?
 

Boo-hoo. Poor me. I’m not going to marry the billionaire.
It’s so sad, I’d jump onto the table and cheer if I didn’t think Halo might find it suspicious.
 

A third man — different from the other two, as if Halo has an inexhaustible supply of human limbs to use in delivering our desires to our table — brings us a small basket of spreads for our bagels and toast.

There’s jam, in maybe a dozen organic varieties.
 

There’s cream cheese.
 

There’s honey in adorable tiny jars.
 

And there’s —
 

I hold up a small tin. It makes my skin prickle and I’m not even sure why, beyond the obvious reason.
 

“That’s strange,” I say.
 

Daniel was saying something to Trevor. I wasn’t paying attention, but he’s half laughing as he turns toward me. When I came here, you never saw Daniel smile,
never
. And yet lately, it’s the expression I’ve seen on his face more often than not.
 

He looks at me, his smile growing puzzled.
 

“What’s strange?”

“Peanut butter.” I set the thing down. My allergy isn’t life-threatening, but I’m still not sure why I touched it.

Trevor’s still smiling. His hand is on Jessica’s lap, as Daniel’s is on mine. He says, “Actually, it’s not strange at all. What you do is to get a bunch of peanuts, crush them, and … ”
 

But he stops as my eyebrows furrow. When I look back up, everyone’s eyes are on me. All over a stupid little tin of peanut butter.
 

Trevor’s eyes, looking amused.
 

Daniel’s eyes, looking curious.
 

And Jessica’s eyes, looking …
 

“I haven’t seen peanut butter since I mentioned once that I was allergic,” I say.
 

And Jessica’s eyes, looking like she’s trying hard to get me to stop talking — the way you’d stare at someone about to blow a secret, urging them to shut the hell up.

“What?” I ask.
 

The man who brought us the basket, now near the exit, touches his ear the way Secret Service guys touch their ear when receiving a transmission.

He rushes from the room.
 

Daniel rises to run after him.
 

“What’s going on?” I repeat.
 

But Jessica looks sad, and Trevor is rising to follow Daniel.
 

I know I’ve just done something awful.

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

Motherfucker.
 

MOTHER. FUCKER.
 

My system has shifted into full fight or flight. And worse, I’m frozen. About to come down with some serious adrenaline blue balls. Even though I know it’s a bad idea, I can’t help chasing the page. I don’t know the guy’s name so I can’t call after him. There are layers between me and the help — I only know the people I see most often. The problem has only exacerbated since the board set up Trevor’s and my arrangement. I used to pride myself on being hands-on. My roots are proud, even caked with shit. We all come from something, and I wasn’t born sucking on a silver spoon. I wanted to keep my hands in the nitty-gritty. But the board — especially once they started sniffing around for partners like GameStorming and others I suspect must be out there — had other plans.
 

I speedwalk down the lushly carpeted hallways, asking myself what I plan to do at the end of this errand. I can’t call out for the page because I don’t know his name. I can’t summon security to stop him because those who are officially in charge here would say the page is doing exactly what he’s supposed to do. I can’t even speak aloud — to Trevor, Bridget, or Jessica — because it’ll blow my cover. I’d need to drag them to the hidden room, or to one of the established mind fuck blind spots, if I wanted to discuss what we need to do next. And how would
that
look to the board?