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“The Vault?” Samuel asked, raising his eyebrows. “Sounds ominous.”
“Its main function is as a wine cellar,” Fern explained. “It’s a spectacular space, if I do say so myself, but for One Lucky Winner, we are repurposing it for something special.” She began ushering the guests through the library door. Camille’s heel buckled and she clutched Samuel’s arm to steady herself, then stumbled, almost taking them both down.
Camille was a bit drunk but that was to be expected. Cat wanted to make sure the wine and spirits were flowing, in hopes of loosening tongues and putting everyone at ease. Thankfully, everyone had signed away any chance for liability claims.
The contract was boilerplate, a basic agreement that informed contestants that the production company had no liability for accidents related to the game. Fern was sure that Samuel, as an attorney, had read through the document carefully. He was sharp. She observed that he was the first contestant to notice all the cameras in the library. He said nothing about them to the group though. His ability to keep his mouth shut would serve him well during the game. If first impressions meant anything, Fern thought Samuel had the potential to go far in the competition and Camille would be a close second.
Cat was watching them on the bank of video screens in her locked office, periodically popping into Fern’s earpiece to tell her she was slouching, or that she was talking in that weird, affected way she did when nervous. Cat was intent on remaining behind the scenes, out of the camera’s eye and anonymous to the contestants and most of the crew, explaining to Fern that she wanted One Lucky Winner and the contestants to be the sole focus of the show. If the media got wind that she was involved, the chatter would turn to Cat and how she made her money getting likes on social media. She was so much more than that. No, she wanted to pull the strings from the shadows and watch the show become the hit it was destined to become. That was when she would make the big reveal—that Cat James was the mastermind behind One Lucky Winner.
A crackle of static filled Fern’s ear. She wanted to pull the earpiece out and shove it in her pocket, but she knew that Cat did not like to be ignored.
“Someone’s at the door, Fern,” Cat said through the earpiece. “I can see them on the security camera. It must be the fifth contestant. Better go answer it.”
Fern’s heart skipped a beat. Strange, she hadn’t received an alert on her phone. Finally. Audrey Abreo had arrived. She hesitated. But maybe it was Philippa, wanting her job back. If so, Fern would be out as host.
“What are you waiting for? Go,” Cat said. Fern could hear the impatience in her voice. “We need to get this show started.”
Anxiety squeezed at her chest. It couldn’t be Philippa. Could it? How would she get through the gate?
Cat spoke again. “Answer the door, Fern. You don’t want to keep them waiting.”
“Ah, it looks like our last guest has finally arrived,” Fern said, forcing a note of cheer into her voice. “Follow me,” she said, leading the group to the front doors. Behind her, she heard the footfalls of the contestants trying to keep up with her as she moved briskly toward the main hall. They were just as curious to find out who would be joining them as she was.
Fern paused, settling her face into a calm, welcoming visage before pulling open the heavy door.
“Welcome to Bella Luce and One Lucky Winner,” Fern said, blinded for a moment by the light from the lantern hanging above the door. All she could see was the silhouette of a man looming above her. A man? It was supposed to be Audrey Abreo or Philippa. Perhaps it was a driver with the luggage.
But then the smell hit her. A familiar cologne. Sandalwood and limes and lilies. Fern felt her throat click and a stab of nausea coursed through her.
“Hello,” the man said. “Am I in the right place?” It was his voice, the same tone, the same timbre. Fern grabbed on to the door frame to steady herself.
The man stepped from the shadows. “I have to say,” he began, “creepy Italian villa was not on my bingo card.”
Fern couldn’t speak. Her eyes were locked on his feet. He had always favored Gucci horsebit loafers and that hadn’t changed, though these were scuffed at the toe. And that smell. His smell.
“I’m here for One Lucky Winner,” the man said. “If I’m in the wrong place, tell me now because my driver is leaving.”
Fern wanted to run, but she was aware of the cameras on her, tucked into corners and hiding within flower arrangements. Cat was surely watching right now on one of the dozen screens in her office. Had she brought him here? Was it a joke, some kind of sick test?
She could almost feel his manicured fingers pressed against her throat, his hot breath in her ear, and she shuddered. Fern forced her gaze upward. He was just as she remembered him. Shaggy blond hair, pale blue eyes behind trendy tortoiseshell glasses. He was older than when she last saw him, ten years older to be exact, and would probably still be considered handsome to most, though his forehead was clearly smoothed by Botox.
“Are you okay?” the man asked. Did he recognize her? She saw no glint of familiarity in his eyes, only concern. She wanted to scream, to slam the door in his face.
“What’s going on?” Cat asked through her earpiece. Fern bit her cheek so hard she drew blood. What in God’s name was he doing here?
“Welcome,” Fern managed to say, surprised at the strength in her voice. “Please come in.”
Fern held the door open, and the man breezed in, pulling his oversize luggage behind him. “Nice place,” he said, glancing around the great hall appreciatively.
“If you don’t mind,” Fern interrupted, “may I see your confirmation email?”
The man stared at her and for a moment Fern thought he finally knew who she was and her legs went weak.
With an impatient sigh, the man pulled out his phone, flicked through his email, and held the screen up to her face.
There it was—the official email that she sent to all the contestants who made the cut. But Fern had never sent this email. Not to Ned Bennett.
“Excuse me for just a moment,” Fern said, fighting the bile that climbed up her throat. “I’ll be right back.” It was all Fern could do not to break into a run, but she forced herself to take even, regular steps down the corridor until she came to a scarred wooden door. She looked back down the long hallway to see the five guests staring back at her. With shaking hands, Fern pulled the master key from her pocket, an old-fashioned skeleton key they used for the doors not updated with the new security system. She slipped it into the keyhole, opened the door, stepped inside, closed it behind her with a quiet snick, and slid to the dusty floor.
