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Cat told her that the CEO was right. No one would believe them. She said that bosses like the CEO were roaches. Nearly impossible to smash. But if Fern wanted to go to the authorities, she would back her up. Or, she could try to forget what happened and move on. Fern could come work for Cat because she was going to build something big. Something special. And she did.
Cat got back on her feet quickly and, using her social media expertise, became one of the most popular lifestyle influencers on YouTube, Instagram, and TikTok. She also bought this gorgeous estate and vineyard. As soon as she was able to, she brought Fern on as her personal assistant. The hours as her boss’s assistant were long and extremely demanding, but most days Fern didn’t care. If Cat hadn’t stood up for her and then stood by her, she didn’t know where she would be now.
Lately, Fern had been rethinking things. Cat’s unrealistic expectations, the rotten pay, the denigrating comments, the brutal hours all bordering on abuse. Fern paced the library floor. How much more could one person humanly take? It was abusive and Fern knew she couldn’t do this forever, but now the years of patience were paying off. Cat was finally letting Fern take the lead on something, even if it was by default.
Fern was ready. This was the moment she was waiting for. It was a big job. Huge.
Fern tried to tamp down her nerves. She couldn’t get flustered now. She consulted her clipboard. The caterers were setting out the appetizers and desserts. And the wine. The wine would be flowing tonight.
They had put several bottles with the new labels that Cat had personally designed on ice. They were so different from the elegant grapevines that previously graced the bottles from Bella Luce. They were awful, really. The labels displayed the image of a frighteningly realistic painting that Fern recognized as that of three Greek goddesses. Three very angry goddesses, partially clad, with snakes for hair, converging on a terrified man and a woman with a dagger embedded in her chest. The only way Fern knew it was their wine was because Bella Luce was written in elegant script across the label. Fern hadn’t bothered asking why her boss made the change. She always had her reasons.
Including the reason why Cat insisted on being a silent producer on the show. I’ll be a distraction, Cat said. I want all the attention on this brilliant concept I created. It’s going to change reality television forever.
Fern dared to ask her why this reality show only had five contestants. Cat readily explained it away. Viewers will be more invested, will be glued to their screens to see what happens to their favorite character.
Except they weren’t characters. They were real people that Cat had carefully vetted. Fern flipped through the dossiers on her clipboard with the contestants’ photos.
Audrey Abreo of Boston, Massachusetts. Twenty-nine years old, restaurateur, married, one child. Funny and larger than life, Aubrey’s sharp tongue would keep everyone on their toes.
Samuel Rafferty of Atlanta, Georgia. Forty-two years old, Georgia district attorney, single, no children. Movie-star handsome and smart, Samuel was both buttoned up and gorgeous. If anything, the viewers would tune in just to see his six-pack abs.
Richard Crowley of Dripping Springs, Texas. Sixty-eight years old, former US senator, married, four children. Senator Crowley was of a certain age but appeared to be in decent shape. He was good-natured and gave off an “aw shucks, ma’am” vibe. Half the audience would love him for his politics, half would hate him.
Camille Tamerlane of San Francisco, California. Thirty-eight years old, psychiatrist, marriage counselor, and podcast host, divorced, no children. Camille was no more than a wisp of a thing but could command a room. At once analytical and empathetic, Camille would bring the mind games to One Lucky Winner.
Maire Hennessy of Calico, Iowa. Forty years old, artist, divorced, two children. Maire brought the Mom Factor to the show. She was relatable and, with an ill child, would definitely bring emotion to the show. She also looked like the human incarnation of a Disney princess with a mane of curly red hair, pale skin, and a smattering of freckles across her nose.
Yes, quite the mix. Each file contained the most compelling stories, even contained a few bones scattered about. Talk about must-see TV.
Her phone buzzed, alerting Fern to the fact that someone was at the gate. She took a deep breath. It was time to meet the contestants.
THREE
THE BEST FRIEND
When Maire landed in San Francisco, she spotted the driver who was going to take her to the hotel and spa. She had gotten a little thrill when she saw him standing at the baggage claim in his black suit and chauffeur’s cap, holding a small sign that said Hennessy in block lettering. She enjoyed the feeling of eyes on her as she warmly greeted the driver. She felt like someone important, someone special. But once the driver, a hulking man with hooded, close-set eyes, took her bag and gruffly told her to follow him, Maire’s excitement was replaced with unease.
Once in the SUV, she tried to shake away her worry and enjoy the scenery. They crossed the Golden Gate Bridge, the sparkling water of the bay below, and Maire was struck at just how beautiful it was. But the moment was fleeting. Something didn’t feel right. She dug through her bag in search of her cell phone. Not seeing it, she used her flashlight key chain to shine a light into the depths of her purse, found it, and checked in with Dani and Keely. They said all was well but Maire was sure that she heard a wheeze in Dani’s voice and her worry doubled.
The landscape flew by—windswept flatlands, rolling hills, golden vineyards shedding their summer green—but Maire couldn’t enjoy it. She fought the urge to call the girls again. If only she could tell them about the show, that she could win millions of dollars. They would understand then, would be excited, but the rules of the game were explicit. Maire could not tell anyone the real reason she was going away or she would be disqualified. Once the game started, it would be different. They’d see her on-screen, see her competing, and would be so proud of her. Or mortified.
Soon the sun started easing its way down just as a thick fog rolled in, enveloping the car in a velvety cloud. The road in front of them disappeared but the driver didn’t slow down. He blindly wound around curves in the mist-covered road.
Maire clutched the seat in front of her. “This doesn’t seem right,” she said. “I think you were supposed to turn back there.” Alarm fluttered in her stomach. She was in the middle of nowhere with a strange man, in a place she wasn’t familiar with. She’d probably end up dead, or kidnapped, or drinking a White Claw at a Motel 6 next to the interstate. This trip was too good to be true.
“Just going where I’m told,” the driver said shortly, making a sharp left turn. “The estate is just a few miles down the road.”
“But you’re supposed to take me to the hotel,” Maire said. Her hand inched over to the door handle, and she checked her cell phone, relieved to see there was still service. Ahead, a gate flanked by a tall stone wall materialized. The fog curled itself around the wrought iron bars, making it impossible to see what came next. She tried to quash the little voice that urged her to tell the driver to turn around.
Instead, Maire stayed silent as the driver came to a stop next to the gate intercom system, rolled down his window, and pushed the call button.
“Good evening,” came a woman’s voice. “Welcome to Bella Luce.”
“Yes,” the driver said, tilting the paper in his hand trying to make the best use of the weak light from the lanterns perched atop the stone wall. “I’ve got a Maire Hennessy here,” he said gruffly.
“Welcome. Please drive forward,” the voice said, and the iron gates creaked open.
The driver glided slowly through the gates. The long, winding drive was flanked by dozens of towering cork oaks with stout trunks and twisted limbs that loomed gracefully above them.
