The car had picked them up at two, just as agreed with Mira that morning. Now it moved through the outskirts of the city, the trees filtering light like unfinished thoughts.
Heather glanced at Claudia, then looked ahead again.
"What are we doing here?" she asked softly. After a pause, she added more quietly, "Are we crazy?"
Claudia didn't answer right away. Her eyes stayed on the road. "Maybe," she said eventually. "But I'm still going." Heather nodded. "Me too."
Heather sat on the left, her arms folded over her stomach. Claudia on the right, one leg crossed over the other, her gaze steady on the passing trees. Neither of them spoke after that--not because there was nothing to say, but because the moment had taken language away. The silence wasn't cold. Just dense. Like breath held too long.
Heather had worn jeans and a soft sweatshirt. Sneakers. Minimal makeup. She'd hesitated over a dress. She'd even thought about texting Claudia, but hadn't. Somehow it had felt too telling. Too exposed. Besides--if this was anything like last time, they'd dress her anyway. Claudia, by contrast, wore a dark blazer over a light top. Her hair pulled back. Elegant, but not showy. It made Heather feel like she'd come to the wrong event.
They turned off the main road. Gravel crunched beneath the tires. The house appeared again--no longer new, no longer mysterious. Just waiting.
They stepped out into the filtered light. Mira was already at the door.
She wore a slate-gray top this time. High at the neck, razor-thin in fabric--clinging not to curves, but to absence. Not an oversight. A statement.
Unapologetically flat--elegant in a way that dared you to question it.
Her pants matched in color and precision.
Claudia caught the shift of fabric. Nothing overt. Just enough to make her wonder if it was meant that way.
"Welcome back," she said. Heather gave a small nod. Claudia held ihre gaze, then followed as Mira turned.
Inside, the house felt the same. Still. Clean. Not welcoming--but not unwelcoming either. As if it had accepted their return without question, like a door left unlocked on purpose.
Mira gestured toward a side hallway. "This way," she said.
Claudia followed without hesitation. Heather walked behind her, slower. Not reluctant--just not sure what she was walking toward. They passed rooms with closed doors. Everything smelled faintly of stone, linen, and time.
At the end of the corridor, the space opened into a room with high ceilings and soft, diffused light. The walls were pale. Somewhere between linen and ash. Two low tables stood ready, each holding a single tablet. Unlit. Unmarked.
Mira stopped at the threshold. "We'd like you to take a short test," she said. "Just answer honestly. There are no wrong answers." She didn't wait for a reply. "I'll return when you're finished." Then she turned and walked away. Her footsteps faded before the door clicked shut.
They sat. The screens responded to their touch with a quiet pulse.
I feel comfortable in groups.
I plan my days in advance.
I feel things deeply and for a long time.
Claudia moved through the questions steadily. Her posture unchanged, her pace unhurried. Heather paused more often. Scrolled back. Changed an answer. Then changed it again.
The questions ran long. Claudia finished after about forty minutes--calm, composed, already waiting. Heather needed more. She shifted, hesitated, reconsidered. Her screen stayed active for nearly an hour.
When it finally went dark, she didn't move. No result. No feedback. Just her own face, faint in the glass.
Claudia was watching her. Not judging--just present.
Heather looked up. "I think I answered everything wrong," she said. Her voice war low, a half-laugh underneath.
Claudia didn't smile. "There were no wrong answers."
Heather shrugged. "Still."
A pause.
"If they only pick one of us," she added, "I hope it's you."
Now Claudia did smile. Just a little.
"They'll take us both," she said. "You know that."
Heather wasn't sure. But she nodded anyway.
Mira returned without a word. She led them to another room. One they'd been in before.
The room was the same--pale walls, curved furniture, two low sofas facing the deep leather armchair. This time, Heather's eye caught something on the wall--a painting she hadn't noticed before. Soft shapes. Abstract, but suggestive. She tilted her head, then smiled to herself. Could be a body. Could be two. Either way, it fit. What amused her was how easily she'd assumed it.
Mira gestured for them to sit, then left again.
The door opened.
She entered quietly, as if she'd never left. Same presence. Same black. This time, no movement toward the chair. The woman from the nightclub. The one who had offered the invitation--and given them their first glimpse into the rules of this place.
She looked at them both.
"Oh--by the way. My name is Celeste. I should have introduced myself earlier."
A faint smile. Almost an afterthought.
"I represent the house."
Heather nodded slowly.
Claudia said nothing.
Celeste let the silence settle.
Then she spoke--measured, even:
"This part is mostly formal. A written agreement. Not a contract in the traditional sense--no obligations, no ownership. But clarity. Consent. Discretion."
She placed a folder in front of each of them.
Cream-colored. Unmarked.
Two pens. Perfectly aligned.
Then, as if it had just occurred to her, she added: "I heard you made quite an impression. With Livia and Marc."
It wasn't clear who she meant.
But Heather felt it settle in her chest.
She didn't move at first.
Then, as she reached for the folder--slower than she meant to--Heather glanced at Claudia.
Quick. Almost instinctive. Looking for something.
Reassurance? Agreement? A sign?
Claudia didn't look back.
She was already reading.
Heather turned back to the folder.
The paper felt heavier than it should.
Celeste let the moment stretch. Then, with a calm that seemed practiced:
"This is not a contract in the traditional sense," she said.
"No ownership. No submission. No secret clauses. You're not commodities. And we are not your masters."
Heather didn't look up.
"But it is an agreement."
She paused.
"It outlines what you consent to: touch, observation, participation. Always under clear rules of autonomy. You may refuse anything. You may stop anything. At any time."
A silence.
Then Celeste's voice changed--just slightly. Still calm, but with steel beneath it.
"But if anything ever leaves this house--stories, names, images, even whispers--"
A breath.
"We will erase you. Kindly. Completely. And with great efficiency."
Heather froze.
Not from threat. But from the certainty in her voice. She meant it. Every word. That much was obvious. And suddenly, Heather couldn't look away.
She was older than most women in the house--but effortlessly so.
Not untouched by time, but untouched by doubt.
Her beauty had once been striking. Now it was quieter. Sharpened, not faded.
The blond hair was swept back with careless precision.
Her body lean, the kind that spoke of discipline--not denial.
And her eyes--grey, unreadable, with a stillness that unsettled more than any stare.
A woman who had seen many things.
And likely caused a few of them.
Whatever had surfaced--was gone. She was composed again. Measured. Cool.
When she spoke next, her tone was practical--almost casual.
"The compensation is substantial," she said.
"Enough to study. To live. To choose."
Heather glanced at the paper--at the number near the top.. Her eyebrows lifted--just slightly.
Claudia leaned closer. Then gave a small snort.
"That's basically an allowance," she said. "Like we're spoiled students."
Celeste's mouth curved. Not a smile. Not quite.
"Some of our women no longer work. They invested well."
A pause.
"There will be encounters," she added. "You will be chosen. And you will choose back. Some will be light. Some deeper. Nothing will be demanded. Only offered."
She let the words settle.
"Special assignments pay more. But not everyone is asked."
Another pause.
"Use the money wisely."
Celeste continued--low, deliberate:
"The rest is structure. Logistics. Education."
Heather looked up.
