Chapter 17: The Selection
The silence after Kitty’s demonstration wasn’t really silence. It was the hum of the air conditioner, the shift of fabric on leather, the shallow, quickened breaths of nine men trying to look unfazed. James kept his eyes fixed on the grain of the oak table, tracing a dark whorl with his stare, building a wall in his mind against what he’d just seen.The phantom taste of cologne and shame coated his tongue.
Marcus let the moment breathe.He straightened his cuffs, then walked calmly back to the head of the table. He tapped a tablet, and the large screen on the wall flickered to life. Two columns appeared, stark white on a deep blue background.The left column had fifteen names. Stacy’s was at the very top.Chloe, Lisa, and others he recognized from the support staff filing out followed. The right column listed the nine salesmen, ranked by quarterly performance.Carl’s name led the list. Bill was second.Michael was fourth. ‘Dave Miller’—James’s borrowed identity—was dead last.
“The metrics,” Marcus began, his tone reverting to that of a quarterly earnings call, “speak for themselves.You’ve excelled. And as we’ve seen, the company invests in excellence.” He gestured vaguely to where Kitty now knelt quietly beside his chair, her head resting against his thigh like a spent dog.
“This retreat is about aligning resources with output,” Marcus continued.“So, a simple exercise in asset allocation. Each of you, in performance order, will select one support staff member from this list. That individual will be assigned to you for the duration of the weekend.For all activities. For all… needs.”
Bill let out a low whistle, elbow already nudging Carl. “Hell yeah.”
Carl’s small eyes were glued to Stacy’s name.A slow, thick smile spread across his face.
“The unclaimed assets,” Marcus said, his voice dropping slightly, “will revert to a general pool. Community property, if you will.Accessible to all top performers as a secondary perk.Choose wisely.Think about compatibility. Synergy.”
James’s lungs stopped working. The analytical part of his brain computed the scenario instantly.Fifteen women.Nine men.Six would be unclaimed. ‘Community property.’ The phrase echoed with the sound of the latch clicking on the Oak Room door. He thought of Lisa, of Chloe.Of Stacy’s bright, trusting smile in the conference room just half an hour ago. His Stacy.An asset.A perk.His hands were icy. He curled them into fists under the table, the pressure a feeble anchor.
“Carl,” Marcus said, his voice smooth as oil.“You’re up.First pick.”
Carl didn’t hesitate. He didn’t even glance down the list. His gaze had locked on the top line and never wavered.He leaned forward, his voice a confident grunt that brooked no argument.
“Stacy. I’ll take Stacy.”
The words were a physical blow to James’s solar plexus.A white-hot wire of pure, primal fury spliced through the cold dread in his veins. He saw red at the edges of his vision. He imagined surging across the table, his fingers finding the soft, fleshy throat of the leering, balding man who had just claimed his fiancée like a dessert from a menu.Bill chuckled beside Carl, a sound ripe with envy. “Lucky bastard.Been eyeing that since day one. That ass in those pencil skirts…” He shook his head as if marveling at a fine car.Marcus tapped his tablet. A thin, decisive line connected ‘Carl H.’ on the right to ‘Stacy B.’ on the left. The data point was entered.The transaction logged.“Congratulations,” Marcus said, utterly neutral. “A high-performing asset.Good choice. Bill, you’re next.”
Bill scanned the list, his finger tracing down.“Chloe.The little Asian one in Accounting.Yeah.”
Another line connected. Chloe’s name vanished from the available pool.One by one, the men chose. Michael picked Lisa, laughing about how he could help with that third kid she was rumored to want. Another guy picked a girl named Amanda.Another chose Jessica.James sat frozen, a statue of rising panic. Each connecting line was a cable binding one of those women to a predator in a suit. He watched the list of the unclaimed grow: seven names, then six, then five. These were the ones who would be ‘community property.’ He felt a hysterical, disgusted laugh bubble in his throat. They were talking about human beings.About Stacy.The picking went down the list. The man in seventh place chose.Then the eighth.
Marcus’s eyes finally lifted from the tablet and settled on James.“Dave.You’re last. The remainder are available for your selection.”
Nine pairs of eyes turned to him. Some were amused at the new guy’s misfortune, some were impatient for the formalities to be over. Carl was looking at him with a glint of contemptuous pity.The ‘last pick’ was being handed the scraps.James stared at the screen. Only four names remained unconnected.He didn’t recognize any of them. Four women he’d never met were now his ‘assigned asset’ or would be funneled into the general pool. His mind raced, calculations firing on pure, survival-level instinct. If he didn’t pick one, that woman would be unclaimed.‘Community property.’ If he did pick one, he was participating. He was accepting a piece of the system. He was buying a slave to save her from a gang.
It was no choice at all.His mouth was Sahara-dry. “Rachel,” he croaked, picking a name at random. ‘Rachel M.’
The line connected his borrowed name to a stranger on the screen. A transaction completed. James felt nothing but a hollow, ringing shame. It was a shield, thin and pathetic, but he had raised it. He had made a choice inside their game.
“Excellent. Allocations are set.” Marcus tapped his tablet and the screen went dark, plunging the room back into the warm, oppressive glow of the chandeliers. He walked to a sleek sideboard where a stack of manila envelopes lay neatly beside a crystal decanter. He picked them up, the paper crisp in his hands.
“Now, for operational clarity,” he said, his tone shifting to pure briefing mode. “After they finish their current exercises with our IT guy, each of our support staff will respond to a single-use key phrase, which will temporarily give you full access for approximately 48 hours.”
A new, eager tension rippled through the room. Carl licked his lips. Bill leaned forward, elbows on the table.
“I’d recommend you use it as soon as we go meet with them,” Marcus continued, a consultant dispensing optimal strategy. He began walking around the table, placing an envelope before each man. “I have a brief packet up here for each of you with the keywords included. Please enjoy.”
The envelope slid in front of James. It was standard office stock, thin and impersonal. His name, ‘Dave Miller’, was printed on a white label in a clean sans-serif font. He stared at it as if it contained a live insect. Around him, the tearing of paper was abrupt and hungry.
“Oh, hell yes,” Bill muttered, pulling out a single laminated card. He snorted a laugh. Michael glanced at his card and grinned. Carl extracted his card slowly, savoring it. He read it, and his smile widened into something bloated and triumphant. He looked across the table at James, his eyes glinting with malicious pride.
James’s blood turned to ice water in his veins. Carl now held the trigger to command Stacy. For 48 hours. The man’s thick finger traced the letters on the card.
“Gonna have her comfy and cooperative in no time,” Carl chuckled, sliding the card into his breast pocket, right over his heart.
Marcus returned to the head of the table. “The phrases are unique and tied to your specific asset. They are one-time activations. The clock starts at utterance. Use them wisely.” He clasped his hands together. “The women are currently in the Lakeside Suite. Our meeting is concluding. I suggest you proceed there to collect your assignments and… begin the team-building.”
Chairs scraped back immediately. The men were on their feet, pockets weighed with their new keys, faces animated with greedy anticipation. Carl and Bill were already joking, bumping shoulders as they headed for the door.
“You thinking lakeside patio first?” Bill asked.
“Nah, my room,” Carl said. “Private. Gotta get her settled in.”
James rose slowly, his limbs heavy. He picked up the unopened envelope. It felt toxic. He slipped it into his inner jacket pocket, where it lay against his chest like a cold, flat stone. He was the last to move toward the door, trailing the group as they spilled into the hall, their laughter echoing off the polished resort walls.
He watched Carl’s balding head bobbing ahead, the man already texting on his phone. Probably to Stacy. To his asset. James’s hand drifted to his own pocket, fingers brushing the envelope. Inside was a name—Rachel—and a word. A command for a woman he didn’t know. And in his mind, a flood of code, of decoded triggers, and of Stacy’s smiling face, utterly unaware of the key now held by the man weaving his way toward her, ready to tell her to get comfortable.