Epilogue

The superyacht sits 213 nautical miles off the Strait of Gibraltar, safely in international waters.

On board the 533-foot yacht, Second Dawn, a crew of over seventy busy themselves in preparation for dinner. The helicopter pads are now empty after the final arrivals, and all twenty-four cabins are filled with their requisite guests.

Drinks will be served shortly on the terrace deck.

In the master suite Oksana's maid helps zip up Oksana's dress before taking her laundry and exiting quietly.

Oksana sighs. She hates these dinners, but the guests traveled out to her so it seems the least she can do. A summit about pipelines. She cannot think of anything more boring, except perhaps the small talk she will need to involve herself in shortly. But she has people to assist with all of that, of course.

There are other things she would much rather be doing.

She perches on one of the suite's chairs and pours herself a short, cool glass of champagne. She sips it, then flicks on the large flatscreen above the suite's fireplace.

The interior of a slick, architectural house fills the screen, beyond the vast windows of the house the mountains of Japan are visible.

In the foreground of the scene on the screen a woman in her late twenties is reading a house manual intently, the sound of a door bleeping somewhere off-screen. The young woman stands, an alertness fizzling from her—she is beginning to panic.

Oksana pops a medjool date in her mouth and swigs another mouthful of champagne.

Oksana enjoyed attending dog races with her father as a child; he had taken her young. When she got older, he let her attend the dogfights with him too.

She was his only child and he wanted her to be as hard as any son. And she is. She is her father's daughter.

She enjoyed those days with him, before he was killed.

But dogs only hold so much amusement. After a while you just feel sorry for them. Not people, though.

Oksana has liked some of the participants, but they almost always disappoint her.

If she had to analyze why she bought the house, why she repurposed it, then perhaps she might alight on a core psychological need to see another woman beat the odds in the same way she did—through sheer bloody-mindedness and the remembered lessons of youth. But Oksana has always considered analysis and therapy an idiot's luxury, and she rarely indulges in that particular kind of narcissism.

She'd had such high hopes for Maria Yossarian, the survivor. But even Maria seemed to reach her limit eventually.

The young woman on the screen is now running with a raised metal chair at the huge glass doors with the serene mountain view. The chair makes contact, reverberating, causing no damage except to the woman herself. Oksana squints. This one will have to think more, panic less.

The young woman on the screen is an ex-Olympian who was kidnapped and held hostage for five months before escaping. But that was all two years back now. Oksana wonders if her pedigree will kick in soon. She hopes so.

Oksana was surprised by Nina's success if she is honest. And Oksana very much likes surprises. They happen rarely.

Nina's pedigree was excellent but she had no personal achievements of her own. And yet that didn't hold her back—after all she has been the only winner so far.

Oksana had wanted to get rid of that original house and the connection to the first designer anyway. After the repurposing all ties needed to be cut, for safety.

The game needed to move to new locations, expand, and Nina seemed a neat conclusion to that first house; to package her as its final guest seemed fitting. And there were eager buyers for the experience.

The girl on the screen now had a lot of interest from buyers too. Three separate viewers with view codes were watching in various locations around the world. She did not ask where. Other people dealt with logistics. They had shed a few low-level employees after Nina's escape, and the various consequences of that, but everyone who mattered was still intact.

Nina was their best participant to date, garnering five viewers. The most any guest had achieved.

One viewer required refunding after the game's unusual conclusion but the others were gratified by the ending. As was Oksana. Her little red-faced friend won. Oksana's father would have liked that. He would have laughed.

Everyone loves an underdog, a surprise, a romance, a happy ending. Don't they?

The girl on the screen is screaming now, tears streaming from her. Her mouth opening and closing in silence as beneath her on the screen an audio description scrolls on. Oksana winces. The girl is making threats; they often do. Coarse language. Sometimes it's best to watch on mute.

Oksana downs the last of her ice-cold champagne and shrugs on a cashmere shawl. Up on deck the temperature tends to drop.

She lifts the remote and pauses the screen: the girl freezes, her fists mid-pound on the glass.

Oksana doesn't want to miss her show.

She flicks off the lights to her suite and heads upstairs.