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After breakfast the next morning, everyone was summoned back up to the boardroom. They were all sullen and irritated, still clearly displeased at being tricked. Geri and Quinn exchanged uneasy glances, which told him that sleeping on it hadn’t assuaged any of her worries about what would come next.

But they didn’t have much choice, so they trooped upstairs with everyone else.

In the boardroom, there were three manned cameras, and Quinn thought there were a couple of less obtrusive ones as well. A half-sphere in the ceiling above the center of the table reminded him of the eye in the sky cameras at casinos.

Apparently filming would begin today. Greeaaat.

Rich took his place at the head of the table again, and he met them all with a genial smile. “First things first, I know some of you are unhappy about how you ended up here and on this show. And for that, I apologize. To make up for it, I’m offering a one-time ticket out of the game and off the island.”

Everyone leaned in.

“Your golden ticket,” he explained, “is a purge of your wealth and assets. You will be left with a maximum of two hundred and fifty million in liquid cash, stocks, cryptocurrencies, and similar assets. You will retain one of your residences and no more than two of your personal vehicles. Trust funds will be established for each of your children for a maximum of fifty million dollars apiece, which will not count toward your two hundred and fifty million total. Any assets in excess of those I’ve listed will be liquidated, with funds distributed to charitable organizations of your choice.” He paused. “Charitable organizations that have been vetted as reputable and actually helpful, not just money-laundering schemes for the obscenely wealthy.”

No one said a word. No one made a sound.

Rich continued, “We understand that a sudden purge of assets isn’t practical, particularly when it comes to stocks in publicly traded companies. Instead, you will simply agree to a notarized pledge to divest yourselves of the agreed upon wealth over a reasonable period of time—between one and ten years, depending upon your net worth.”

He paused and clicked a remote that Quinn hadn’t noticed in his hand. Behind the man and on every screen at the table, bullet points appeared, echoing everything Rich had offered.

“We had considered also requiring the complete liquidation of jewelry,” he said, “but we do understand the sentimental value of family heirlooms. Instead, we will limit the reduction of jewelry to fifty percent of all such items acquired within the past twenty years, excluding wedding jewelry and gifts from children.”

His list went on from there. Any and all antiquities or cultural items had to be returned to their countries or tribes of origin. Twenty-five percent of art collections could be retained, with the remainder donated—free and clear, not just loaned—to art museums of RightPriceTek’s choosing. Watercraft and aircraft were to be sold or donated to organizations that could use them for humanitarian projects.

Quinn admittedly kind of enjoyed watching Charlie Simmons, Art Keller, and Eric Valentine blanche at that one. They probably had the vapors over their superyachts and cushy private jets being used by the unwashed masses for non-profit purposes.

His amusement was mild, though, because holy shit, Rich was driving a hard bargain. The sheer volume of assets Quinn would have to liquidate in order to get off this island was staggering. Which house did he keep? Which cars? And his mother would be turning in her grave if she knew he was even considering putting her vast collection of modern art into a museum where the plebs could view it.

Rejecting the offer as Rich was framing it was a no-brainer to Quinn—keep all his assets, put up with a few weeks on a reality show, and then return to his normal life.

But the conversation Quinn had had yesterday with Geri made him wonder just how much more there was to this that they hadn’t yet been told.

Eric cleared his throat. “How exactly do we explain this, uh, divestment to our families? Our shareholders?”

Rich grinned, sending a chill through Quinn. “We have, of course”—he pressed the clicker— “thought of everything.”

A video began on the big flatscreen. It was Art Keller, seated in an antique armchair between a leafy houseplant and a fireplace.

“I had an epiphany,” Art was in the middle of saying. “Realized that I’m only here for a little while. What good is a man who dies on top of a pile of wealth when he had the means and the technology to help millions, but didn’t?”

Quinn would have absolutely bought that this was a real, if uncharacteristic, interview if the actual Art Keller didn’t turn white as a sheet and make a sound like he was being strangled.

The video changed to Kit Mason of MasonChem, and the real Kit made a similar noise before the one on the screen began to speak. “The science is there. We can’t look at all these findings about pesticides being linked to cancer and contaminated water supplies and just pretend there’s nothing we can do. Or that there’s nothing we’re willing to do. It won’t be cheap, but it’s a mess my organization made, so footing the bill is the least we can do.” She smiled, earnestly and sincerely. “And it’s only the beginning of what we will do.”

Then Geri was on the screen, sitting for what looked like a television interview. “I guess you could call it my Tony Stark moment. When I saw up close what my company’s equipment was doing to all these innocent people, when I saw our logo on shrapnel next to dead children, I couldn’t just sit back and let it keep happening.” She laughed. “Building an Iron Man suit is a little out of my wheelhouse, but I can at least help finance groups who can undo the damage Cole Industries and my family have done.”

Across from Quinn, Geri looked like she might get sick.

Quinn could barely breathe. Didn’t sound like anyone else could either. Those interviews were absolutely convincing, and what the hell was anyone going to do? Go on-camera to say someone made a fake video of them being a decent human being for once, and that they’d be keeping their cash? Once those videos saw the light of day, there was no going back. Not without the kind of PR shitstorm that people in this room had nightmares about.

A few seats over, Paul O’Connor was so pale, he was nearly translucent. Quinn thought he deserved that. After all, it was his tech that had made these videos possible.

“So, as I said,” Rich went on, “we’ve thought of everything.” He clicked the remote, and the interviews disappeared from the big screen, replaced by the bullet points detailing his golden ticket offer. “Anyone wants to leave the island, those are the terms and conditions.” He scanned the room. “Any takers?”

Again, no one said a word. No one made a sound.

Quinn swallowed, his mouth suddenly dry and his heart pounding. This was a dangerous gamble. There was no telling what was behind door number two, only what was being offered behind door number one and the alarming gut feelings about door number two. Rationally, he knew he should jump at the chance to get the hell out of here. Better safe than sorry, and all that.

The gambler, though. The gambler on a losing streak, desperate for the kind of win that took the sting out of all those losses, wanted—needed—to spin the wheel.

Take what you’ve won?

Or let it ride?

“Anyone?” Price gestured behind himself at the bullet points on the screen. “Anyone at all willing to accept this more than generous offer?”

Two hundred and fifty million dollars, plus his primary residence and two of his vehicles?

Or… face whatever fuckery Rich had up his sleeve?

“Any takers?” Rich’s voice hardened just slightly. “Because this is a one-time offer, my friends. Speak now, or forever hold your peace.”

Quinn looked around. So did everyone else.

No one volunteered.

Let it ride, that inner voice demanded.

“Going once?” Price asked. “Going twice?”

Last chance. Do it? Don’t? Do it?

Quinn folded his sweaty hands in his lap. Across from him, Geri was clearly conflicted as well, gnawing her lip and fidgeting in her chair. He fully expected her hand to go up; as nervous as she was, she should’ve been jumping at the first chance to bail.

But she didn’t. If he had to guess, she was running the numbers in her head, and the reduction in her assets was too great. Quinn was worth about four billion. Geri was worth three or four times that much, and that was being very conservative. Dropping from that to a quarter of a billion dollars? Yeah, that might be a tall order, even if door number two promised to be a disaster.

But it was just a reality show. How bad could it be?

Spin the wheel. Let it ride. See what’s behind door number two.

No one else claimed the golden ticket either.

“All right.” Rich grinned, which made his eyes look icy. “Since you’ve all decided to pass, now we move on to the game.”

Blood pounded in Quinn’s ears. This was what he lived for—the thrill of being a high roller. Hopefully it would pay off this time, too.

At Rich’s cue, Kevin and Tyson began distributing spiralbound books to each person at the table. As they did, he explained, “These books will answer any questions you have about the show and the organization. The shooting schedule. Dress code for boardroom appearances and outdoor challenges.” He paused. “If by chance, you don’t have clothing suitable for a shoot, please let the hotel staff know and they will send a stylist to your room.” He smiled thinly. “Judging by the volume of luggage many of you brought, I suspect you’re covered, though.”

The group chuckled quietly, if a bit nervously.

Quinn had packed light because that was how he preferred to travel, but he suspected he had everything he needed. Unless an event was white tie formal, he was prepared.

“You’ll have plenty of time to read that over this evening,” Rich said. “For now, let’s begin with your first challenge.”

Quinn fought the urge to drum his nails on the table. From the way several others were fidgeting, he wasn’t alone.

“This competition is, of course, primarily to benefit charities,” Rich said. “Your participation—and of course, the winner’s jackpot—will go to the organization of your choice. This challenge, however, will benefit organizations we’ve selected.”

The screens in front of the players lit up again.

On Quinn’s there was an organization he thought was committed to restoring wetlands and waterways in the Pacific Northwest; he remembered his father complaining that they were trying to impede progress on a few huge developments outside of Seattle.

Beside him, Eric Valentine’s showed an organization that appeared to help underpaid retail and warehouse workers make ends meet and unionize. Next to Eric, Paul O’Connor’s screen had the name of an anti-human trafficking organization.

“The task is quite simple,” Rich said. “Pledge a dollar amount of your choice to be donated to the organization on your screen.” He held up a finger and grinned. “The challenge is this—whoever contributes the smallest amount will be eliminated from the competition.”

Quinn’s stomach knotted, and he wasn’t sure why. The task really was simple. And he could imagine a few people at the table deliberately lowballing it to get kicked off the show and be done with it. But something about it made his insides twist and his neck prickle. Maybe the unnerving glint in Rich Price’s eye? Maybe this whole situation that still didn’t feel quite right? Maybe the things Mark had said to Geri?

He didn’t know. But he didn’t like it.

Rich continued, “Of course, not everyone in this room has the same net worth. We can hardly expect someone worth two billion to pony up the same as someone worth ten. So, everyone will be assigned point values based on the percentage of their net worth.” His smile sent an uncomfortable chill up Quinn’s spine. “We do, after all, like a level playing field.”

Quinn caught Geri’s eye across the table. Though she was keeping a professional facade, he thought he saw some uneasiness in her expression. Or maybe he was just projecting.

The doors opened, making everyone jump. Someone wheeled in a portable computer console, and he parked it near where Rich was standing, with the screen facing away from everyone. One of the cameramen positioned himself beside it. According to Rich’s instructions, the contestants would come up one by one and enter their donation into the computer.

That was… weird. Would this even be an entertaining show? Of course, anything could be entertaining with some creative editing. And he did remember some of the earlier challenges on his previous show being tedious and dull in person, but much more interesting in the final product. If nothing else, they were getting a ton of footage of the contestants fidgeting and sweating, watching each other and worrying about what they should put into the computer.

So… maybe it would work? But in the moment, Jesus, it wasn’t very entertaining. Unless people really got a kick out of watching a boardroom full of nervous, twitchy billionaires.

Given the number of “eat the rich” memes floating around, he supposed that was possible.

While other players went up to the console, Quinn hemmed and hawed about what number he’d put in. He wasn’t as rich as most of the people in this room. Charlie, Elena, Paul, Geri, and Kyle all had at least one more zero on their net worths than he did. Some of the others probably did as well. Even with the show using their point system to level the playing field, he had no idea how much anyone else was willing to put up. And it wasn’t the end of the world if he got eliminated, but he was too competitive—too much of a gambler—to surrender to the idea of being the first one off the show. He’d made it to third place last time. He wasn’t going to be the first to do the walk of shame.

“Quinn Hayworth.” Rich gestured at the console. “If you would, please.”

Oh fuck. Here we go.

Swallowing hard, Quinn rose. He crossed the room and stood at the console, pretending not to notice the cameras pointed at him. Especially the one peering over his shoulder.

The computer screen in front of him was blank except for a single prompt.

Quinn Hayworth donation amount.

He took a deep breath. Well, go big or go home.

Then he typed out, $25 million .

Submit.

And… done.

Okay. That was easy. He returned to his seat, and… that was it. He just waited for everyone else to finish.

When they had, Rich said, “All right. That concludes this challenge. You’re all welcome to enjoy the resort’s amenities. We’ll convene here first thing in the morning to reveal the results of the challenge.”

And… that was that.

They were dismissed.

Ooh… kay?

Quinn followed everyone out of the room, and he decided he’d made the right choice, sticking with this instead of taking the golden ticket. After their first challenge, it seemed like they were in the process of making a reality show that would be so damn boring, it would never be aired anywhere anyway.

But Quinn also couldn’t shake the feeling he was missing something. That maybe he should have taken Rich up on the golden ticket off the island.

Except… no. That was stupid. What could he possibly lose on a reality show that would be worse than drastically reducing his entire fortune? His family’s legacy?

Fuck that. He would play this game, boring and ridiculous as it was, and then go back to his incredible life.

Everything would be fine.