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“They won’t,” Darren cuts me off. “Not unless someone tells them. And the only people who know are people who are allunder contract to keep our traps shut, including you.” His smile turns cold. “And none of us has any reason to talk, do we?”
I stare at him, the implication clear. “Are you... threatening me?”
“Threatening? No.” He stands, moving to a coffee counter where he pours himself a cup, not offering me one. “I’m simply reminding you of the contract you signed. The very detailed, very binding contract that includes damages for breach of confidentiality, misrepresentation, or actions that harm the show’s integrity.”
“The show’s integrity was compromised the moment Brielle showed up at the mansion,” I argue.
“Perhaps. But it’s done now.”
My stomach twists as I realize the corner I’m back into. “So I have no choice but to keep up this charade?”
“I’m telling you to keep quiet about the one evening you shared with Brielle, and she stays. You continue to explore your obviously genuine connection with her—on camera. And you also show appropriate interest in the other contestants.” He moves back to his desk, pulling up a document on his computer. “Particularly Gabby and Kavita.”
I respond with a glare, and Darren continues, “They bring drama, Hayes. And drama brings ratings. I need you to keep them around for the international trip.”
I knew I signed up for this, but now that I’m facing it, it’s so much harder than I thought it would be. “I’ll try, but I’m not an actor.”
“You are now.” Darren slaps his desk. “It’s all part of the game. But if you keep Brielle, you walk away with a chunk of money and maybe your future wife.”
I nod, knowing he’s right. I did agree to this. And if I wanted to protect her reputation, I should’ve eliminated her that very first night. I didn’t, and now I’m trapped. “Okay.”
“Excellent. I knew you’d see reason. Was there anything else?”
My lips purse tight when I say, “No. Nothing else.”
“Great. We start makeup prep in an hour. I’m sure you’ll want to look your best for the group date. The women are doing a charity calendar photo shoot—your professional expertise will be useful.”
“Okay.” The dismissal is clear, so I leave.
As I walk back toward the mansion, the weight of impossible choices pressing down on me, I realize that every moment I spend with Brielle is a gift and a curse. Every smile, every touch, every shared laugh is genuine—and completely undermined by the fact that at any moment, her career could be toast. How did something that started as an honest connection on a beach become so dangerously complicated?
8
The Consequences
BRIELLE
After sneaking into bed late last night because everyone was asleep, I wake up to reality. Reality that my perfect date with Hayes is over, and it’s going to be the last one for a long time, and maybe if ever.
Still, it proved that I made the right decision coming onto this show. He’s a good man, no matter what, and I’m so glad I took the chance to explore whatever it was we had on the beach. Now I know it wasn’t a one-time thing because we had it again, even better.
As I make my way to the kitchen, I fix my smile—the one I’ve perfected through nine different schools—and prepare to face the firing squad of jealous glares. Because while I was floatingyesterday, the nineteen other contestants have been marinating in envy.
“Had a good time?” asks one of the women, I’m pretty sure her name is Chloe. She seems bubbly and nice.
“It was fun,” I say, underplaying the evening that permanently altered my heart’s chemistry. No way am I giving the crew fodder for their interview questions later.
Serena sits at the kitchen table, her expression a mixture of curiosity and concern. “How was it?” she whispers as I pass.
“Tell you later,” I murmur, squeezing her arm in gratitude for the friendly face.
After I get my coffee, the bubble of warmth Serena provides pops the moment I step into the main living room. A half-dozen women are arranged in various poses of casual disinterest that aren’t fooling anyone. Gabby sits dead center on the plush couch, her legs tucked elegantly beneath her, looking like she’s posing for a magazine shoot titled “How to Appear Relaxed While Plotting Murder.”
“Well, well, well,” she drawls, her Southern accent suddenly thicker. “If it isn’t our resident nerd. How was your little carnival date last night? Did y’all discuss the scientific principles behind cotton candy?”
A few women snicker.
“We had a fun time.” I aim for neutral. “The view from the Ferris wheel was beautiful.”