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He takes my hand in both of his, bringing it to his lips in a gesture so tender it makes my breath catch. “When I think about what could have happened...”
“But it didn’t,” I remind him. “Thanks to you.”
“Thanks to dumb luck,” he says. “If I hadn’t seen you fall...” He shakes his head. “This whole thing is ridiculous. Forcing you all into dangerous situations for television, manipulating emotions, creating artificial scenarios—and for what? So I can pretend to get to know multiple women while the person I’m actually falling for gets hurt?”
My heart stutters. Did he just say...?
The nurse enters with discharge papers, oblivious to the moment she’s interrupted. As she explains my care instructions, I steal glances at Hayes, who hasn’t moved from the edge of my bed, his hand still entwined with mine.
Whatever happens when we leave this hospital room—whether Darren is waiting with cameras, whether the other women sense the shift between us, whether we can maintain the pretense for three more weeks—one thing is clear: something fundamental has changed today. Not just because Hayes risked his safety to save me, or because he finally acknowledged his feelings aloud, but because we both glimpsed what truly matters beyond the artificial world of reality television.
As Hayes helps me carefully to my feet, his arm strong around my waist, I lean into him, allowing myself this moment of vulnerability and connection. The path ahead is complicated, but for the first time since stepping into this bizarre experience, I feel certain of one thing: whatever happens with the show, Hayes and I have found something worth fighting for.
17
Scarlet Phoenix
HAYES
The Spanish night air cools us as I lead Brielle to the show’s SUV to take us back to the villa. It’s well past midnight, the other contestants and crew presumably asleep, giving us this rare moment of privacy. Pamplona sleeps around us, the narrow streets and ancient buildings bathed in the gentle glow of streetlamps. No cameras here. No production assistants with clipboards and earpieces. No competition or contractual obligations. Just Brielle and me, and the lingering fear I’ve been trying to swallow since I watched her accident.
Her hand feels small and warm in mine, a silent reminder of how close I came to losing her today. The image of her falling before those charging bulls still flashes behind my eyes everytime I blink, a nightmare on repeat that makes my grip on her fingers tighten involuntarily.
“You okay?” she whispers, glancing over her shoulder. The bandage on her arm glows faintly in the moonlight, a white flag of vulnerability that makes my chest ache.
“I should be asking you that.” I carefully guide her around a stone planter. “Doctor said you should be resting.”
“I’ve been resting all day.” She smiles, the dim light catching the curve of her lips. “Besides, walking wasn’t on the doctor’s list of prohibited activities.”
“True. He specifically banned getting her stitches wet and not lifting anything heavy. Said nothing about illicit midnight strolls.”
Her laugh is soft, barely disturbing the night air. We slip through a wrought-iron gate that opens onto a small public park, as the SUV is on the other side.
“You still haven’t answered my question,” she says as we follow a winding path deeper into the park. “Are you okay?”
I consider deflecting again, but something about the darkness, the privacy, the warmth of her hand in mine, pulls honesty from me.
“No,” I admit. “I can’t stop seeing it. You on those cobblestones, the bulls coming, that split second when I thought—” My voice catches, throat closing around the words.
Brielle stops walking, turning to face me. Her dark eyes reflect pinpricks of distant light, searching my face with an intensity that makes me want to look away and never stop looking at the same time.
“But you got to me,” she says softly. “You jumped off a balcony like a Marvel hero and pulled me out of the way.”
“I could have been too late.”
“But you weren’t.”
“But I could have been.” The words come out sharper than intended, roughened by fear and something deeper than I’m not ready to name. “I’ve been too late before.”
The admission hangs between us, unexpected and raw. Brielle’s eyes widen, but she doesn’t push, doesn’t pry. Instead, she simply twines her fingers more securely with mine and tugs me gently back into motion. We walk in silence for a while, following the path as it curves around a small fountain where water trickles musically over stone.
“This place is beautiful,” she finally says, giving me the space to collect myself. “It’s like a secret garden in the middle of the city.”
I’m grateful for the shift, the chance to steady my breathing and loosen the knot in my chest. “The pamphlet in my room said it’s one of the oldest parks in Pamplona. These statues are from the 18th century.”
We approach a small clearing where stone figures emerge from the shadows like sentinels frozen in time. A woman with flowing robes gazes serenely into the distance. A soldier stands at attention, face worn smooth by centuries of rain and wind. A child reaches eternally for something just beyond its grasp.
Brielle moves toward them, trailing her uninjured hand over the cool stone of the nearest figure. The moonlight paints her in silver and shadow, her black hair falling in loose waves down her back, released from the practical ponytail she wore during the day. She’s wearing a T-shirt and jeans, but it’s the way she moves that catches my eye. Curious, thoughtful, reaching out to connect with these stone strangers.