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“Hayes,” I begin, “about last night—”
“You don’t need to explain,” he cuts in, finally meeting my eyes. There’s something in his gaze I can’t quite read—caution, maybe, or restraint. “I understand why you told them about us. It was the right choice.”
“Then why does it feel like you’ve been a thousand miles?” The question slips out before I can stop it, vulnerability bleeding through every word.
Something flickers across his face—pain, maybe, or regret. “Brielle, there’s something important we have to talk about—”
“Sorry, but may I interrupt?” It’s Luna’s voice, and when I look up, she has a phony smile plastered on her face.
I want to say no, that she had her turn, and we were in the middle of something important, but when that gets shown to viewers, the person saying no always comes off looking bad. If I give up my time, then only Luna will look bad.
“Sure,” I say, standing and forcing a fake smile of my own. I glance at Hayes, who looks like he’s about to be sick, and wander back to the corner of the roof where Annabelle and Serena are talking.
When I get there, I mumble, “She cut me off.”
Serena rolls her eyes. “Of course she did.”
Gabby joins our group, and we change the conversation to the weather, literally, as it is a beautiful night.
“Attention, everyone!” Skye’s voice slices through the air before striding across the rooftop in platform heels that seem to defy physics, her expression somber. “I’m afraid it’s time for the Lock & Key ceremony. Hayes, if you could take your position, please.”
Hayes gives me one last unreadable look before moving to stand beside the table with the keys. I return to the line of women, my conversation with him unfinished, my questions unanswered. The familiar anxiety of Lock & Key ceremonies coils in my stomach, but this time it’s exponentially tighter.
“Women Warriors,” Skye begins, her voice carrying across the now-silent rooftop. “Hayes has had time to reflect on his connections with each of you. Tonight, he will give keys to the four women he can better see a future with. If you receive a key, you’ll take Hayes to your hometowns, where he’ll meet your families and take the next step toward finding love.”
The wind picks up, ruffling the delicate fabric of our dresses, carrying the scent of the city below—spice and flowers and distant cooking fires. I focus on breathing, on staying upright despite the vertigo threatening to topple me.
Hayes steps forward, lifting the first key from its velvet cushion. “This key represents not just continuation in this journey, but a genuine connection I want to explore further. Someone I can see building a life with beyond this show.”
He pauses dramatically—a move I suspect is more for production value than genuine emotion—before calling the first name.
“Serena.”
She steps forward, her face lit with genuine surprise and pleasure. Hayes says something quiet to her as he hands overthe key, something that makes her smile as she rejoins our dwindling line.
“Annabelle.”
She practically bounces forward, her joy uncontained as she accepts her key with a tearful thank you. Two down, two to go. My heart hammers against my ribs with bruising force.
“Luna.”
Of course. The flamenco connection. The easy chemistry. The uncomplicated relationship untainted by multiple secret encounters and premature declarations of feeling. Luna takes her key with graceful dignity, her eyes briefly meeting mine with something that might be sympathy or might be triumph.
And now there are two. Gabby and me, standing side by side, both trying to maintain composure as the reality of our situation sinks in. One of us stays, one goes home. I glance sideways at Gabby, whose perfect posture has finally begun to crack, her hands visibly trembling as she clasps them before her.
Hayes lifts the final key, its crystal facets catching the string lights overhead and throwing tiny rainbows across his solemn face. He looks at both of us, his expression revealing nothing of what must be happening behind those careful eyes.
“Brielle.”
My name on his lips sends a complicated surge of relief and uncertainty through me. I step forward on legs that feel like they might buckle at any moment, crossing the tile to where Hayes waits with the final key. When our eyes meet, I search for something—anything—of the man from the SUV.
What I find instead sends ice water through my veins.
His eyes are shuttered, distant in a way that goes beyond maintaining appropriate boundaries. As he places the key in my palm, his fingers briefly brush mine, and I feel nothing of the electricity that once sparked between us. No secret pressure, no lingering touch, no silent communication.
“Thank you for being here, Brielle,” he says, the words empty of everything but polite gratitude. As if I’m a distant acquaintance he’s thanking for attending a dinner party, not the woman he said he was falling for.
Gabby breaks into tears as Hayes moves to comfort her and escort her from the rooftop. The remaining contestants exchange awkward glances, unsure how to navigate this moment of one woman’s dream ending while theirs continue.