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Skye, with her eccentric hair accessories and flowing caftans, would deliver this line with much more flair.
Serena’s expression remains composed, though I detect a flicker of something—nervousness? anticipation?—in her eyes. “I’d like that,” she says. “I think we have a lot to talk about. Without cameras.”
Relief floods me at her emphasis on talking. Not that Serena isn’t attractive—she absolutely is—but the thought of physical intimacy with anyone right now feels wrong.
We’re escorted to the yacht’s master suite, a space dominated by an enormous bed with what must be thousand-thread-count sheets. Rose petals are scattered across the duvet, champagne chills in an ice bucket, and strategic lighting creates an atmosphere that screams “have sex here for America’s entertainment.”
The cameras follow us in for the obligatory shots of us sitting on the bed, awkwardly aware of what the audience will assume happens next. Serena and I exchange a few more platitudes about connections and being excited for uninterrupted time together. I lean in for a kiss—gentle, respectful, utterly devoid of the fire I felt kissing Brielle.
Finally, the crew backs out, the producer giving us a wink and a thumbs-up before closing the door. And then, blissfully, we’re alone.
Serena immediately rises from the bed, kicking off her heels with a sigh of relief. “Thank goodness. Those were killing me.”
“Goodbye mic packs.”
She reaches behind her to unhook the small device attached to her dress. “So,” she says, setting it on a side table. “Shall we talk honestly now?”
I loosen my tie, grateful for the reprieve from performance. “Please. I could use some honesty about now.”
Serena pours us both champagne, then settles into an armchair rather than returning to the bed. I take the chair opposite her, the distance between us clarifying what this night is really about.
“You’re in love with Brielle,” she says, no preamble, no accusation. Just a fact, presented with scientific precision. When I stare at her, surprised, she shrugs. “I’m observant. It was clear to anyone paying attention.”
The directness stuns me into honesty. “Yes. I’m in love with Brielle.”
“And you eliminated her because...?”
I hesitate, years of contract-mandated discretion warring with my desperate need to confess. “It’s complicated.”
“I have an IQ of 142, Hayes. I can handle complicated.”
Despite everything, I laugh. It feels good, this momentary break in tension. I run a hand through my hair. “I didn’t want to send her home. I had no choice.”
Serena nods, processing. “Because of the beach incident. The photo.”
“I can’t answer that,” I say, but give her a slight nod.
“Right. We always have choices, Hayes. They just sometimes come with consequences we’re not prepared to face.” She takes a sip of champagne. “What are you going to do now?”
“I don’t know. I’m contractually obligated to finish the season. To propose to someone.” The words taste bitter.
“But not to stay engaged,” Serena points out.
“No, but—”
A sudden lurch of the yacht interrupts me. The champagne in my glass sloshes, nearly spilling. The smooth sailing we’ve experienced all day has given way to choppier waters as evening falls.
“Woah,” I say. “Must be hitting some swells as we—”
Another lurch, stronger this time. And with it comes a wave of nausea so intense it takes my breath away. Cold sweat breaks out on my forehead as my stomach flips violently.
“Hayes?” Serena’s voice sounds distant. “Are you alright? You’ve gone pale.”
I try to nod, but the movement only intensifies the nausea. “I just—I’ve never been seasick before.”
“Never?” She sets down her glass, concern etching her features.
“Never. I’ve been on dozens of boats. I did a whole photo shoot on a catamaran last year in high winds.” Another wave hits, and I have to swallow hard against the rising sickness. “I don’t understand why—”