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“So don’t.”
He’s right. I realize with crystal clarity that I’ve made the worst mistake of my life since Sarah died. I let Brielle go. And now I have to find a way to make it right—contract be damned, show be damned, image be damned.
Because if there’s one thing I learned from losing Sarah, it’s that life is too short to waste on anything but truth. And the truth is, I love Brielle Wilson. Now I just have to find a way to tell her before it’s too late.
31
Working Out
BRIELLE
The Bingeflix building looks exactly as I left it four weeks ago—all gleaming glass and modern angles, a testament to its streaming success. What’s different is me. I stand on the sidewalk—stitches out—clutching my laptop bag, suddenly unsure if I can pull this off. Four weeks ago, I was Brielle Wilson, showrunner of a hit series. Today, I’m Brielle Wilson, reality TV reject with a broken heart and mascara that might not withstand a sudden onslaught of tears. But I straighten my spine, adjust my blazer, and force my feet to move. Fake it till you make it, or at least until you make it through this meeting without mentioning Hayes Burke’s name.
The security guard recognizes me and waves me through with a smile. “Welcome back, Ms. Wilson. The team’s been asking when you’d return.”
I manage something resembling a smile. “Good to be back, Roy.”
And it is. It’s good to be back in a world where people respect me instead of trying to sabotage me. Where my words create worlds instead of just fueling drama. Where no one knows I got my heart shattered by a photographer with eyes the exact color of the Atlanta sky today.
Focus, Brielle.
The elevator ascends with smooth efficiency, unlike my thoughts, which ping around my skull. Hayes’s warm hand on mine. Hayes at the Lock & Key ceremony, his face a mask of resignation. Hayes saying “I love you” as he put me in a limo home.Stop. Stop. Stop.
I press my fingertips against my closed eyelids until I see stars, a physical distraction from the mental slideshow of Hayes Burke’s Greatest Hits. When the elevator doors open, I’ve got my game face on—professional, confident, definitely not crying in bathrooms between production meetings.
“Brielle!” My executive producer, Marcus, spots me immediately from across the lobby. He embraces me with genuine warmth, and for a terrifying second, I think I might crumble right there in the Bingeflix reception area. “The prodigal creator returns! How was your... sabbatical?”
The careful way he says “sabbatical” tells me everything. He knows. Of course he knows. He probably has aGroomsman to Groomfantasy league. For all I know, he drafted me.
“Enlightening,” I say, aiming for enigmatic but landing somewhere closer to constipated. “But I’m ready to get back to real life. ToHallucination AIand storylines I can actually control.”
Marcus guides me toward the conference room, his hand hovering near my elbow without actually touching me, as if I might be contagious with reality TV drama. “Everyone’s excited to talk to you. The eight episodes you submitted yesterday, ahead of schedule, were brilliant. Absolutely brilliant.”
“Thank you so much, Marcus. I’m so happy to hear that.” At least I had the foresight to draft those before my journey to humiliation. Future Brielle owes Past Brielle a drink for that one.
The conference room door swings open to reveal a wall of windows framing the Buckhead Atlanta skyline. The city stretches out below us, all gleaming skyscrapers and arterial highways, people living their normal, un-televised lives. For a moment, I’m struck by the parallels—how the city looks solid and permanent from up here, just like my relationship with Hayes seemed from inside the bubble. But both are more fragile than they appear, vulnerable to disruption, to heartbreak, utter destruction.
“And here she is!” Marcus announces. “Our returning genius!”
Twelve faces turn toward me—some familiar, some new, all wearing expressions of curiosity poorly disguised as professional interest. They’ve all seen the promos, I realize. They can probably guess I was eliminated. They’re all wondering if I’ll have a meltdown in the middle of their pitch meeting.
Not likely.
I slide into an empty chair, open my laptop with deliberate calm, and smile. “Let’s talk season two, shall we?”
The room relaxes incrementally. This is familiar territory. This is why they want me here—not forGroomsman to Groomgossip, but for my brain, my stories, my ability to make artificial intelligence both hilarious and heartbreaking. For the next hour, we discuss character arcs and plot developments, the ethics of sentient AI and the comedy of machines trying to understandhuman emotion. Ironic, considering I’m currently a human trying to understand why emotions are so goddamn awful.
“Your algorithm romance subplot is inspired,” says Tess, the head of development. “The idea that two AIs could fall in love through a glitch that makes them hallucinate human emotions they don’t actually have? It’s metaphorically rich.”
Is it? Or is it just my subconscious working through the possibility that Hayes’s feelings for me were a production-induced hallucination? That his “I love you” was meaningless?
“Thanks,” I say instead of screaming. “I think audiences are ready for a deeper exploration of artificial emotions versus authentic ones. What makes love real? Is it the feeling itself or the choices we make based on those feelings?”
The words come out smooth, like I’m not actively bleeding out from emotional wounds. But somewhere behind my carefully constructed façade, a tiny voiceover asks: Was what Hayes and I had real? Or was it manufactured for ratings, for drama, for the story Darren wanted to tell?
“Speaking of love stories,” Marcus says, and my stomach drops. Here it comes. “How was your experience onGroomsman to Groom? Anything you can tell us?”
The room goes quiet. Twelve pairs of eyes fix on me with the intensity of cameras during a key ceremony. I take a slow breath, reaching for the glass of water in front of me to buy precious seconds.