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“I know. But if it works, I’m free.”
“So you’re in.”
“I’msoin.”
“Two minutes, Hayes!” A production assistant brings me back to the moment, scurrying past, clipboard clutched to her chest. She doesn’t make eye contact—none of them do anymore. Word travels fast in reality TV land, and my sunrise beach conversation with Skye this morning has the entire crew on edge.
A camera operator adjusts a boom mic above the ceremony platform, the sound equipment capturing the gentle ocean breeze, the distant call of tropical birds, the hammering of my heart trying to punch through my ribcage. They’re recording B-roll, ambient sound for editing later. But there won’t be any later, not the kind Darren expects. Not after what I’m about to do.
“Places everyone!” The ceremony producer’s voice carries across the clifftop. “Women arriving in sixty seconds!”
I take my position at the center of the platform, beside a small table draped in white linen. Three ornate keys rest on a silver tray, gleaming in the golden hour sunlight. The thought sends a fresh wave of nausea through me, though not the kind that plagued me the last few days. This is different—it’s from mustering the courage to stand at the edge of a cliff and choose to jump.
Wardrobe has me in a custom linen suit the color of sand, and I adjust my tie for the fifteenth time. Beyond the ceremony platform, I spot Skye in a heated conversation with an assistant producer. Her hands gesticulating wildly as she talks, and the assistant producer nods frantically, then rushes off toward the production trailers.
My stomach tightens. Is Darren onto us? Probably, but no time to worry about that now. The women arrive in a procession of evening gowns and camera-ready smiles. Serena first, regal in deep blue that compliments her brown skin. Then Annabelle, her red hair swept up, freckles standing out against her palegreen dress. Finally, Luna, resplendent in white—a not-so-subtle hint—and still sporting the look of someone who barely survived Skye’s impromptu grief therapy session.
They take their positions opposite me, a trio of beautiful women, two of whom, in another reality, might have been genuine options for my future. But not in this reality. Not when Brielle exists.
“Serena, Annabelle, and Luna,” I begin. “Thank you for joining me here today.”
If Serena and Annabelle seem unusually calm, it’s because they are. After Skye and I met on the beach, I pulled them aside individually, explained what I was planning. Their reactions surprised me—not shock or anger, but relief.
“I’m glad you’re ready to face the consequences of making the right decision,” Serena had said.
“Honey, we all knew,” Annabelle had drawled, her Alabama accent thickening with emotion. “You two love each other something fierce. I’m glad you’re choosing honesty over contracts and games.”
But Luna remains in the dark. Her smile is practiced perfection, her posture screaming “pick me” in a language I’ve become fluent in after weeks on this show. Her eyes dart to the keys on the table, calculating odds, imaging Instagram posts, planning hashtags.
“We’ve been on an incredible journey together,” I say, reciting the expected opening before I blow it all up. “I want to thank each of you for opening your hearts to me.”
Movement at the edge of the ceremony space catches my eye. A golf cart barrels up the path, its driver hunched forward like a jockey in the final stretch. Even from a distance, I recognize the rigid posture, the set of those shoulders.
Darren.
He’s coming fast, and I’ve got minutes, maybe seconds, before he tries to shut this down.
No more script. No more playing it safe.
“Before I continue with the ceremony,” I say, voice suddenly stronger, “there’s something I need to tell all of you.”
Luna’s smile falters, the first hint that this isn’t proceeding according to plan. Behind the women, Skye materializes, giving me a subtle thumbs-up. Whatever she’s been doing, she wants me to keep going.
“The truth is,” I continue, stepping away from the table, “I can’t give any of you a key today.”
Gasps from the crew, a muffled curse from the head producer. Luna’s face freezes in an expression of disbelief that would be comical if it weren’t so painful to witness.
“What do you mean?” she demands, breaking the cardinal rule of not speaking unless spoken to during ceremonies.
“I can’t pretend anymore.” The words come faster now, easier, like a dam breaking after holding back too long. “I can’t stand here and act like I’m choosing between you when the truth is, the woman I love isn’t even here.”
A sharp intake of breath from Luna cuts through the bird chirps. “You can’t be serious.”
“I’ve never been more serious about anything in my life.” I turn to include the cameras in my declaration, knowing August will watch this someday. Knowing I want him to see his father choosing the truth. “I’m in love with Brielle Wilson. I’ve known she’s the one since the moment I met her. And I made the biggest mistake of my life letting her go.”
Serena nods almost imperceptibly. Annabelle’s eyes shine with unshed tears. Luna’s face contorts into a mask of fury that would make Marvel villains take notes.
“Youwhat?” Luna steps forward, the train of her white dress dragging through carefully arranged rose petals. “Areyou kidding me right now? After everything? After our night together?”