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I wince at her implication, and I can see that Luna has crafted her words to create maximum damage.
“Luna, you know that’s not—”
“You’re telling me,” she continues, voice rising to a pitch that probably has the sound engineer scrambling for volume control, “that I wastedweeksof my life on this show for you to pick a woman who was eliminated?”
Behind her, Darren’s golf cart screeches to a halt. He leaps out, red-faced and panting, his headset askew. Our eyes lock across the ceremony space, and the look he gives me contains multitudes—rage, betrayal, and the clear promise of retribution.
“Hayes!” he bellows, storming toward us with the unstoppable force of a man watching his career implode in real time. “Cut the cameras! Cut themnow!”
But Skye has warned them that shit is going down, so the operators stand their ground, looking to Skye rather than Darren for direction. She gives a slight nod of her head: keep filming.
“You signed a contract, Hayes!” Darren’s voice echoes across the clifftop as he reaches the platform. “This is breach of contract! This is—”
“This is reality,” I interrupt, surprising myself with my steady tone. “Isn’t that what you’re always after, Darren? Real emotion? Authentic moments?”
“Don’t you dare lecture me about authenticity.” He steps between me and the women. “You think this is a game? You think you can just walk away? I’ve got so much damaging footage of you and Brielle. Congratulations, you just ruined her career and your reputation.”
The threat hangs in the air, momentarily stealing my breath. Here goes.
Skye steps forward, a calm center in the chaos storm. “You sure about that, Darren?” Her voice carries an unusual authority, stripped of its usual flightiness. She reaches into her caftan and pulls out a folded document. “This is an affidavit from the family who took that picture of Hayes and Brielle on the beach.”
Skye unfolds the paper as if she’s about to read a royal proclamation. “They state under oath that you were the one who requested the photo. Attached is the receipt for themassivesum of money you gave them for it.” She turns to face the cameras directly. “Soyouwere the one who breached the NDA and gave the photo to Luna.”
All eyes swing to Luna, whose complexion has gone from sun-kissed to ghostly in seconds.
“Isn’t that right, Luna?” Skye’s eyebrows raise.
Luna’s mouth opens and closes several times, a fish suddenly finding itself on land. She looks from Darren to Skye to me, calculating odds, weighing loyalties.
“I...” she begins, then falters. Finally, shoulders slumping, she admits: “Yes, he gave it to me.”
The confession ripples through the gathered crew like a shock wave. Darren’s face flushes an even deeper shade of red, the vein at his temple pulsing.
“You set this up,” Skye continues, turning back to Darren with the confidence of someone holding a royal flush. “So it wasn’t leaked. No one else had it or has it now.” Her voice sharpens. “So, Darren. Do I need to go over all the things you can be sued for? Breach of contract. Defamation of character. Infliction of emotional distress.”
She’s magnificent in her righteous fury, a Mother Earth goddess in a caftan, wielding legal terms like lightning bolts.
“I could go on,” she warns, “but the point is, I think this shooting stays, the harmful footage doesn’t air, and everyonekeeps their traps shut about the photo or they will get sued as well.” She shoots Luna a pointed look before honing her gaze back to Darren. “So, are we done here?”
Silence descends on the clifftop. Even the birds seem to be holding their breath. In my peripheral vision, I see Serena and Annabelle exchange glances of stunned admiration. Luna looks like she’s calculating how to salvage her influencer career from this wreckage. And Darren—Darren looks like a man watching his kingdom crumble.
“Yeah,” he finally concedes, each word dragged from him. “We’re done here.” His face is a mask of fury and humiliation, but defeat is evident in the slump of his shoulders. “But this whole shooting is a waste. We have no finale, no proposal, nothing.”
“Oh, I wouldn’t say that,” Skye says, her usual lightness returning to her voice. She turns to me, then the camera crews gather around us. “Pack your things—you’re all heading to where Brielle is right now—a remote cabin in Alaska. That’s where you’ll shoot the final proposal scene.”
Alaska? A cabin? How does Skye know where Brielle is?
As if reading my thoughts, she winks at me. “I have my sources. And a very talkative executive producer friend at Bingeflix mentioned their star writer needed ‘remote accommodations’ to recover from heart-shattering reality TV trauma.”
Finally, with a huff that sends her extensions swaying, Luna storms off the platform, white dress billowing behind her like a surrender flag.
Annabelle breaks the tension with spontaneous applause, which Serena joins. Soon the entire crew is clapping—for what, I’m not entirely sure. For truth? For the dramatic conclusion to a season that will probably set viewing records? For the rare victory of authenticity over manipulation?
I don’t care. All I can think about is Brielle. In Alaska. Possibly willing to see me, to hear me out. To give me a chance to explain why I sent her home, why I broke both our hearts.
“Thank you,” I say to Skye, the words woefully inadequate for what she’s done.
She shrugs, shell accessories tinkling with the movement. “Don’t thank me yet, Bachelor Boy. She might slam the door in your face.”