Twisted Promise
Chapter One
__________
Anya
It was late October when Anya saw Alessio for the first time in six years.
He wasn’t hard to miss—he was taller, with broader shoulders and a tongue as sharp as ever. His back was to her, muscles tensed as the rising sun bled across the horizon. Even from a distance, the impatience in his body seemed to cut through the clammy morning fog.
Anya never thought she’d see him again after their breakup years ago, let alone on a reality TV love show. Alessio was the kind of man who wouldn’t linger an extra minute for journalists to finish their interviews after his archery victories.
A hobby , he’d say. It distracts me from you.
She never really knew what he meant by that.
As her gaze darted around the hall of the twenty-room, seventeen-balcony mansion, she spotted a camera at the far end, attached to the wall and aimed squarely at the corridor.
Realization hit her. She wasn’t supposed to be in this part of the house. Bad luck had led her straight to him.
The executive director of First Love, Dearly Beloved , had envisioned the reality show as a live spectacle, and his intentions were obvious since his announcement six months earlier.
He scattered his net across multiple industries, eventually reeling in ten high-profile participants with impressive resumes and strong personalities. Alessio was one of them.
Meryl, Anya’s boss and close friend, was another. A polarizing lifestyle influencer, Meryl thrived on the love-hate attention her videos drew. It was precisely her dramatic flair that had secured her spot on the show.
As Meryl’s live-in assistant, Anya was relegated to the employee quarters on the opposite side of the mansion. Her work didn’t stop just because Meryl went on the show. Her sponsorships kept rolling in.
Yet somehow, here she was, face-to-face with a ghost from her past.
So, when Alessio caught her frozen in shock from the corner of his eyes, his attention completely withdrew from whoever was speaking to him.
The sky warmed with the hues of fluttering Valentine’s Day ribbons as the brisk dawn haze began to devour the remnants of the night.
However, not a hint of the scenic landscape could soften the unapologetically impassive look on his face. Very handsome… and extremely unfriendly.
His scrutiny flitted around every inch of Anya’s form, noting changes before finally locking onto her absentminded gaze. It was instinctual, the way something abysmal shifted in his eyes, and they held onto hers like the reincarnated souls of tragic lovers.
It wasn’t his first step toward her that snapped her out of the unpleasant reunion.
It was the glaring red dot on the wall camera that reminded her that they were live broadcasting with hundreds of thousands of people watching, searching for anything to turn into dirt and make a mountain out of a molehill.
Anya turned on her heel and hurried back the way she came, the heat of his gaze burning into the back of her head. She hoped, fervently, that he wouldn’t follow. He could easily catch her if he wanted to. His stamina was honed from daily morning runs.
While his physique wasn’t comparable to those in sports demanding grueling workouts and restrictive diets, archery had sculpted him with a glorious frame—the perfect blend of strength and elegance.
But he was more notoriously known for his prickly temper, capable of stirring buzz just by breathing.
He was always the dark horse that crushed competitors and remained the brightest burn in the archery field.
Once she was far enough from the other side of the mansion, she made a beeline toward the production crew. They were gathered around monitors, watching every movement of the participants as the live broadcast unfolded.
The executive director glanced up, narrowing his deep-set eyes. Anya could already sense the gears turning in his head.
She nodded at him and hurried back to her room. It was nowhere near as fancy as the rooms the participants were given, but Anya was only here because Meryl stipulated it as the only condition when she joined the show.
Later, as Anya wrapped up the week’s work for Meryl, curiosity tugged at her resolve. She opened the show’s website to check whether the cameras had caught her with Alessio.
She had to admit the editors had done a stellar job, condensing the live feed into a shorter, more polished version for busy viewers like herself.
Anya knew the day’s schedule because Meryl had shared it with her. It was easy: the participants arrived, exchanged pleasantries to break the ice, and had dinner together. Each was pulled aside for confessional interviews, a highlight for viewers and the most replayed section of the video.
Hovering her mouse over the “most replayed” marker, Anya clicked. The anonymous chat comments began to sync as Alessio’s interview appeared on the screen.
He looked positively irate. His glare alone seemed capable of shattering the camera lens.
The woman behind the camera prompted him to introduce himself. He complied, his tone unkind and terse: “Alessio. 28. Archery.”
“What made you come onto the show?”
Alessio gave a solid moment of silence to the question, long enough for Anya to readjust her back on the couch, before answering: “No reason.”
Then, the interviewer laughed sheepishly and asked another question through her clenched teeth. “Well, this is a reality love show, and I know there are many people interested in your relationships. So, are you dating anyone?”
With rare patience, Alessio stared into the center of the lens as if he were staring right at Anya.
“I was.”
“Oh!” the woman’s voice quipped, “Can you tell us more about them? How long were you two together? Do you still love them? Do you think they feel the same?”
“I don’t want love, just her.”
A twitch pulled at the corner of Anya’s lips. Against her better judgment, her eyes drifted to the chat. Comments flooded in, mostly reactions to Alessio’s unexpected declaration.
His publicist had been excellent at preserving his image, keeping him away from the romance circus that spellbound others. It was what sold his bachelor mystique.
Alessio was fifth-generation wealthy, the only son of private equity moguls, an accomplished competitive archer, and painfully photogenic.
He looked like someone with thirty-seven consecutive girlfriends, or concurrent, but unfortunately, he had a voice. And it had no qualm about snubbing anyone in his way.
Anya braced herself as she scrolled through the comments.
1
I’m not surprised he had a girlfriend, but why does he make it sound illegal?
2
I think it’s sweet.
3
Does anyone know who he’s talking about? There’s got to be something floating on the net.
4
I think it’s someone from years ago. If y’all have been following him on his social as I do, you’d see that he started carrying that weirdly crooked crochet thing on his key fob when he was 20. It doesn’t match his DIY cool-boy aesthetics.
5
@4 I know what you mean! I reverse-imaged it, but I guess it’s handmade since I couldn’t find anything like that.
6
No! I was rooting for him to stay single! I can’t imagine him dating or even having a crush. It’s like watching my own son get the birds-and-bees talk.
7
@6 Didn’t know he had parent-fans.
8
Is anyone grossed out by what he said? I mean, hypothetically, if he doesn’t want love but only her, isn’t that like kidnapping? It’s basically ransom logic.
9
It’s not like it’s the first time he said something offensive. He even insulted the president of Killorn for wanting him to sponsor their ‘half-assed’ product. They banned him from their app. Please don’t sue me; I’m just quoting him!
Anya sighed a relieved breath. At least they hadn’t latched onto the idea of his secret ex-girlfriend. Most of the comments came from die-hard, level-headed fans who understood what they were signing up for when they became his followers.
The mention of crochet was shoved into the back of her mind, and a part of her refused to acknowledge it. It would open the gate of locked memories that she would love for them to stay asleep.
However, her body betrayed her. A heartbeat, two fluttered breaths, and three trembles in her fingers told her otherwise. They were her most precious memories, haunting between the crevices of her body to deceitfully control her, the same way he used to do.
She wanted it, too.
A sharp knock at the door jolted her from the lethargy in her stomach. Anya shut her laptop and called out before going to answer.
The director stood there, thrusting a five-page contract in her face while rambling off highlights and waving an uncapped pen in his other hand. She scanned the document, carefully catching the traps and hidden fees buried in the legal jargon.
“I’m not comfortable with this,” she began, flipping back to the first page.
Anya valued her privacy and had already risked enough of it earlier. She hadn’t even checked the live chat to see how the viewers reacted to her accidental cameo.
It didn’t take much to figure out why the director had shown up with a contract. He’d likely spotted the shift in Alessio’s demeanor on the monitors and saw an opportunity to stir up excitement.
“You’ll be paid the same as the participants,” the director teased with a confident smirk.
The commission was printed beautifully in crisp black ink.
Breakups hurt, but money doesn’t.
* * *
Anya faced the camera, her hair and makeup freshly done to make her more presentable for the confessional interview. By the sound of the interviewer’s voice, she recognized her as the same one who had conducted the other participants’ interviews.
She introduced herself: Anya, 28 years old, and personal assistant. However, she deliberately omitted her employer’s name. It was better to be cautious and hope viewers glossed over it.
“Are you seeing anyone right now?” the interviewer asked, holding a toy microphone to add to the visual theatrics.
First Love, Dearly Beloved was a semi-scripted, "go-with-the-flow" type of reality show. Improvisation was loudly encouraged to catch participants off guard and create moments to fuel viewer speculation.
“No,” Anya answered truthfully.
The interviewer was not convinced, likely having seen that uncomfortable moment between her and Alessio, but she didn’t poke at it for now.
“What brought you to this show?”
Money.
She hesitated, internally cursing as the director’s scripted answers flashed in her mind.
“I want to find love.”
A dry heave nipped the back of her throat as she flashed a polite smile at the camera. The truth was, she had zero interest in a relationship. The other participants alone were reason enough to avoid one.
“As you know, this show is called First Love, Dearly Beloved . What was your first love like?”
The prepared answer played in her mind, but the director’s emphasis on raw improvisation made her pause.
“It was…” She trailed off, unsure where to begin.
Even now, Anya couldn’t encapsulate her relationship with Alessio into words. Everything was perfect, but there was an incongruity in the air of seasons that Alessio held her hand through.
Whether the fault lay with Alessio or herself, she didn’t want to untangle it, knowing it would force her to relive every moment with him.
“He made me the happiest.”
And that was the truth she could say with her whole heart.
“Do you still love him?” the interviewer queried, the hasty curiosity in her voice sounding more personal than professional.
“I don’t know,” Anya muttered, discomfort twisting in her fingers as she leaned back against the unyielding chair.
“Would you have married him if you stayed together?”
She shook her head firmly.
Marriage was not part of her ambiguous future plans, even before Alessio. She hadn’t told him this, despite the implicit ways his actions alluded at marriage during their four years together. Traces of guilt clawed at her temporarily, but they dissipated as quickly as they came.
“I have split ends, so I can’t get married.”
The interviewer sputtered, “Pardon?”
She panicked, wondering if she could round up her lie before nodding. “My parents are divorced.”
Not true, but it didn’t matter. People weren’t here for her, so there was no need to dig up her family tree with blood-related relatives she had never heard of.
Her eyes flew to the left of the camera, where comments streamed in. She forgot this was being live-broadcasted, not pre-recorded and edited like the other interviews.
Anya wasn’t sure whether to feel annoyed or amused by the director’s stunt, but the comments made her laugh softly.
25
Although she has a point though, she seems scared of marriage to me. Like, you start as one, a team, but in the end, you split up.
26
I didn’t even catch the joke. Thanks for explaining!
27
Can’t tell if you rolled your eyes or not, but you’re welcome.
28
Did anyone clock her and Alessio earlier?
29
I’m going to hold off on assuming anything cause what if it’s a skit?
30
I can lip-read, so it’s close enough. He looked at her like coffee—hot and steamy but bitter like cold grudges.
31
They looked at each other for four seconds, and now everyone is speculating she’s the one who took that fiend off the market.
32
Who counted? Not me, for sure. But it looked more like 3.5 seconds. Well, if you add how long he ran his eyes all over her body. It’s wild for someone to look so passionately at another without any sexual tension, especially when he’s that hot.
33
Have to say, it’s fascinating and wholesome.
Anya felt the comments were going in a direction she did not want, so she quickly averted her eyes back to the interviewer, who said something moments ago.
“Since you joined late, this is your mission for tonight.”
She opened the pink envelope that was passed to her and scanned the contents with a small twitch in her finger.
Go shopping.
Nothing else was written on the pearlescent paper.
With no guidance, she went with what was most obvious: shop for items to help her blend in with the other participants. Her plain clothes weren’t inappropriate, but they screamed “lazy weekend” rather than “reality TV contestant.”
The confessional interview ended at the envelope, and the woman relayed a message from the director for Anya to meet the other participants.
The walk to where the guests congregated was too short for her liking. She wished the mansion was ginormous so she could avoid people longer. Though smaller than a traditional one, it was spacious enough to pass for a mini-mansion with a blend of modernity and cozy design.
Basically, it’s just a larger-than-average home.
“Are you going in or auditioning to be a doorman?”
The voice unsettled her. Clipped, impatient, and candid—worse than the darkened shadow plastered on the door, shrouding her in a murky embrace of anxious butterflies.
Her heart soared, humming a lithe melody through her racing veins, and it settled between the deck of emotions that had been shuffling since she saw him again.
“Anya. ”