11. Enemies and Alliances
Enemies and Alliances
brIELLE
I t’s Friday, Lock & Key ceremony day, mid-morning, and I’m halfway through applying my mascara when Skye bursts into my bathroom like she owns the place—which isn’t far from the truth.
Her Grammy-winning singer husband purchased and donated the mansion for the show.
Her peacock-printed kimono flutters dramatically as she leans in, voice dropping.
“Good news, Penguin Girl. Hayes pitched your brilliant plan to the execs, and they’ve green-lighted Operation August Arrival.
” She grins, tapping her temple. “The boy visits for a special father-son episode. Ratings’ll go through the room, just like you said. ”
My hand freezes mid-air, mascara wand dangerously close to poking my eye out. “They approved it? Already?”
“Honey, in this business, a genuinely heartwarming moment is the Holy Grail.” Skye perches on the edge of the bathtub, her kimono spreading around her. “Darren started salivating the second Hayes said ‘reunite with my son grieving his mother’s death.’ I’ve never seen contracts amended so fast.”
Relief floods through me. Hayes will get to be with August. I set down my mascara wand before I can accidentally give myself raccoon eyes from the emotion welling up.
“That’s amazing,” I keep my voice neutral despite the genuine happiness blooming in my chest. “When does he arrive?”
“Next Friday. The producers are planning a special challenge where the remaining women will have to connect with August.” Skye leans in, her eyes sparkling with mischief. “Between us, this was a brilliant strategy. If Hayes picks someone his son hates, the relationship is doomed anyway.”
“It wasn’t strategy,” I say, though part of me—the calculated screenwriter part—knows exactly how this will play out on TV.
Skye gives me a look that says she doesn’t buy my innocence for a second.
“Listen carefully, Vulcan Babe. Until August arrives, this stays completely under wraps. No mentioning it to Hayes, no hinting to the other women. As far as anyone knows, you two never had that little schedule-changing rendezvous.”
“Of course.”
Skye stands, straightening her kimono. “The other women will skewer you.”
I nod, understanding the gravity. “My lips are sealed.”
“Good girl.” Skye heads for the door, then turns back. “By the way, that penguin stunt yesterday? Genius. The best way to handle sabotage is to own it.”
“Thanks.”
As she disappears in a cloud of expensive perfume, I can’t help but smile at the memory.
Hayes’s face when I’d waddled onstage still makes me smile.
Not pity or secondhand embarrassment, but genuine delight.
While the others had tried to seduce him with obvious talents—Gabby’s gymnastic contortions, Luna’s slinky dance—I’d given him something authentic. Something memorable.
And even though he’d picked Annabelle for the date, which she deserved, the penguin has become my unofficial mascot. A symbol of turning sabotage into strength.
Now, as I finish applying my makeup, I’m feeling good, and I’m almost sure I’m safe for tonight.
I’ve selected a gown that brings out flecks of gold in my eyes—battle armor for what promises to be a tense evening.
After Hayes canceled his date with Annabelle to call his son, he needs to spend more of tonight’s cocktail party making it up to her.
When I enter the main living room, the air feels charged with pre-elimination anxiety—that particular blend of competitive tension and barely concealed panic that has nineteen other grown women pretending to sip mimosas while mentally rehearsing their “pick me” speeches.
Serena catches my eye from across the room, giving me a subtle nod that says both “you look nice” and “shit’s about to go down.” She’s perched on the edge of the sofa, maintaining careful distance from Gabby’s corner coalition.
I walk toward the kitchen, hoping to down some coffee before the chaos begins. But as I pass the dining area, I catch Gabby’s voice, sharp.
“—absolutely ridiculous to suggest I would just misplace it. Someone took it, and I want it back.”
Annabelle stands across from her, blue eyes wide and hands twisting nervously in front of her. “I swear, I haven’t seen your bracelet, Gabby. Why would I take it?”
“Because it’s the exact one Hayes complimented on our group date,” Gabby says, stepping closer to Annabelle. “You’ve been eyeing it since I got back.”
Annabelle’s pale skin flushes crimson. “That’s not true! I wouldn’t—”
“Then explain why Kavita saw you coming out of my room yesterday when everyone was at the pool.” Gabby crosses her arms, triumph flashing in her eyes.
Some of the other women are gathering now, drawn to conflict. I notice Luna hanging back, her expression concerned.
“I was returning a book I borrowed.” Annabelle’s voice is small. “Your door was open.”
“A likely story.” Gabby turns to address their growing audience. “Someone here is a thief, and no one should trust anything in their rooms.”
“Maybe you just lost it,” Taylor says, ever the peacemaker.
Gabby’s eyes narrow. “A twenty-thousand-dollar sapphire tennis bracelet? Nope.”
The room erupts, women checking their own wrists and necks reflexively, muttering about security and locked doors. Annabelle looks on the verge of tears, her rosy cheeks now blotched with embarrassment.
“I didn’t take anything,” she insists, her Southern accent thickening with emotion. “I would never—”
“Then you won’t mind if we check your things,” Kavita suggests, materializing beside Gabby like an evil henchwoman in a designer jumpsuit.
Annabelle’s eyes pop. “That’s—you can’t just—”
“What’s going on here?” Serena steps forward, her profession evident in the way she surveys the scene, gathering data before forming a hypothesis.
“Annabelle stole my bracelet,” Gabby says. “The one Hayes loved.”
“I did not!” Annabelle’s voice cracks.
I watch the scene unfolding, recognizing the calculated power play. This isn’t about a bracelet—it’s about destabilizing the competition before elimination. Creating doubt. Throwing Annabelle off her game after her successful fire juggling performance.
And suddenly, I’m tired of it. Tired of the manufactured drama, the petty sabotage, the way these women tear each other down instead of recognizing we’re all pawns in a game designed to milk our emotions for ratings.
“Everyone, stop.” I step into the center of the room. All eyes turn to me—some surprised, others wary. “This is getting us nowhere.”
“Easy for you to say,” Gabby snaps. “You’re not the one who’s been robbed.”
“And Annabelle’s not the one who should be put on trial without evidence,” I say. “Look, we’ve got six hours until Hayes arrives for tonight’s cocktail party. We’re all stressed, we’re all overthinking everything, and turning on each other isn’t helping.”
“So what do you suggest, Penguin Girl?” Gabby’s tone makes the nickname an insult.
I take a deep breath. “I suggest we channel this energy into something productive. Like cooking lunch together.”
The room falls silent. Several women exchange glances, confused by this left turn.
“Cooking?” Luna echoes. “That sounds fun. Something collaborative instead of competitive.”
“Awesome.” I gesture toward the kitchen. “The producers stocked the fridge for us to make our own meals, but we’ve all been surviving on protein bars and vodka sodas. Let’s actually use it.”
“I’m not really much of a cook,” Taylor says.
“Neither am I.” I shrug. “But Serena is. Aren’t you?”
All eyes turn to Serena, who blinks in surprise at being suddenly spotlighted. “I... yes, actually. Chemistry is just cooking with less tasty results.”
“Perfect.” I sense the energy in the room shifting, confusion overriding hostility. “Let’s do it.”
“And what about my bracelet?” Gabby demands.
“If someone took it, cooking together might help everyone calm down enough to actually remember where they last saw it.” I keep my tone neutral. “And if the bracelet mysteriously reappears during lunch prep, you’ll have it back.”
My eyes holding Gabby’s just long enough to communicate my suspicion that there is no missing bracelet—just a conveniently timed accusation.
She shrugs. “Fine. I could use a distraction, anyway.”
And just like that, the fight’s over. Not completely—there’s still tension humming beneath the surface—but the immediate crisis is averted. Women begin drifting toward the kitchen, some genuinely curious, others just relieved to escape the toxic atmosphere.
Annabelle catches my eye, mouthing a silent “thank you.” I nod, then turn to Serena. “So... what are we making?”
Serena surveys the assembled ingredients with the focused intensity. “Chicken Parmesan,” she decides. “Simple enough for beginners, but impressive enough to feel like an accomplishment.”
She assigns tasks with authority—Annabelle and Taylor on vegetable chopping duty, Luna handling the sauce, Jordan and Chloe setting the table, and Gabby and Kavita grudgingly agreeing to bread the chicken.
I find myself appointed official sauce stirrer, which suits me fine since my culinary skills extend mainly to microwaving and ordering takeout.
As Serena walks Gabby through the proper breading technique— ”flour, egg, breadcrumbs, in that order, and don’t skip steps”—I notice something unexpected. The focused intensity in her eyes, the confidence in her movements—this is a different Serena than the reserved women we’ve seen so far.
“Where did you learn to cook like this?” I watch her adjust the heat under a pan with practiced precision.
A small smile plays on her lips. “My grandmother. She was a chef at a restaurant in Boston before she retired. She used to say cooking and chemistry were the same thing—understanding how elements interact under specific conditions to create something greater than the sum of its parts.”
“That’s... actually beautiful.” I smile, surprised.