26. Locked Out
Locked Out
brIELLE
A s I enter the Lock & Key room, my salmon cocktail dress, the one I hadn’t planned on wearing, feels too tight across my chest, like my lungs can’t expand properly.
The other three women have assembled beside me, their faces a gallery of emotions ranging from uncertainty to barely concealed hostility.
No one meets my eyes. No one has to. I’m Brielle the Betrayer now, the woman who knew Hayes before, who kept secrets, who can’t be trusted.
But I just need to get through the next hour, then go from there. Will I make it through the next hour?
“You okay?” The whisper comes from Annabelle, standing beside me despite everything. Her red hair is twisted into an elegant updo, making her freckles stand out.
“Not really,” I admit softly. “I’m sorry again.”
Her eyes, still showing lingering hurt from my deception, soften with concern. “Let’s talk later.”
Before I can respond, the doors open, and Hayes enters. I search his face the way I always do, looking for that little smile he reserves just for me—the one that appeared even that first day on the beach. That smile that says, “My heart is yours, don’t worry.”
It’s not there. His jaw is set, his eyes focused somewhere above our heads. He looks like a man walking into a board meeting where he’s about to fire half the staff.
“Everyone.” Hayes’s voice is formal. “Thank you for being here tonight.”
It’s such a bizarre thing the show has him say. Where else would we be? We’re contractually obligated to stand in this room, in uncomfortable heels, waiting for him to decide our romantic fate.
“I know there’s been a lot of hurt and tension,” he continues, still not meeting my eyes. “And I want to thank you for your patience and understanding through this process.”
My palms are sweating now. This isn’t the Hayes from the SUV who told me he was falling for me. This is Groomsman to Groom Hayes, the carefully constructed public persona designed to look good on camera. The one who always says the right thing, makes the right move.
Stay cool, Brielle.
Skye glides into the room, her blond hair adorned with what looks like tiny origami birds today. She’s wearing a dress in shades of purple and blue that makes her look like she’s floating rather than walking.
“Good evening, Women Warriors,” she says, her voice soft and calming. “As you’ve noticed, we’ve made some adjustments to our schedule. Tonight, we’ll move directly to the Lock & Key ceremony.”
My eyes snap to Hayes. He still won’t meet my eyes.
“Hayes will now present keys to the women he wishes to continue this journey with,” Skye says.
My heart begins to pound so hard I’m sure the microphones can pick it up. The sound engineer will have to adjust levels in post-production because Brielle’s cardiac system is going haywire on national television. What the hell is happening?
“If you receive a key tonight, you will remain in the competition for Hayes’s heart. If not, you must say your goodbyes and leave immediately.”
The ceremonial box containing the ornate keys is brought forward on a silver tray. Hayes steps up to it, his movements stiff, almost robotic.
The room blurs, and I’m feeling unsteady on my too-high heels.
“When I call your name,” Hayes says, “please step forward to receive your key.”
The silence in the room is heavy, oppressive. I can feel the cameras zooming in on my face, eager to capture every flicker of emotion. The background music—that soft, tension-building melody they always play during eliminations—seems unnaturally loud in my ears.
“Serena.”
She steps forward, her velvet black dress making her look extra tall and sleek. Hayes hands her the key, murmuring something I can’t hear. She nods, accepts it with a smile, and returns to her spot.
One key gone. Two remain.
“Annabelle.”
Beside me, I feel rather than see Annabelle’s surprise. She squeezes my arm quickly before moving forward to accept her key. Hayes says something that makes her break into a genuine smile before she returns beside me. I tuck a non-existent lock of hair behind my ear.
One key remains. Two women: me and Luna, the women who just threw a drink in my face and ruined my dress. She’s going home for sure.
“Luna.”
For a moment, I think I’ve misheard.
The room tilts as Luna moves forward to accept the final key. Hayes says something to her too, but the words are muffled by the sudden roaring in my ears, like I’m underwater, drowning in real time while everyone watches.
Luna ? This can’t be happening. Not after my conversation with Hayes in the park by my sister’s house. Not after he believed me about Luna’s lies. This makes zero sense.
No key for Brielle. No future for Brielle and Hayes. No happy ending.
I blink rapidly, fighting back tears that threaten to spill. I will not cry on camera. I will not give them that shot for their promos. I will not become the sobbing, eliminated contestant they replay in flashbacks for years to come.
The other women step back, keys clutched in their hands, their expressions a mix of relief and awkward sympathy. Skye materializes beside me, her hand gentle on my elbow.
“Brielle,” she says softly, “it’s time to say your goodbyes.”
I nod mechanically, my body operating on autopilot while my brain tries to process the nuclear bomb that just detonated in my chest. I turn to the other women, summoning what I hope is a dignified smile.
“Good luck, everyone,” I manage, my voice only slightly unsteady. “I’m... I’m glad to have known you all.”
Annabelle breaks rank first, rushing forward to hug me tightly. “This isn’t right,” she whispers fiercely in my ear. “Call me when you’re out.”
I hug her, grateful for this small kindness amid the devastation.
Serena approaches next, her composure intact but her eyes showing genuine regret. “I’m sorry it ended this way,” she says formally, embracing me briefly. “For what it’s worth, I understand you had to do what you did.”
Luna gives me an awkward wave, murmuring platitudes about staying strong that don’t register.
And then it’s time. Hayes steps forward, extending his hand to lead me out, as is the tradition. The final walk of shame, the last conversation before the limo of tears whisks the rejected away.
I take his hand, feeling the familiar warmth that now seems like cruel mockery.
We walk in silence through the mansion’s elaborate hallways, past the rooms where I laughed and cried and hoped, past the kitchen where I bonded with Annabelle over late-night ice cream, past the bench by the pool where Hayes and I had so many meaningful conversations.
Outside, the night air is cool on my flushed skin. The limo waits, its door open like the mouth of some beast ready to swallow me whole. The cameras maintain a respectful distance for our “private” farewell, though we both know every word will be captured, edited, and broadcast to millions.
“Hayes,” I say, then falter. What can I possibly say that won’t sound pathetic or bitter?
“Brielle, I—” He stops, struggling visibly. For the first time tonight, he looks directly into my eyes, and what I see there confuses me even more. There’s pain there, real pain, and something that looks disturbingly like regret.
“What happened?” I finally ask, my voice barely above a whisper. “I don’t understand.”
“I’m sorry.” His voice cracks. “And I meant it. But sometimes... sometimes things are more complicated than they seem.”
“Then explain it to me,” I plead, forgetting the cameras, forgetting everything but the need to understand why the man who told me he was falling for me is now sending me away.
Hayes glances briefly toward a production trailer parked nearby, then back to me. “I’m sorry,” he says, the words heavy with unspoken meaning.
“Please, did something happen—”
“Brielle,” he cuts me off, a warning in his tone. “I’m so sorry. I love you, but there were just too many things working against us.”
A declaration of love—here, now , as he’s sending me home—feels like the cruelest twist of all. My eyes burn with unshed tears.
“I understand,” I say, even though my heart screams in protest. “I know why you have to do what you have to do.” I pause, summoning strength for what needs to be said. “But you have to know, this is it for us, after you made this choice.”
I mean it. Whatever game is being played here, whatever pressure Hayes is under, I can’t be part of it anymore. My career, my life, my heart—they’re all too valuable to sacrifice on the altar of reality TV manipulation.
Hayes nods, his face a mask of resignation. And then—the detail that will haunt me—a single tear escapes, tracking down his cheek before he can brush it away.
That tear undoes me. The careful composure I’ve maintained crumbles. My own tears spill over, hot and unstoppable. I turn quickly toward the limo, unable to bear another second of this exquisite torture.
“Goodbye, Hayes,” I manage, the words choked.
His hand catches mine briefly. “Brielle—”
But I pull away, and when I see Onion come rushing toward me, I bend down and give her a goodbye hug, my heart breaking all over again because I’m going to miss this dog almost as much as I’m going to miss Hayes.
He takes Onion from me as I slide into the waiting limo without looking back. The door closes with a soft, expensive thud, and the driver immediately pulls away, as instructed. No lingering, no chance for reconciliation. Clean, quick, decisive.
In the privacy of the limo’s dark interior, I finally let go. The sob that tears from my throat doesn’t even sound human—it’s the raw, primal sound of a heart shattering. I curl into myself on the leather seat, arms wrapped around my knees, body shaking with the force of my grief.
It wasn’t supposed to end like this. Not after everything we’d shared.
Not after the way he’d looked at me so many times, like I was something precious he was afraid of losing.
Not after the private moments the cameras never caught—the whispered conversations, the secret smiles, the way he’d squeeze my hand three times when no one was looking, our unspoken code for emotions too dangerous to voice on a show where everything is public property.
Not after he told me he was falling for me. Or now, that he loved me!
The limo glides through the night, taking me away from the mansion, away from Hayes, away from the future I’d foolishly begun to imagine. Through my tears, I watch the landscape blur past the tinted windows, palm trees and luxury homes gradually giving way to normal streets, normal life.
What happens now? In twenty minutes, I’ll be in some anonymous hotel room, debriefed by producers, relieved of my microphone, suddenly irrelevant to the narrative that will continue without me.
Tomorrow, I’ll be back in my apartment, trying to explain to my agent why being eliminated as a villain on national television is actually great exposure for a screenwriter.
In a few months, I’ll watch the edited version of my humiliation broadcast to millions, see how they shape the story of Brielle the Betrayer, the woman who knew Hayes before, who couldn’t be trusted.
And Hayes will be engaged to someone else.
Serena, probably. They make sense on paper—both successful professionals, both photogenic, both with compelling backstories that viewers can root for.
I imagine their finale, their engagement photos in People magazine, their eventual wedding special.
The thought triggers a fresh wave of tears.
Silver lining: at least they won’t air footage of Luna calling me out for knowing Hayes before the show started filming.
They would be liable since I told them, and they let me on the show, anyway.
It’d be incredibly foolish to put that kind of liability on themselves. Darren isn’t that boneheaded. Is he?
My phone—confiscated at the beginning of filming and now returned as part of my exit package—buzzes on the seat beside me. A message from Paisley.
Call me when you can. Miss you.
She’ll be thrilled to hear that in a few months, my humiliation will be trending on Instagram, dissected in Facebook groups, debated on Reddit.
I drop the phone without responding. I can’t talk to Paisley yet, can’t bear to hear her say “I told you so” about the risks of reality TV. Can’t face the reality of what just happened.
The limo speeds toward Midtown, Atlanta, carrying me away from the “fairytale.” But as the city lights appear on the horizon, I make myself a promise: this isn’t the final scene. Not for me. Not yet.
Because if there’s one thing I know as a writer, it’s that every ending is just the beginning of a different story.