28. Home Sweet Home?
Home Sweet Home?
brIELLE
T he reality of elimination hits me as I slide my key into my apartment lock.
For weeks, I’ve lived in a mansion with other women, cameras documenting my every move, my every expression, my growing feelings for a man who ultimately sent me home with tears in his eyes and an inexplicable “I love you” on his lips.
Now I’m just... back. Back to my IKEA furniture and the faint smell of the eucalyptus candle I must have burned before I left.
Back to a life that suddenly feels like it belongs to someone else.
The door swings open with a creak I never noticed before. Everything is exactly as I left it four weeks ago—coffee mug in the sink, screenplay draft splayed open on the counter, sweater draped over my reading chair—yet it all feels foreign, like I’ve wandered into an exhibit of someone else’s life.
“Home sweet home,” I whisper to no one.
The silence that answers is deafening after weeks of constant chatter, camera crews, and producer directions.
I drop my bags by the door, my fingers lingering on the handle of my suitcase, still warm from the car service that delivered me to my door.
I should unpack. I should shower. I should call my agent.
I should do anything except stand here, paralyzed, in the entryway of my own apartment.
My phone buzzes for the fiftieth time since I turned it back on last night.
Notifications cascade down my screen—calls from my agent, texts from friends who’ve seen the episode previews, DMs from strangers with opinions.
I silence it without looking at any of them.
I’m not ready for the outside world yet.
Instead, I shuffle to the kitchen, fill a glass with warm bottled water, and gulp it down while staring at nothing.
The mansion had filtered ice-cold water in crystal decanters.
Hayes would always add a sprig of mint to his, a habit I found endearing in its pretentiousness.
The memory of him—standing at the kitchen island, methodically bruising mint leaves between his fingers before adding them to his water—hits me with physical force.
My glass slips, crashes into the sink, and shatters.
“Perfect,” I mutter, not bothering to clean it up. “Very symbolic, universe. Real subtle.”
I abandon the kitchen and drop onto my sofa, which feels both too soft and not soft enough after the mansion’s designer furniture.
My laptop sits on the coffee table, its presence accusatory.
There are deadlines waiting, meetings to reschedule, a career to salvage after my reality TV detour.
God, that amounted to nothing . But opening that laptop means accepting I’m back to normal life, that the Hayes chapter is closed, that the fantasy is over.
I can’t do it. Not yet.
Instead, I grab my keys and flee my apartment like it’s on fire. I can’t be alone with my thoughts, with the ghost of the life I had before Hayes and the shadow of what might have been. There’s only one place I can go, one person who will understand without me having to explain.
The drive to Paisley’s house is a blur. I operate on autopilot, barely registering the familiar streets, the stoplights, the fact that I’m now just another anonymous driver in Atlanta traffic instead of a contestant being ferried around in production vehicles.
By the time I pull into Paisley’s driveway, my hands are shaking.
I sit there for a long moment, engine idling, gathering courage.
Through the front window, I can see movement—Paisley with her baby on her hip, her daughter coloring at the kitchen table eating breakfast. Normal life.
Family. Love that doesn’t come with cameras and producers and key ceremonies.
I must have been sitting there longer than I realized, because suddenly Paisley appears at my car window, concern etched on her features. She taps gently on the glass. I roll it down, attempting a smile that feels like it might crack my face.
“How long were you planning to sit out here?” she asks, no preamble, just the direct approach that is so fundamentally Paisley.
“I wasn’t... I just...” The words tangle in my throat.
“Come inside, Bri,” she says softly, reaching through the window to turn off my ignition. “You look like hell.”
It’s such a Paisley thing to say—honest, unvarnished, with an undercurrent of fierce love—that something inside me cracks. Tears spring to my eyes. The first I’ve allowed myself since the limo drove me away from Hayes.
Somehow, I make it from the car to her front door, each step requiring more effort than it should.
The moment we’re inside, the moment I hear her click the lock behind us, the dam breaks.
My knees buckle, and I collapse into my sister’s waiting arms, a sob tearing from my throat that sounds more animal than human.
“Shhh, I’ve got you,” she murmurs, lowering us both to the floor right there in her entryway. “Let it out, baby girl. I’m here.”
And I do. I cry for what feels like hours but is probably only minutes.
I cry for the connection I thought was real, for the future I’d begun to imagine, for the humiliation of being sent home after Hayes told me he loved me.
Mostly, I cry for the look in his eyes as he eliminated me—regret, pain, and his expression, like something inside him was breaking, even as he was sending me away.
When the sobs finally subside, Paisley helps me to the couch. Her daughter peeks around the kitchen doorway, eyes wide with worry, and Paisley gives her a reassuring smile.
“Auntie Bri is just having a hard day, sweetie. Can you play in your room for a bit?”
The little girl nods solemnly and disappears, leaving us alone in the living room. Paisley returns with a box of tissues and a glass of water, then settles beside me, her hand steady on my back.
“Tell me,” she says.
And I do. Words pour out of me—the connection with Hayes from our first meeting on that beach, the growing bond at the mansion, the way he seemed to see the real me beneath the reality TV veneer.
I tell her about our conversation in front of her house, how he’d told me he loved me, and he was ending the show early to choose me.
I describe the sudden elimination, the look on his face that didn’t match his actions, the reminder “I love you” that made no sense as he was sending me home.
“It doesn’t make sense, Pais,” I say, voice hoarse from crying. “One minute he’s giving the final key to Luna. And the next, he’s telling me he loves me while putting me in a limo? Who does that?”
Paisley hands me another tissue. “Someone who’s being manipulated,” she says thoughtfully. “Or someone who’s an exceptional actor.”
“He wasn’t acting,” I say with certainty. “I know fake. I write fake for a living. What we had was real. What I saw in his eyes was real.”
Paisley sighs, squeezing my hand. “I’m so sorry, Bri. For all of it. And I’m sorry about what I said during your hometown date. I was too harsh on him. I should have—”
“No,” I cut her off, shaking my head vehemently.
“You were right. You were looking out for me. He even told me you were the one who made him realize that yes, he was ready, and he’d chosen me.
But if he really couldn’t handle you bringing up if he was ready for someone new.
..” My voice breaks, unable to finish the thought.
Maybe he really couldn’t handle it, and Paisley struck a nerve.
Fresh tears spring to my eyes.
“Reality TV isn’t reality,” Paisley says gently. “You know that better than anyone. Whatever was happening there—”
“Is still happening,” I finish for her. “The fantasy suite dates are filming starting today. Hayes, Serena, Luna, and Annabelle in some tropical paradise, spending nights together...”
The thought hits me like a blow. Suddenly, I can see it in vivid detail—Hayes leading Serena into a candlelit bedroom, Hayes kissing Annabelle on a moonlit beach, Hayes falling in love with someone else while I sit here, broken and discarded.
My stomach lurches. “I think I’m going to be sick.”
I barely make it to Paisley’s bathroom before dry heaving over the toilet.
Nothing comes up—I haven’t eaten properly since the elimination—but my body convulses with the physical manifestation of emotional pain.
Paisley kneels beside me, rubbing soothing circles on my back, murmuring comforts like she does for her children.
“It’s okay, Bri. Let it out. It’ll pass.”
Eventually, the nausea subsides. I splash cold water on my face, avoiding my reflection in the mirror. I can’t bear to see what I’ve become—this hollow-eyed, trembling version of myself that I don’t recognize.
When we return to the living room, my gaze falls on my laptop, which I’d apparently grabbed on autopilot when fleeing my apartment. It sits on Paisley’s coffee table, its presence both familiar and a lifeline.
“I need to work.” My voice is hoarse but resolute. “It’s the only way I’ll get through this.”
Paisley nods, understanding immediately. She knows me—knows that stories have always been my refuge, my way of processing, my method of healing.
“That’s not a bad idea,” she agrees. “Don’t you have Hallucination AI episodes due?”
“Yes! I absolutely do.” The thought of returning to that world, to characters I create and control, sends a small spark of my old self flaring to life.
“I should call the bosses,” I say, more to myself than Paisley. “Get back in the loop. Let them know I’m close to finishing.”
“You should,” Paisley says. “But maybe tomorrow? You look exhausted. Stay here and take a nap. The guest room is made up, and the kids would love to have lunch with their aunt.”
The offer is tempting—the warmth of family, the buffer against facing my empty apartment. But a strange determination is building in me, a need to reclaim something of myself after weeks of being “Brielle the contestant.”
“Thanks, but I need to go home. Face it. Start putting myself back together.” I manage a weak smile. “Besides, your guest room is basically a storage unit with a bed.”
Paisley laughs, and the sound is healing. “Fair enough. But you’ll come for dinner tomorrow? No excuses?”
“Promise.”
As she walks me to the door, Paisley suddenly pulls me into another fierce hug. “Mom would be so proud of you,” she whispers. “For putting yourself out there, for taking risks. And she’d be even prouder of how you’re handling this. Don’t forget that, okay?”
The mention of our mother brings more tears to my eyes. Her last coherent words to me were about a screenplay I was struggling with: “Trust the story, Bri. It knows where it needs to go.”
“I miss her,” I whisper into Paisley’s shoulder.
“Me too. Every day.” She pulls back, wiping away a tear. “But she’s here, in us. In how we love each other. In how we keep going.”
I nod, unable to speak past the lump in my throat.
Back in my car, I sit for a long moment, gathering strength.
The visit with Paisley has shifted something in me—not healed the wound, but maybe cleaned it, made space for eventual healing.
The pain is still there, razor-sharp and insistent, but now there’s something else too.
A tiny flame of determination. A whisper of the woman I was before Hayes Burke broke my heart on upcoming national television.
By the time I return to my apartment, it’s nearly midnight. I move through the space with new purpose. I clean up the broken glass in the sink. I unpack one bag, leaving the rest for tomorrow. I shower, washing away the day and the last physical traces of the Groomsman to Groom mansion.
Then I sit at my kitchen table, open my laptop, and stare at the blank document before me. My fingers hover over the keys, trembling. Tears still stain my cheeks, but there’s a steely resolve in my reflection on the darkened screen.
I begin to type.
Not the next Hallucination AI episode for a hopeful season three, not yet.
Instead, I write what I know—a woman taking apart and reassembling her heart after it’s been shattered on national television.
A story about vulnerability and strength, about how the most painful endings sometimes lead to unexpected beginnings.
It pours out of me—raw, unfiltered emotion transformed into words on a page. It probably won’t ever see the light of day, but that doesn’t matter. What matters is that I’m writing again. What matters is that while Hayes may have broken my heart, he hasn’t broken my spirit.
I’ll call my bosses tomorrow. I’ll face social media and the gossip sites when it’s time. I’ll eventually watch the episodes and see how our story was edited for maximum drama. I’ll endure the pity and the judgment and the inevitable hot takes on my elimination.
But tonight, I’m taking back my narrative. One word at a time.
Hayes Burke may have written our ending on his terms, but I’m writing what comes next on mine.