31. Working Out
Working Out
brIELLE
T he Bingeflix building looks exactly as I left it four weeks ago—all gleaming glass and modern angles, a testament to its streaming success.
What’s different is me. I stand on the sidewalk—stitches out—clutching my laptop bag, suddenly unsure if I can pull this off.
Four weeks ago, I was Brielle Wilson, showrunner of a hit series.
Today, I’m Brielle Wilson, reality TV reject with a broken heart and mascara that might not withstand a sudden onslaught of tears.
But I straighten my spine, adjust my blazer, and force my feet to move.
Fake it till you make it, or at least until you make it through this meeting without mentioning Hayes Burke’s name.
The security guard recognizes me and waves me through with a smile. “Welcome back, Ms. Wilson. The team’s been asking when you’d return.”
I manage something resembling a smile. “Good to be back, Roy.”
And it is. It’s good to be back in a world where people respect me instead of trying to sabotage me. Where my words create worlds instead of just fueling drama. Where no one knows I got my heart shattered by a photographer with eyes the exact color of the Atlanta sky today.
Focus, Brielle.
The elevator ascends with smooth efficiency, unlike my thoughts, which ping around my skull. Hayes’s warm hand on mine. Hayes at the Lock & Key ceremony, his face a mask of resignation. Hayes saying “I love you” as he put me in a limo home. Stop. Stop. Stop.
I press my fingertips against my closed eyelids until I see stars, a physical distraction from the mental slideshow of Hayes Burke’s Greatest Hits. When the elevator doors open, I’ve got my game face on—professional, confident, definitely not crying in bathrooms between production meetings.
“Brielle!” My executive producer, Marcus, spots me immediately from across the lobby. He embraces me with genuine warmth, and for a terrifying second, I think I might crumble right there in the Bingeflix reception area. “The prodigal creator returns! How was your... sabbatical?”
The careful way he says “sabbatical” tells me everything. He knows. Of course he knows. He probably has a Groomsman to Groom fantasy league. For all I know, he drafted me.
“Enlightening,” I say, aiming for enigmatic but landing somewhere closer to constipated. “But I’m ready to get back to real life. To Hallucination AI and storylines I can actually control.”
Marcus guides me toward the conference room, his hand hovering near my elbow without actually touching me, as if I might be contagious with reality TV drama. “Everyone’s excited to talk to you. The eight episodes you submitted yesterday, ahead of schedule, were brilliant. Absolutely brilliant.”
“Thank you so much, Marcus. I’m so happy to hear that.” At least I had the foresight to draft those before my journey to humiliation. Future Brielle owes Past Brielle a drink for that one.
The conference room door swings open to reveal a wall of windows framing the Buckhead Atlanta skyline.
The city stretches out below us, all gleaming skyscrapers and arterial highways, people living their normal, un-televised lives.
For a moment, I’m struck by the parallels—how the city looks solid and permanent from up here, just like my relationship with Hayes seemed from inside the bubble.
But both are more fragile than they appear, vulnerable to disruption, to heartbreak, utter destruction.
“And here she is!” Marcus announces. “Our returning genius!”
Twelve faces turn toward me—some familiar, some new, all wearing expressions of curiosity poorly disguised as professional interest. They’ve all seen the promos, I realize. They can probably guess I was eliminated. They’re all wondering if I’ll have a meltdown in the middle of their pitch meeting.
Not likely.
I slide into an empty chair, open my laptop with deliberate calm, and smile. “Let’s talk season two, shall we?”
The room relaxes incrementally. This is familiar territory.
This is why they want me here—not for Groomsman to Groom gossip, but for my brain, my stories, my ability to make artificial intelligence both hilarious and heartbreaking.
For the next hour, we discuss character arcs and plot developments, the ethics of sentient AI and the comedy of machines trying to understand human emotion.
Ironic, considering I’m currently a human trying to understand why emotions are so goddamn awful.
“Your algorithm romance subplot is inspired,” says Tess, the head of development. “The idea that two AIs could fall in love through a glitch that makes them hallucinate human emotions they don’t actually have? It’s metaphorically rich.”
Is it? Or is it just my subconscious working through the possibility that Hayes’s feelings for me were a production-induced hallucination? That his “I love you” was meaningless?
“Thanks,” I say instead of screaming. “I think audiences are ready for a deeper exploration of artificial emotions versus authentic ones. What makes love real? Is it the feeling itself or the choices we make based on those feelings?”
The words come out smooth, like I’m not actively bleeding out from emotional wounds. But somewhere behind my carefully constructed facade, a tiny voiceover asks: Was what Hayes and I had real? Or was it manufactured for ratings, for drama, for the story Darren wanted to tell?
“Speaking of love stories,” Marcus says, and my stomach drops. Here it comes. “How was your experience on Groomsman to Groom ? Anything you can tell us?”
The room goes quiet. Twelve pairs of eyes fix on me with the intensity of cameras during a key ceremony. I take a slow breath, reaching for the glass of water in front of me to buy precious seconds.
“The show’s done filming,” I lie, voice steady. “I’m contractually prohibited from discussing details.” I take a deliberate sip. “But I can tell you that reality TV is exactly as authentic as you’d expect. Now, about the AI ethics commission subplot in episode four—”
“But they’re not done filming,” a junior exec I don’t recognize points out. “I thought they were shooting fantasy suites this week?”
Shoot me. Of course they know the schedule. They’re in the TV business.
“As I said, contractually prohibited,” I repeat, my smile fixed in place. “But I’m much more interested in talking about how we’re going to visualize the cascade failure in the neural net when our main character’s emotional programming collapses under stress.”
Marcus, bless him, picks up my redirect. “Absolutely. We’ve been workshopping some visual concepts that I think you’ll love. Tess, can you pull up the mood board?”
The conversation shifts back to business, and I feel my shoulders drop from where they’ve been living somewhere near my ears. For the next hour, I’m almost normal. Almost the Brielle who existed before Hayes Burke gently wrapped bandages around my arm and inadvertently around my heart.
“So,” Marcus says, bringing us to the business end of the meeting. “Exciting news. We’d like all eight episodes of season three completed within the next three months. We’re pushing for a compressed time frame between seasons to capitalize on your current… visibility.”
Translation: We want to ride the coattails of your reality TV infamy before people forget you. Except they don’t know I’m the woman who got embarrassingly eliminated.
“That’s aggressive,” I say carefully.
“But doable?” Tess leans forward. “We’re prepared to offer additional support—a writer’s room, research assistants, whatever you need.”
What I need is to not be in Atlanta, where every coffee shop could potentially contain a fan wanting to discuss my elimination, where my apartment is full of clothes I tried on and rejected before cocktail parties.
“I can do it,” I hear myself say. “But I need to work remotely. Completely remotely.”
Marcus and Tess exchange a look that contains an entire conversation.
“How remotely are we talking?” Marcus asks. “Like, home office remotely? Or ‘unreachable by modern technology’ remotely?”
“The latter. I need space to focus, to immerse myself without distractions.” Without Hayes’s face appearing on entertainment news. Without my phone buzzing with notifications about the latest Groomsman to Groom gossip. Without well-meaning friends trying to set me up on dates to help me “move on.”
“We can work with that,” Tess says. “As long as you’re available for weekly video check-ins and hitting your milestones. Where were you thinking?”
The truth is, I hadn’t been thinking of anywhere specific until this exact moment.
But now an image forms in my mind—a cabin I visited years ago, nestled among pines, accessible only by a trail, with no cell service but satellite internet good enough for uploads.
A place where I could heal, write, and avoid seeing Hayes’s face every time I turn on a screen.
“I have a place in mind. In Alaska. It still snows there in April. It’s remote but has internet access. I’d have to cross-country ski in, about three miles from the nearest road, but once there, I could work without interruption.”
“Cross-country ski in?” Marcus’s eyebrows climb toward his hairline. “You complained about the walk from parking to our holiday party last year.”
“Things change. People change.” Four weeks on a reality show changes you in ways you never expected. Falling in love and having your heart broken on camera changes you more.
“If you’re sure...”
“I’m sure. And when I leave, I’ll have the rest of season three ready to submit.”