33. A Keyless Lock
A Keyless Lock
HAYES
I t’s official. I’ve probably lost my mind, but as I stand at the edge of this picture-perfect clifftop in St. Sebastian, I’ve never felt more sane.
The impromptu Lock & Key Ceremony setup—all white lattice and tropical flowers—looks like something out of a wedding magazine.
The three remaining women will arrive any minute, and I’m about to blow this whole charade apart.
“This plan might backfire spectacularly,” Skye had said, burying her toes in the sand as the first hints of dawn painted the sky. “You know that, right?”
“I know. But if it works, I’m free.”
“So you’re in.”
“I’m so in.”
“Two minutes, Hayes!” A production assistant brings me back to the moment, scurrying past, clipboard clutched to her chest. She doesn’t make eye contact—none of them do anymore.
Word travels fast in reality TV land, and my sunrise beach conversation with Skye this morning has the entire crew on edge.
A camera operator adjusts a boom mic above the ceremony platform, the sound equipment capturing the gentle ocean breeze, the distant call of tropical birds, the hammering of my heart trying to punch through my ribcage.
They’re recording B-roll, ambient sound for editing later.
But there won’t be any later, not the kind Darren expects. Not after what I’m about to do.
“Places everyone!” The ceremony producer’s voice carries across the clifftop. “Women arriving in sixty seconds!”
I take my position at the center of the platform, beside a small table draped in white linen.
Three ornate keys rest on a silver tray, gleaming in the golden hour sunlight.
The thought sends a fresh wave of nausea through me, though not the kind that plagued me the last few days.
This is different—it’s from mustering the courage to stand at the edge of a cliff and choose to jump.
Wardrobe has me in a custom linen suit the color of sand, and I adjust my tie for the fifteenth time.
Beyond the ceremony platform, I spot Skye in a heated conversation with an assistant producer.
Her hands gesticulating wildly as she talks, and the assistant producer nods frantically, then rushes off toward the production trailers.
My stomach tightens. Is Darren onto us? Probably, but no time to worry about that now.
The women arrive in a procession of evening gowns and camera-ready smiles.
Serena first, regal in deep blue that compliments her brown skin.
Then Annabelle, her red hair swept up, freckles standing out against her pale green dress.
Finally, Luna, resplendent in white—a not-so-subtle hint—and still sporting the look of someone who barely survived Skye’s impromptu grief therapy session.
They take their positions opposite me, a trio of beautiful women, two of whom, in another reality, might have been genuine options for my future. But not in this reality. Not when Brielle exists.
“Serena, Annabelle, and Luna,” I begin. “Thank you for joining me here today.”
If Serena and Annabelle seem unusually calm, it’s because they are. After Skye and I met on the beach, I pulled them aside individually, explained what I was planning. Their reactions surprised me—not shock or anger, but relief.
“I’m glad you’re ready to face the consequences of making the right decision,” Serena had said.
“Honey, we all knew,” Annabelle had drawled, her Alabama accent thickening with emotion. “You two love each other something fierce. I’m glad you’re choosing honesty over contracts and games.”
But Luna remains in the dark. Her smile is practiced perfection, her posture screaming “pick me” in a language I’ve become fluent in after weeks on this show. Her eyes dart to the keys on the table, calculating odds, imaging Instagram posts, planning hashtags.
“We’ve been on an incredible journey together,” I say, reciting the expected opening before I blow it all up. “I want to thank each of you for opening your hearts to me.”
Movement at the edge of the ceremony space catches my eye. A golf cart barrels up the path, its driver hunched forward like a jockey in the final stretch. Even from a distance, I recognize the rigid posture, the set of those shoulders.
Darren.
He’s coming fast, and I’ve got minutes, maybe seconds, before he tries to shut this down.
No more script. No more playing it safe.
“Before I continue with the ceremony,” I say, voice suddenly stronger, “there’s something I need to tell all of you.”
Luna’s smile falters, the first hint that this isn’t proceeding according to plan. Behind the women, Skye materializes, giving me a subtle thumbs-up. Whatever she’s been doing, she wants me to keep going.
“The truth is,” I continue, stepping away from the table, “I can’t give any of you a key today.”
Gasps from the crew, a muffled curse from the head producer. Luna’s face freezes in an expression of disbelief that would be comical if it weren’t so painful to witness.
“What do you mean?” she demands, breaking the cardinal rule of not speaking unless spoken to during ceremonies.
“I can’t pretend anymore.” The words come faster now, easier, like a dam breaking after holding back too long. “I can’t stand here and act like I’m choosing between you when the truth is, the woman I love isn’t even here.”
A sharp intake of breath from Luna cuts through the bird chirps. “You can’t be serious.”
“I’ve never been more serious about anything in my life.
” I turn to include the cameras in my declaration, knowing August will watch this someday.
Knowing I want him to see his father choosing the truth.
“I’m in love with Brielle Wilson. I’ve known she’s the one since the moment I met her.
And I made the biggest mistake of my life letting her go. ”
Serena nods almost imperceptibly. Annabelle’s eyes shine with unshed tears. Luna’s face contorts into a mask of fury that would make Marvel villains take notes.
“You what ?” Luna steps forward, the train of her white dress dragging through carefully arranged rose petals. “Are you kidding me right now? After everything? After our night together?”
I wince at her implication, and I can see that Luna has crafted her words to create maximum damage.
“Luna, you know that’s not—”
“You’re telling me,” she continues, voice rising to a pitch that probably has the sound engineer scrambling for volume control, “that I wasted weeks of my life on this show for you to pick a woman who was eliminated?”
Behind her, Darren’s golf cart screeches to a halt. He leaps out, red-faced and panting, his headset askew. Our eyes lock across the ceremony space, and the look he gives me contains multitudes—rage, betrayal, and the clear promise of retribution.
“Hayes!” he bellows, storming toward us with the unstoppable force of a man watching his career implode in real time. “Cut the cameras! Cut them now !”
But Skye has warned them that shit is going down, so the operators stand their ground, looking to Skye rather than Darren for direction. She gives a slight nod of her head: keep filming.
“You signed a contract, Hayes!” Darren’s voice echoes across the clifftop as he reaches the platform. “This is breach of contract! This is—”
“This is reality,” I interrupt, surprising myself with my steady tone. “Isn’t that what you’re always after, Darren? Real emotion? Authentic moments?”
“Don’t you dare lecture me about authenticity.” He steps between me and the women. “You think this is a game? You think you can just walk away? I’ve got so much damaging footage of you and Brielle. Congratulations, you just ruined her career and your reputation.”
The threat hangs in the air, momentarily stealing my breath. Here goes.
Skye steps forward, a calm center in the chaos storm.
“You sure about that, Darren?” Her voice carries an unusual authority, stripped of its usual flightiness.
She reaches into her caftan and pulls out a folded document.
“This is an affidavit from the family who took that picture of Hayes and Brielle on the beach.”
Skye unfolds the paper as if she’s about to read a royal proclamation.
“They state under oath that you were the one who requested the photo. Attached is the receipt for the massive sum of money you gave them for it.” She turns to face the cameras directly.
“So you were the one who breached the NDA and gave the photo to Luna.”
All eyes swing to Luna, whose complexion has gone from sun-kissed to ghostly in seconds.
“Isn’t that right, Luna?” Skye’s eyebrows raise.
Luna’s mouth opens and closes several times, a fish suddenly finding itself on land. She looks from Darren to Skye to me, calculating odds, weighing loyalties.
“I...” she begins, then falters. Finally, shoulders slumping, she admits: “Yes, he gave it to me.”
The confession ripples through the gathered crew like a shock wave. Darren’s face flushes an even deeper shade of red, the vein at his temple pulsing.
“You set this up,” Skye continues, turning back to Darren with the confidence of someone holding a royal flush.
“So it wasn’t leaked. No one else had it or has it now.
” Her voice sharpens. “So, Darren. Do I need to go over all the things you can be sued for? Breach of contract. Defamation of character. Infliction of emotional distress.”
She’s magnificent in her righteous fury, a Mother Earth goddess in a caftan, wielding legal terms like lightning bolts.
“I could go on,” she warns, “but the point is, I think this shooting stays, the harmful footage doesn’t air, and everyone keeps their traps shut about the photo or they will get sued as well.” She shoots Luna a pointed look before honing her gaze back to Darren. “So, are we done here?”
Silence descends on the clifftop. Even the birds seem to be holding their breath.
In my peripheral vision, I see Serena and Annabelle exchange glances of stunned admiration.
Luna looks like she’s calculating how to salvage her influencer career from this wreckage.
And Darren—Darren looks like a man watching his kingdom crumble.
“Yeah,” he finally concedes, each word dragged from him. “We’re done here.” His face is a mask of fury and humiliation, but defeat is evident in the slump of his shoulders. “But this whole shooting is a waste. We have no finale, no proposal, nothing.”
“Oh, I wouldn’t say that,” Skye says, her usual lightness returning to her voice. She turns to me, then the camera crews gather around us. “Pack your things—you’re all heading to where Brielle is right now—a remote cabin in Alaska. That’s where you’ll shoot the final proposal scene.”
Alaska? A cabin? How does Skye know where Brielle is?
As if reading my thoughts, she winks at me. “I have my sources. And a very talkative executive producer friend at Bingeflix mentioned their star writer needed ‘remote accommodations’ to recover from heart-shattering reality TV trauma.”
Finally, with a huff that sends her extensions swaying, Luna storms off the platform, white dress billowing behind her like a surrender flag.
Annabelle breaks the tension with spontaneous applause, which Serena joins. Soon the entire crew is clapping—for what, I’m not entirely sure. For truth? For the dramatic conclusion to a season that will probably set viewing records? For the rare victory of authenticity over manipulation?
I don’t care. All I can think about is Brielle. In Alaska. Possibly willing to see me, to hear me out. To give me a chance to explain why I sent her home, why I broke both our hearts.
“Thank you,” I say to Skye, the words woefully inadequate for what she’s done.
She shrugs, shell accessories tinkling with the movement. “Don’t thank me yet, Bachelor Boy. She might slam the door in your face.”
“I know.” And I do. I’m prepared for that possibility. I deserve it, even.
“But she might not,” Skye adds, her eyes softening. “That woman loved you. Still does, if my Bingeflix source is to be believed. Apparently, she’s writing a screenplay about a reality show contestant whose heart gets broken on national television. Very therapeutic, I’m told.”
Hope blooms in my chest, fragile but persistent.
I turn to face the setting sun, now painting the St. Sebastian sky in shades of pink and gold.
In twenty-four hours, I’ll be as far from this tropical paradise as geographically possible, trading white sand beaches for snow-covered mountains, manufactured romance for the real thing.
If she’ll still have me.
This chapter of my Groomsman to Groom journey is ending. But my real journey—the one that matters—is just beginning.
I just hope I’m not too late.