Chapter Nineteen
“Journalism is about uncovering the truth. You just have to be ruthless enough to get it. Most people aren’t cut out for that.”
—Serena Romero, pop culture editor of Vivid magazine, Instagram Live
My heart skips a beat, and I sink into a squat against the fence.
“Why—why now?” I manage to get the words out, though my mouth has gone dry.
“Dude,” she laughs, “we’re getting flooded with stuff about him ever since he was announced as the new host. The tip line has like six hundred unread emails.”
I shudder at the memory of my first few weeks temping at Vivid, when it was my job to sort through the tip line inbox for anything that looked noteworthy.
“Most of it’s junk,” she continues. “For example, I’m pretty sure ‘Is There a Heaven for Horses?’ isn’t a flat-earther anthem. But I did some digging and this picture seems real.”
“But…” I bite my lip, grasping at straws. “Wouldn’t it be in the news already? Everyone loves a celebrity hookup. They must’ve tried other places too, right?”
“I thought the same thing,” she continues. “But there’s not a peep. So I did some digging, and it turns out that they paid big bucks to keep it out of the press. I mean Rhett was still technically married, so what else could they do?”
“Wait—what?”
“Love Shack paid off the press,” she says. “Or the network did. It doesn’t really matter who—either way, they paid a lot to keep it quiet.”
I’m silent for so long that Serena says, “Hello? Are you still there?” I only grunt in answer. All the layers of the situation settle over me and I rub my arms against the chilly breeze.
“But…” I’m grasping at straws now. “If he and Cassidy were broken up, or separated, I guess, then it doesn’t really matter, does it?
They’re not Love Shack’s golden couple anymore.
” Even as I say it, I feel a twinge in my gut.
Not so much about Rhett having still been married, but because I might’ve been just a rebound.
“You’re the one who wanted leverage,” Serena says. “I think that’s pretty good as far as—”
“Do they know who the woman is?”
“No—I’d kill to find out.”
I almost laugh at the absurdity of it—the fact she’s on the phone with the very person she’s so desperate to find. Unless … Unless I wasn’t the only one.
“It must’ve been a lot of money,” she continues. “I wonder if the women were celebrities or something.”
“Wait, women? How many others?”
“I don’t know,” she says airily. “There were at least two payoffs. I guess they didn’t want the Love Shack brand to be tainted. But this is perfect, right? Something to use against him to see if he knows something about Lainey?”
I frown. I’d wanted to keep him quiet about my secret, not blackmail him into giving me intel. “What are you going to do with the information?”
“Nothing yet,” she says. “It won’t do you any good if everyone already knows. Anyway, I’ve got to go. Be safe and stay sane, okay?”
“Yeah,” I breathe. “And I might not call for a while. We’re traveling next week, so I can’t take the burner.”
“Okay,” she says. “Bye, G.”
“Bye.”
As I hang up the phone and stretch my legs, something clicks into place.
Serena’s excitement about Rhett hosting, her twisted logic about blackmailing him into talking.
I told her he was hosting, and days later, an article appeared with that same information.
There are any number of people it could have been, but maybe I’m still unwilling to see the worst in her.
I start back up the hill to the mansion and pause halfway up next to a patch of roses. I dig into the soft soil with a stick and bury the burner phone under a white rosebush. Then I keep walking, brushing my dirty hands off on my legs.
Maybe I’m being silly. After all, Serena’s never told anyone about my pen name and that’s a far bigger secret to keep.
I slip through the front doors of the mansion and back upstairs into the bunk room, where everyone else is either asleep or pretending to be.
Brooklyn rolls over and I freeze, but she lets out a quiet snore and I breathe easy.
I wade through the pile of clothes beside my bed, then collapse onto the mattress.
Now that I have my leverage, I’m not sure I even want to use it. If Rhett paid people off to keep me out of the news … that means he saved my career. If he’d given my fake name, if it had been linked to a photo of the real me, I’d never have been cast on Love Shack in the first place.
I punch my pillow into submission and pull my sleep mask over my eyes.
How many others?
But it isn’t the information about Rhett that keeps me tossing and turning. It’s Serena. During our phone call, she reminded me of someone. Someone cool, collected, in charge, but threatening all the same.
She reminded me of Lainey.
I don’t know how I’ve made it through two full weeks in this mansion. Adrenaline and sheer force of will is my guess, because it sure as heck isn’t the promise of Mr. Roland Marchetti.
Today has passed even more slowly than usual—a combination of inactivity and the anxiety about tonight’s elimination ceremony. No matter what Roland said on our date, I can’t be sure he’ll keep me into next week.
I head downstairs early for the ceremony, in search of something from the bar to calm my nerves before I get mic’d for the night.
The producers are setting up in the rose garden, adjusting lights and cameras to the perfect angles where they’ll become invisible.
It would make my job a hell of a lot easier if I were invisible too.
If I could blend into the background as seamlessly as the boom mics hovering just above the camera frame.
My maroon dress whispers across the living room floor, but I don’t make it to the bar before a hand catches my arm. I whirl around and come face to face with Rhett, his jaw set and his eyes dark.
“Come with me,” he growls. “We need to talk.” Without another word, he pulls me into an interview closet off the front foyer, clicking the lock into place as he flicks on the light. In the absence of the usual camera lights, we stand under a single naked bulb.
Of course, Rhett still looks hot as hell in this harsh, washed-out lighting.
A lock of hair falls across his forehead, but otherwise he’s impeccable, black suit buttoned and collar left fashionably open.
He sticks his hands in his pockets and paces as much as one can pace in a room this small.
Finally, he sinks onto the arm of the producer’s chair and looks me up and down, no trace of want, humor, or warmth left in his expression.
I’d be less anxious if Lainey were sitting across from me, fangs bared.
Folding my arms across my chest, I drop onto a spindly stool. I feel inexplicably naked without the buffer of a camera. The foot and a half of stained carpet between us is like a battleground, and I attack first.
“Is this an interview?” I ask. “Gonna pry out all my deepest secrets?”
He lets out a long breath. “I know it was you.”
I bite my lip so hard I feel the bitter taste of blood spring onto my tongue.
“Someone leaked to the press that I’m hosting.
Nina said the phone was hers, but it was yours.
” His green eyes are so dark now that they look almost black as they bore into mine.
“I thought I was protecting myself, keeping what I knew about you a secret, but maybe you’re more dangerous than I thought. ”
My fingers tighten into a ball of anxiety. I skim my nail over the cuticle of my thumb and press, white-hot pain streaking up my hand.
He has no proof. All he knows is that I had a phone. He can’t be sure that I’m the one who leaked information. I don’t owe him anything. Just because he almost went down on me in a seaside hot tub doesn’t mean I’m required to spill all my dirty secrets to him. That’s not how the world works.
“Say it,” he growls. “Tell me it was you.” His ragged voice makes me sweat. It’s the same tone he used at the concert, when he rasped into my hair, You’re fucking beautiful. My heart beats like a hummingbird, hands sweating, dying to tangle in his hair.
“It wasn’t me.” I stand, ready to leave the room. “Whatever you know, whatever I told you in the past … That’s not why I’m here. I don’t do that anymore.” It’s a feat of strength to ignore the wave of guilt that crashes over me.
He remains glowering but stands to match me. “Then why did you have a phone?”
A million lies land on the tip of my tongue, but if I speak, he’ll see right through me.
He runs a hand through his already tousled hair, then crosses the few feet between us.
“Look, I know this show is bullshit. If you’ve made a deal with TMZ or something, good for you,” he spits.
He stops inches from me, hands on his hips, a faint sheen of sweat glossing his forehead.
“But I don’t want any part of it. Write about whatever you want, but if you’re just using me for information, then we’re done. ”
My cheeks flare to rival the color of my dress. “Why did you even come back? Isn’t this a major downgrade? To go from mediocre country singer to reality show host? I mean, your entire job is to watch someone else fall in love.”
Rhett fumes, hands clenched at his sides. “I came back because I had to. If Lainey thought I was helping you—if she knew—she’d fire me.”
“Why do you care if she fires you?” I shoot back. “Why does it matter so much to you, if you know this whole thing is bullshit anyway?”
“Lainey got me out of trouble a while back. I owe her. And if you’re here to—”
“It’s not like that,” I cut in, the lie sharp on my tongue.
“Tell me how it is then, Georgia,” he says, eyes glinting dangerously. “Because you’re not fooling me.”
He steps closer to me and pinches my chin gently between his thumb and forefinger. His lips are inches from mine, his long, simmering breaths making me shiver all the way down my spine.
“I know about the hush money,” I whisper.
He steps back, dropping his hand, and lets out a low, humorless laugh. Then he raises his chin, his expression somewhere between hunger and defiance. “What do you mean?”
I step forward so he has to back up to avoid touching me.
“I know the network paid off at least one news source while you were sleeping around and still married. And I also know who you hooked up with, because in case you forgot, it was me.” I pause, relishing the look on his face.
“Were there others, Rhett? Or was I the most expensive sex of your life?” I scoff, and I’m pretty proud of how much I sound like Addison, confident and cutting.
“But I guess it wasn’t even your money.”
He shakes his head, eyes on the floor. “Georgia,” he begins, voice low. A thrill slices through me. I’ve got him. “You don’t understand—”
“Don’t tell me that—”
“Did you ever stop to think that maybe you don’t have the whole story?” He presses his hand to the wall beside my head, another lock of hair spilling over his face. His breath is hot, foggy on my face. “Cassidy and I were done when I met you.”
We’re so close that if I leaned forward, our lips would touch.
But instead, I pull away, shake my head. “You didn’t answer my question. I don’t care about Cassidy—I care about paying off the paparazzi. Is that how embarrassed you were? How much you didn’t want to be seen with me?”
His face flashes as he pulls back, but I catch his arm. He can’t lie his way out of this—can’t leave like he’s slipping out of my bed at four AM.
He just shakes his head, runs a heavy hand through his hair. “I thought we might have something, you and me,” he says softly. “But I’m done with this—whatever this is.”