8. The Reveal
THE REVEAL
TESSA
My curvy figure has always felt most at home draped in something soft, slinky, and unapologetically black. Sure, most women on Love, Unmasked have chosen bright colors to stand out on reveal day, but I’m not like most women. The wardrobe consultant’s sneer and exaggerated eye roll haven’t swayed me.
This is my moment, and I’ll own it my way.
The silk Gucci dress I found at a consignment shop three years ago still fits as if it were made for me. Paired with my mother’s pearls, the low neckline accentuates my long neck and shoulders while effortlessly skimming over my ample breasts. And my ass? Shaped like a ripe peach, it looks downright grabable in this. I let my soft black afro curls tumble freely down my back, framing my face, while keeping the makeup minimal—just a touch of liner and a nude lip.
If Saul Mensah wants me to be his wife, he’ll meet the real me. No filters. No masks.
It’s funny. I don’t even care what he looks like. I know he’s a Black man from his name and how he talks about his Ghanaian roots. But beyond that? Tall or short, stocky or lean, smooth-skinned or battle-scarred, it doesn’t matter. I love him already. His strength and care have brought me to the precipice of something extraordinary. And I pray it carries us through the rest of our lives.
I haven’t been able to speak to him in three days, and I swear it's been the longest seventy-two hours of my life. I want to know what he’s been thinking, doing, and praying for. Talking to someone every day for eight to ten hours will make you a certified fiend. And right now, I need a hit from Saul.
Not to mention the hot hub sex. If that man can make me come like that with just words, I can’t wait until I meet what I know is a monster dick in person. That man has way too much Big Dick Energy not to be packing.
“Ten seconds to the reveal!” the director’s sharp, businesslike voice calls out, pulling me from my thoughts. I take my place before the double doors, nerves zipping through my body like static electricity. My palms are damp, and my heart beats in triple time as I smooth down the dress, pretending to calm myself.
"In five, four..." Oh, God. It’s happening. My life is about to split into before and after.
"Three, two..." My grandmother always said, “When God closes a door, He opens a window.” Saul is my window, and I hope he never shutters.
"One—reveal!"
The doors swing open, and I’m greeted by blinding light, the kind that floods a stage when the final act crescendos. My eyes take a moment to adjust, the scene before me swimming into focus. But there’s no applause, no sigh of awe from Saul as he sees me for the first time. Only silence. Deafening, gut-punching silence.
The cameras hover, eager vultures waiting for the fairy tale to unfold. But where Saul should be, there’s only an empty space. The champagne glasses on the love seat remain untouched, the fizz bubbling mockingly in their flutes.
“Saul?” I whisper, the name escaping on a thread of hope that unravels into nothing. My voice echoes in the cavernous studio, unanswered. My smile freezes, tight and fragile, as whispers ripple through the crew.
"Keep rolling!" The director’s voice slices through the thick tension, and the room bursts into action—producers barking orders, assistants scrambling to adjust the live feed, and crew members avoiding my gaze. My stomach churns, and the warmth I’d clung to moments ago evaporates, leaving only the cold sting of humiliation.
Where is he?
My thoughts are a kaleidoscope of panic and confusion as I scan the room, searching for an answer. My legs feel unsteady, and my breath is shallow. I can feel the cameras, their lenses trained on me, capturing every tremble of my lips, every flicker of emotion across my face.
“Stay composed, Tessa,” I murmur to myself, but it’s like trying to plug a leaking dam with my bare hands.
The producer, Gavin Turner, strides toward me with a look that makes my blood run cold. His usually confident demeanor falters, and his mouth speaks a grim line as he reaches me.
“Tessa,” he says softly, his voice low, meant only for me. “We need to talk. Offstage.”
“Is it about Saul?” I ask, the words barely a whisper. The answer is already written on his face, but I need to hear it. I need to understand.
He nods, his gaze heavy with something I don’t want to name. “Come with me.”
I follow him, my feet moving on autopilot as he leads me away from the cameras and the prying eyes. The corridor feels colder and darker, as though I’m walking into the belly of something terrible.
“Tessa, there’s been... an incident,” Gavin begins, the words struggling to find purchase. “Saul’s gone, and all he left was this note. It’s addressed to you.”
The word hits me like a slap, sharp and stinging, leaving me breathless. “Gone?” I echo, the sound foreign and disjointed. “That’s impossible. There must be some mistake.”
Gavin’s expression is pained, his tablet hanging uselessly at his side. “I wish it were, Tessa. But he’s been gone since yesterday. He’s not coming.”
So they’re just telling me? Oh, right, the show must go on; this is prime-time drama for them—a jilted fiancée—perfect.
But this is what I wanted. To be the most talked about cast member of this show. Now, I’d give anything to crawl away in obscurity,
Shit .
The world tilts, and I grasp the wall for support, the cool surface grounding me in this incomprehensible reality. My love story—the one I’d built in my heart and soul—crumbles before my eyes, the pieces too sharp to touch.
“Tessa, I’m so sorry,” Gavin says, his hand hovering near my shoulder, unsure if comfort is possible.
Tears prick my eyes, hot and unbidden, but I don’t let them fall. Not yet. Not here. The cameras may be hidden, but their ghost lingers. I won’t shatter—not where they can see.
I straighten, drawing on every ounce of strength New Orleans gave me. “Turn off the camera,” I whisper, my voice steady despite the quake in my chest. “Now!”
Gavin nods, signaling to someone beyond my limited field of vision, but it feels like an eternity before the red recording lights finally blink out. In that time, the bustling set erupts into a frenzy. Producers rush around with headsets pressed to their ears, their voices rising above the sudden chaos. Someone is calling for a commercial break, another is barking orders about cutting the live feed, and all the while, I'm standing here, adrift in disbelief.
"Are you sure?" My question is a whisper lost in the chaos, directed at no one and everyone at once. This can't be happening—not to Saul, not to us. But Gavin's solemn nod cuts through the noise, a silent confirmation that shatters any lingering hope.
Saul is gone, and I must face the shame of being left alone… alone.
The cameras might have stopped rolling, but their lenses remain pointed at me, hungry for the moment my composure crumbles completely. I won't give them that satisfaction—not here, not with the world watching. With trembling hands, I smooth down the vibrant fabric of my dress, a futile attempt to steady myself.
Then, I run away to the comfort of a nearby dressing room.
When I’m finally alone, it hits me—all of it—the betrayal, the shame, the love that feels like it’s dying in my chest. I press my back against the door, the cool wood grounding me as the first tear spills over, carving a hot, salty path down my cheek.
"Damn it, Saul," I whisper, the sound swallowed by the quiet of the room. My reflection stares back from the vanity mirror, and I hardly recognize the woman staring back at me. My mother’s pearls around my neck catch the light, their iridescence mocking me with their perfect, unbroken form.
My fingers work to unclasp the strand, the incredible weight pooling in my palm. They’re hot to the touch, reminding me of who I am— a woman rooted in strength and legacy who doesn’t crumble, no matter how heavy the storm.
I close my eyes, taking a deep breath, the scent of foundation and hairspray anchoring me. "New Orleans didn’t raise a quitter," I murmur, the mantra calming my trembling heart.
Something must be wrong. What’s in this stupid note? He loves me, and he wouldn’t do this!
Would he?
I opened the note with shaky resolve. In perfect block lettering, he wrote, He’s Free. You’re better off without me.
What the hell is that supposed to mean? In our conversations, he never came across as temperamental or half-cocked. He seemed to be in thorough command of his emotions.
So, what exactly has he gone off to do?
Is he moving his grandmother and sister? Is he appealing the parole decision? Is he using his money to influence a judge to do his bidding?
That’s what I would do.
I take a deep breath and collect myself. This is crazy.
I need to let this go. Him. The whole ordeal.
I. Knew. Better.
On the other hand, I know Saul will not be okay if Patrick is free and that monster is back out in the world.
A chill prickles up my spine.
My heart beats against my ribs like it’s trying to tell me something. A warning. A push. A demand .
I take a deep breath, willing the panic to settle. This is crazy. I should just let this go. Let him go.
I knew better than to believe in this. In him. In any of it.
Saul, the show, the heartbreak—it’s all just noise. I never planned to find love, let alone on national television. This wasn’t supposed to be my story. My life was steady before this chaos. Simple. Focused. I had my catering dreams to hold onto, my perfectly reasonable Plan B.
Love? That was never part of the equation.
But then Saul appeared—his smooth British accent, that deep, soul-stirring voice—making promises I let myself believe in. Promises that weren’t just about romance but partnership. He was solid, unshakable, and for the first time in my life, I thought… maybe. Maybe this was the kind of love my mother never got to have. The kind I had stopped believing was possible.
And now, just like that, he’s gone. No explanation. No closure.
The sensible thing would be to move on. But the thing is… I know Saul .
And I know in my bones that he wouldn’t do this to me without a damn good reason.
He wouldn’t just leave me standing there, heart in my hands, unless something was very wrong.
I press my fingers against the pearls at my throat, grounding myself in the silent wisdom of the women before me.
No, this isn’t about humiliation or revenge. This isn’t about some man playing in my face.
This is about Saul .
If Patrick is out, then the demons Saul’s been holding at bay for years are clawing at him in full force. His pain—his guilt—it has to be eating him alive. And if there’s even a chance that he’s drowning in it, I can’t just walk away.
I won’t .
People I love tend to abandon me, but that won’t make me abandon them.
I don’t know what I’ll find when I track him down. I don’t know if I’ll get the answers I need or even recognize the man who once made me feel like I was his whole world.
But one thing is certain.
I’m going to find Saul Mensah.
I’ll make him face me, explain himself, look me in the eye when he does it. And if he’s in trouble—if he needs me, even if he doesn’t know it yet—I’ll be damned if I don’t show up for him.
Because love doesn’t just disappear overnight.
And neither do I.