Chapter 3 #3
“Hannah. You don’t have to do this,” Mia says softly.
“Yes, I do,” I whisper without opening my eyes.
Because what she doesn’t understand is that Dain was already looking for a reason. I saw it in his expression on the fourth take when I stumbled over the words. One moment of weakness, and he was ready to replace me.
And now? An injury, a hospital visit? Worse, a gap in the filming schedule.
That’s exactly the excuse he needs.
My contract is clear: I’m responsible for being on set and completing my hosting duties.
If I can’t fulfill that obligation, they can bring in a replacement.
And once they do, once someone else steps in and proves they can do the job, there’s no coming back for me.
Not with this show. And not with the network.
I’ve spent my entire career building toward this moment, one role, one chance to prove I’m not just another reality contestant and influencer trying to pivot. And I’m not going to hand it away because of a rolled ankle.
Even if it might actually be broken.
I’m terrified that this is the moment everything falls apart.
Twenty minutes later, my makeup is refreshed, and Karyn is back with new jeans. I stand, gripping the edge of the counter, and hobble into the tiny back room. Collapsing onto the narrow bed, I start the agonizing process of peeling off my jeans.
They’re stuck to my shin where the blood has dried. I suck in a breath and pull the fabric away. The wound is three inches long, and I can see beneath the top layer of skin.
I dab it with a stack of napkins, cleaning away the worst of the blood. It needs to be properly washed and bandaged, but that can wait. Everything can wait a few hours.
The new jeans are softer, a brand I’ve never heard of, but they slide on easier than the other pair. I check myself in the small mirror noticing the medication is finally starting to work, making the pain more manageable. I can do this.
I walk—well, hobble—out the back room with my shoulders straight and a smile on my face. All three women stare at me.
“How do I look?” I ask, trying for light-hearted.
They exchange bewildered glances before schooling their expressions.
“As good as new,” Mia says.
“Let’s finish these interviews.”
“I’ll come with you,” Karyn says. “In case you need help.”
“Good idea. Thank you.”
Mia and Karyn help me down the stairs, one on either side. I grip their arms, hopping down one step at a time. The production crew is back from their break, and Dain is checking his watch, frowning.
I wave at him and call out, “Ready when you are.”
He nods, looking relieved.
The first interview is with an older couple renovating the house at the end of the street. It’s the farthest house from the trailers. Of course.
I hobble there with Karyn supporting me, her arm firm around my waist. Every step sends a shooting pain up my leg, and I focus on breathing in through my nose and out through my mouth. The pain is so intense now that I feel prickles behind my eyes.
“You okay?” Karyn whispers.
“Fine,” I lie.
Dain’s head is down, scrolling on his tablet, barking at the sound guy about levels. Good. That gives me a few more seconds to pull myself together.
We reach the house, and I straighten up, letting go of Karyn. I plant both feet on the ground and immediately regret it; the pressure on my ankle is agonizing. But the camera is rolling, so I smile.
“Hi, I’m Hannah Morgan, and I’m here with Jessa and Kejuan, who are working on this beautiful 1895’s Victoria. Jessa, tell me about your vision for the space.”
Jessa’s nervous, stumbling over her words. We do the interview three times before we get a clean take. By the end, sweat is beading on my back despite the cool spring afternoon.
“One more,” Dain calls.
The final interview is quicker with only two takes.
“That’s a wrap,” Dain calls out. “Great work, everyone. Same time tomorrow.”
Relief floods through me, and I almost faint. Karyn is beside me immediately, slipping her arm under mine.
“I got you,” she murmurs.
“Thank you.” The words come out choked. I’m fighting so hard not to cry, my mouth aching from the effort.
She helps me back to the trailer. Every step is torture now, the medication wearing off. By the time we reach the stairs, I’m shaking.
Inside, I collapse into the chair and kick off my shoes. My foot is worse now… more swollen and discolored.
Mia’s face goes white. “Oh, my God. That’s broken, for sure. I’ll take you to the hospital. Let’s get you to my car.”
Anxiety fills me. The hospital means a public waiting room. It means a chance of being recognized and photographed. But it also means there will be evidence of my injury getting out before the network can spin the narrative.
I can’t hide this anymore.
They help me stand, and I realize I can’t put weight on my foot at all now. Barefoot, I hop on my good leg, supported between Mia and Jaina, while Karyn gathers my purse.
I scan the set as we make our way to the parking lot. The photographer from this morning is gone, but there are still crew members around. I keep my head down, mortified, imagining the story headline. Hannah Morgan injured on set. Is the hosting gig already in jeopardy?
Mia’s car is a blue SUV parked nearby. Karyn holds the door open while I climb awkwardly into the back and prop my foot up across the seats.
The drive to the hospital takes ten minutes, and I spend it messaging my manager. Answering questions like, how long will recovery take? I reply that I’ll call after I’ve seen the doctor.
All three women come inside with me, and I’m overwhelmingly grateful. Karyn rushes ahead to check me in while Mia and Jaina help me through the automatic doors. The waiting area isn’t too crowded, but there’s still the fear of every eye on me and every phone that could be recording.
I don’t know what Karyn says to the woman at the desk, but within a minute, a wheelchair appears, then a doctor and two nurses surround me, ushering me toward a private room away from the main waiting area.
I frown and whisper to Karyn, “What’s going on?”
She leans close. “They know who you are. They’re trying to keep it private for you.”
My throat tightens. “Thank you.”
As I’m wheeled down the hallway, I realize I haven’t seen any cameras except for early this morning. Maybe I got away with this.
No photos of me carried to the door or headlines about the reality contestant and influencer actress that couldn’t make it through day one.
The exam room door closes behind us. My shoulders sag, and my head drops back against the wheelchair.
“You did so good today,” Karyn says softly, squeezing my shoulder.
I want to argue, to say I failed, but the words won’t come. All I can do is nod as a doctor approaches with a clipboard and a sympathetic smile.