Chapter 13
THIRTEEN
First of all, I can’t say I’m baffled by what I’m watching unfold on camera.
According to Anne, Jaxon never even wanted to pick Ashley. He thought she was clingy. Clingy. But look at him now—pretending she’s so precious. Holding her hand, gazing at her like she’s a fallen star. The way he plays it, the world will think he didn’t choose her because she was too good for him.
And before Ashley even took the stage—red-faced and freshly tear-streaked—the other girls had already let him off the hook.
“He did not see the part of Zara that we saw,” Aimee, one of the more desperate cast members, said with theatrical resignation. “And that’s all I’m saying.”
One girl after another stood up to accuse me. Saying I played both sides. That I told them one thing and told Jaxon another. That I wasn't honest about my feelings. But then—just to keep their hands clean—they’d close their comments with lines like:
“But if they’re really in love, then I’m happy for them.”
Anne warned me last night how brutal this day would be. “They’re all under NDA,” she reminded me. “So… remember that.”
I’m repeating my mantra, trying to stay centered, but the words start crashing into each other like bumper cars. I’m losing my grip.
Do your job. Take the emotion out. Be professional.
This is the role. This is the role. This is the—
Ashley breathes in deeply, shoulders rising like she’s about to sing a solo at the talent show.
“If you’re in love with her,” she says in her soft, princessy voice, “then who am I to get in the way?”
The crowd of women—the audience, the cast, the fairytale believers—erupt into applause like she’s just sacrificed her heart on a velvet altar.
I don’t need a teleprompter to know: I’m the villain.
I know it the moment Dave Lyons, the host, turns back to the camera and says:
“Well, we’ll hear from Jaxon’s controversial pick when we return. But first, let’s relive Jaxon and Zara’s breathtaking journey of love.”
“Ready Zara to enter stage right,” I hear in my ear.
Finally, I take my seat.
In the audience, all eyes are on me. Expressions are somber. Tension thickens the air like fog. My survival instincts switch to high alert. I get it—the viewing audience feels duped. And based on what they’ve heard so far, I’m not a “girl’s girl,” no matter how production painted me.
“Are you okay?” Jaxon’s voice interrupts the mantra looping in my head.
I nod—barely.
We’re sitting too close on this faux-romantic loveseat.
We were instructed to snuggle up, to let the world see how much we love each other.
Only now do I realize how much unconscious refuge I’ve taken in the heat of his arm pressed against mine, and his thigh—tense, tight, and hollow—against my leg.
“Don’t worry, I’ve got your back,” he says softly.
I scoot half an inch away.
Across from us, Ashley sits in the single chair—the exile seat.
Frankly, I don’t like what this setup implies any more than she does.
No matter what Anne said about Jaxon not really being into her, that’s not what I saw.
That’s not what any of the girls saw. She should be in my seat.
That’s what her glare says. That's what this whole room says.
“This is so terrible,” I whisper. “Why did you even make her think she had a chance when…” I trail off, turning toward Jaxon and letting my expression finish the question.
Our eyes meet. Have I ever sat this close to him in real life?
Sure, the show used whatever magic it needed—AI, editing, maybe even a little puppeteering—to manufacture intimacy. But this? This feels new.
I smell his minty breath. His lips look softer than I remember. Have I ever noticed them before? Why am I noticing them now?
“I know,” he says.
My brows shoot up.
Then higher still when he adds, “I should’ve thought better.”
“Everybody take your places,” the floor director calls out.
Our first meeting flashes through my mind. The awkward dates. The night he had dinner delivered to his room like he was over it before it started. The kisses he gave to nearly every woman like they belonged to him. It all rushes back.
Don’t fall for whatever act he’s putting on now, I warn myself.
But I lean into it anyway, using it as a moment to strengthen my character. I gaze at his objectively handsome face, bat my lashes, and grin like a boy-crazy teenager. He meets me halfway with a sensual smirk.
Good for him. I’m one hundred percent convinced Jaxon should’ve been an actor instead of a football player.
We hold the look just long enough to sell the illusion.
Then, from his host’s seat, Dave Lyons’ smooth, affable voice—the only kind that could sell this much bullshit and still sound charming—calls my name.
Showtime.