4. Pay It Forward
Pay It Forward
brIELLE
I survived. Not just survived but thrived—if thriving means I didn’t ugly-cry on upcoming national television when Hayes handed me a key last night.
The first Lock & Key ceremony of Groomsman to Groom is officially behind me, which feels less like an accomplishment and more like riding out the initial wave of a zombie apocalypse.
Sure, I’m still standing, but there are nineteen more women ready to tear me apart for a chance at Hayes’s heart, and we’ve only just begun.
Serena, Luna, and Annabelle made it through too, which gives me at least three allies in this designer-label hunger games.
Unfortunately, Gabby also scored a key, along with her minions, Kavita and Jordan, the runner with a shark smile.
When Hayes called Gabby’s name, she practically floated across the room, her pageant perfect hair bouncing with each step, her smile dripping with false modesty.
I swear she shot me a look that said, “See? He prefers real women, not Trekkies.”
Whatever. I didn’t come here just for Hayes, anyway.
I came here because I need a chance to find a romantic connection outside of work.
I needed a break from staring at my apartment walls while grieving, and because—okay, fine—Hayes and I had something on that beach that still makes my stomach flip when I think about it.
I pull on my running shoes, desperate for some alone time before another day of forced socialization begins.
We have a lot of down time when Hayes is on dates and challenges with other women, but when it’s our turn, the producers have our schedules mapped out: group dates, one-on-ones, cocktail parties, and “spontaneous” activities that are about as impromptu as tax season.
But every morning is unstructured so the women and Hayes can sleep in after a long night.
Slipping out the back door, I take my first deep breath of the day.
The air is crisp, untainted by the scent of twenty different perfumes battling for dominance.
The grounds of this place are ridiculous—five acres of manicured gardens, a swimming pool, and enough rose bushes to supply a florist for a year. Perfect for a morning run.
I start jogging down the stone path, passing a fountain featuring what appears to be a cherub riding a dolphin—because nothing says “true love” like a naked baby on a sea mammal. The gravel crunches beneath my shoes as I pick up pace, my thoughts clearing with each step.
This is what I’ve been missing—solitude.
Some people crave constant interaction, but I need quiet to refuel.
My brain works overtime when I’m writing, creating entire universes and complex character arcs.
Then I have to switch gears and be “on” for social situations, which requires a whole different kind of mental energy.
Rinse and repeat until I’m basically running on fumes and caffeine.
I turn off the main path onto a narrower trail that winds through a section of more natural-looking gardens. Someone designed this area to appear untamed while still being meticulously maintained—the landscape equivalent of “I woke up like this” makeup.
The path curves around a stand of weeping willows, their branches creating a curtain that shields a small stone bench from view of the main house. Perfect. I slow to a walk, catching my breath, then check my fitness watch. I’ve covered nearly two miles, enough to call it a decent workout.
The bench sits beside a small pond where koi fish glide beneath lily pads.
No cameras in sight. No microphones picking up my every sigh.
No women sizing me up as competition or producers nudging me toward contrived drama.
Just me and my thoughts—and my printed screenplay, which I’ve stashed in my oversized running jacket.
We’re allowed to bring one printed book, or Bible, so I chose my screenplay to “read,” but really, to work on. The rules are in place to make us so bored we’ll fight over nothing. But my deadline is impossible unless I at least edit while I’m here.
I pull out my packet and settle on the bench. I love my solitude while working, and, actually, I often rent a cabin in a remote place when I’m on deadline. It works like magic for me.
The tab marks the page I worked on yesterday—a rough-draft of a scene where my protagonist discovers that her AI-created hallucination is actually based on a real person from her repressed memories. I slip into the zone, that magical head space where time dissolves.
I’m so deep in the flow that I don’t notice the footsteps approaching until a voice breaks through my concentration.
“Hey, Brielle?”
I slam my papers shut with the guilty reflex of someone caught watching porn, my heart hammering in my chest. A man stands a few feet away, holding a coffee mug and wearing a headset around his neck.
It takes me a moment to place him—an assistant producer, the one with the kind eyes who’s always lurking in the background during filming.
“Sorry.” He raises his free hand in surrender. “Didn’t mean to spy. I just saw you working and thought it might be Hallucination AI season two, and I got excited.”
I narrow my eyes. “You know who I am?”
He steps closer, offering a disarming smile. “Seth Daniels, assistant producer. And fan.” He gestures to my papers.
“Well, thank you.” I study him more carefully now. Brown hair with natural highlights that would cost a fortune at a salon. Fit but not in that obsessive gym-rat way. Boyish charm that probably gets him out of trouble more often than it should.
“And I just want to say,” he continues, “The concept of AI programs creating hallucinations based on repressed memories? Brilliant.”
I feel a warm glow of pride. “Thank you. It’s not often I meet someone who actually watches the show and gets the premise.”
“Gets it? I wrote a twelve-page analysis of the implications of digital consciousness for my film theory fan group.” He takes a sip of coffee, eyes bright. “The episode where Mira’s hallucination reveals she was actually the one who coded the original algorithm? Mind-blowing.”
I can’t help but smile. “That was a last-minute change. Originally, it was going to be her twin sister.”
“No way!” Seth leans forward, coffee sloshing dangerously. “The twin sister twist would have been too predictable. The self-creation angle was way more compelling.”
“Good! That’s what I told the network execs, but they fought me on it until three days before shooting.”
Before I know it, we’re deep in conversation about storytelling techniques, the tyranny of network notes, and the challenge of maintaining a coherent narrative across multiple episodes.
Seth isn’t just knowledgeable—he’s insightful, pointing out themes in my own work that I wasn’t consciously aware of developing.
“So how’d you end up as an assistant producer on this...” I gesture vaguely, “journey of love?”
He laughs, his smile so wide the corners of his eyes crinkle.
“Paying my dues. I’d love to be a screenwriter with a hit series someday, but I need networking and experience, you know?
Reality TV isn’t my endgame, but it’s teaching me a lot about human behavior under pressure, which is fascinating from a storytelling perspective. ”
“I can see that. It’s like a petri dish for human drama.” I raise an eyebrow. “So, what are you working on?”
“Psychological thriller with sci-fi elements.” He runs a hand through his hair, suddenly looking embarrassed. “Just something I’ve been tinkering with for a while.”
“That sounds interesting.” And I mean it. “What’s the premise?”
“It’s about a therapist who specializes in memory reconstruction for trauma victims. She uses this experimental technology to help patients revisit and reframe their traumatic experiences.
But then she starts experiencing her patients’ memories as if they’re her own, and reality begins to break down. ”
I nod, genuinely intrigued. “I like that. Lots of potential for exploring the nature of memory and identity.”
“Exactly!” Seth’s face lights up. “But I’m struggling with the second act. The protagonist needs to discover that the memories she’s experiencing aren’t just random—they’re connected somehow. But I can’t quite figure out the logic behind it without it feeling contrived.”
I automatically brainstorm solutions, the writer in me unable to resist a good story problem. “What if it’s not the memories themselves that are important, but the emotional resonance? Maybe she’s absorbing the same emotional frequency, and that’s what’s drawing them to her.”
Seth stares at me for a moment, then scribbles something on his clipboard. “That’s... actually brilliant. She connects with them through shared emotional trauma, not the events themselves.”
We bounce ideas back and forth for a few more minutes before Seth sets down his pen and looks at me with a mixture of hope and hesitation.
“I know this is completely out of line, and please feel free to say no, but... would you be willing to look at what I’ve written so far? It could really use a pair of expert eyes.”
And there it is. I’ve been through this dance before—the enthusiastic conversation that turns into a request for free labor.
A part of me wants to remind him that I’m on a reality TV show where I’m kind of busy.
Except I’m not, not really, as there’s a lot of downtime while Hayes is on other dates.
Past contestants say they go stir crazy.
Plus, the other part remembers five years ago, being twenty-two, clutching my first screenplay, desperate for someone —anyone—with experience to give me feedback.
Remembers the cold emails sent to established writers, most unanswered.
Remembers the one who did respond, a TV writer who took the time to read my work and offer thoughtful criticism that ultimately helped me land my agent.
I promised myself then that if I ever “made it,” I’d pay it forward when I could.
Still, there’s a complication here that doesn’t exist elsewhere. “Seth, I want to help. I really do. But I’m also a contestant on a show you’re producing. Don’t you think that creates a conflict of interest?”
Seth winces. “I thought about that, but not really. What you’d be working on is something that’d be produced on this network, so it helps them.
And I’m not offering to give you inside information or advantages.
Just one writer helping out another.” He hesitates, then continues.
“Look, I’ve been working on this script for three years.
I’ve hit a wall. And talking to you for the past fifteen minutes has given me more ideas than I’ve had in months. ”
I chew my bottom lip, considering. “What if the other women found out? It could look like I’m doing work in exchange for special treatment.”
“We could keep it quiet,” Seth says. “Add my papers to yours while you’re making your own notes.”
I look at him skeptically, and he says, “We only need to meet a couple of times, in the morning like this, before anyone’s awake. I know all the blind spots where the cameras don’t reach.”
I should say no. It’s the sensible thing to do. But there’s something about his passion that reminds me of myself, and the premise of his screenplay genuinely intrigues me. Plus, I could use an ally on the set besides Skye.
“Give me what you have,” I hear myself saying before I can overthink it. “I’ll take a look when I can.”
Seth’s face breaks into a wide grin. “Absolutely. Thank you, Brielle. This means more than you know.”
“Just don’t make me regret it,” I say, but I’m smiling too. “If anyone finds out—”
“They won’t,” Seth assures me. “I know this place better than anyone. Meet me here at 6:15 a.m. on Friday, the day of the next Lock & Key ceremony, and I’ll hand my script over.”
“Okay.”
As he stands to leave, he pauses, looking down at me with a thoughtful expression. “For what it’s worth, I think you’re different from the typical contestants we get on this show. In a good way.”
“Thanks,” I say. “I was going for ‘atypical reality show contestant’ when I packed my Vulcan ears.”
He laughs as something darts toward us—a little brown and white spotted dog wearing a pink bow.
She comes right at my feet, and looks up at me with eyes that instantly melt my heart, and I start petting her.
“Look at you! Where did you come from, sweet girl?” She’s clearly a Shih Tzu, and right now, her tail wags so fast it’s flipping around.
Seth says, “Skye brought her here. She was at the shelter so Skye wanted to give her a place to run free here in the gardens until she gets adopted.”
“She’s so adorable.” The dog jumps in my arms, which makes me laugh. She’s kissing my face when I say, “Does she have a name?”
“Yeah—it’s Onion. The shelter gave it to her.”
“Onion.” I laugh. “Okay, that’s different, but I dig it.”
Seth turns to leave, and I hold Onion close, not able to get enough of those eyes, the sweetest things I’ve ever seen.
As Onion and I watch Seth disappear into the foliage, I realize that surviving this show just got more complicated, but also more interesting—and hopefully helpful to someone who really needs it.