22. The Unceremony
The Unceremony
brIELLE
T he sun slices through the villa windows like a judgment, harsh and unforgiving.
I’ve been avoiding mirrors all morning, not wanting to confront the puffy-eyed stranger who’s replaced me since last night’s confession.
Confession. That’s a funny word for it—as if admitting to a connection with Hayes was some kind of sin rather than the most honest moment I’ve had since stepping out of that limo weeks ago.
But the way Hayes looked through me afterward, like I was suddenly transparent, has left me feeling hollowed out, a shell of myself wandering these terra-cotta halls while my brain asks the same question on repeat: What have I done?
The villa feels eerily quiet after Kavita’s dramatic exit.
I talked to Annabelle, and although her words said she understood, her face said otherwise.
The remaining women, including Serena, have scattered to their respective corners—processing, plotting, preparing for tonight’s elimination.
Two more going home tonight, only four keys remain, and the growing certainty that despite surviving last night’s revelation, I’ve somehow already lost.
I trace my fingers along the cool stucco wall as I walk, my injured arm still aching beneath its bandage. The physical pain feels almost welcome compared to the ache behind my ribs. Hayes’s deliberate distance. His careful neutrality. His amazing date with Luna.
“Looking a bit lost there, Penguin Girl.” Skye materializes around a corner, today’s outfit an improbable combination of flowing crimson fabric and chunky silver jewelry that somehow works on her.
I attempt a smile that probably looks more like a grimace. “Actually, I was looking for you.”
Her eyebrows rise, but she nods toward a small courtyard tucked away from the main areas of the villa. “Let’s chat where the walls don’t have production assistants hiding behind them.”
I follow her out into the sun-dappled space, grateful for the relative privacy. Stone benches curve around a small fountain where water trickles over colorful mosaic tiles. Ivy climbs the surrounding walls, creating a canopy of green leaves overhead.
“Spill it.” Skye settles onto one of the benches and pats the space beside her.
I sink down beside her, suddenly unsure where to start.
The words tumble out anyway, unfiltered and raw.
“Hayes won’t look at me. Since last night, since I told everyone about our.
.. moment, he’s barely made eye contact.
He’s pulling away, and I don’t know if it’s for show, or if he regrets what happened between us. ”
Skye’s expression softens, the showmanship mask slipping to reveal something more genuine beneath.
“Oh, darling Brielle. I’m sorry. He might be having a freak out.
But remember the carnival. How much he loved your penguin costume, the chess match with August, Hayes literally throwing himself off a balcony to save you from bulls—that was all real. ”
“It felt real.”
“Here’s the thing about reality television,” Skye leans closer. “Everything is simultaneously more and less real than it appears. The emotions are heightened, the stakes inflated, but the connections—the real ones—they linger long after the cameras stop rolling.”
“So what do I do?” I say, hating how desperate I sound. “How do I know if Hayes still feels something strong for me?”
Skye considers this, her fingers absently toying with one of her chunky silver rings.
“You don’t. Not yet. Not while you’re still in this bubble.
” She gestures around us, encompassing the villa, the show, the entire artificial construct we’re trapped in.
“Hayes is under enormous pressure. From Darren, from production, from his own sense of obligation to complete this journey. And now he’s been publicly exposed as becoming intimate, which makes everything more complicated. ”
“But the distance—”
“Is probably his way of trying to maintain the integrity of the show,” Skye interrupts gently.
“If he suddenly ignored everyone else and focused only on you, what would be the point of the next two weeks? How he’d just have to play with the other women’s emotions.
You wouldn’t want someone who’d do that. Would you?”
“No.” I hadn’t considered this perspective. But it still hurts, still feels like betrayal after the intimacy we shared. “But how do I know he hasn’t changed his mind? That Luna’s date and Kavita’s dramatic exit haven’t made him reconsider everything?”
Skye’s gaze turns unexpectedly sharp. “You don’t. That’s the risk you took when you got into that entrance limo. But also, that’s the risk we all take when we give someone our heart.”
She’s right, of course. There are no guarantees, ever. Uncertainty is the price of admission to finding love.
“Get through tonight. Just focus on that.” She stands, smoothing down her crimson ensemble. “And at the cocktail party, I’d spend less time fretting and more time reminding him why he jumped off that balcony for you in the first place.”
With that sound advice, she leaves me alone in the courtyard, the fountain’s gentle trickle suddenly sounding more like a countdown clock.
The rooftop is something out of a travel magazine spread—terracotta tiles, string lights crisscrossing overhead, and beyond the glass barriers, Pamplona spread out like a glittering jewel box against the darkening sky.
In another lifetime, I’d be frantically composing shots for this scene in my head.
In this one, I’m just trying not to throw up on my borrowed Jimmy Choos.
“You look amazing,” Serena whispers as we line up for our entrance.
She’s not wrong, objectively speaking. The stylists have worked their usual magic, pouring me into a burgundy dress that somehow manages to hide my bandaged arm while showcasing other assets I didn’t know I had.
But I feel like an imposter, dolled up for a ceremony where I might be sent home by the man who saw me naked just two nights ago.
“So do you.” Serena looks lovely in emerald green, the perfectly applied makeup on her flawless skin, and not a hair out of place.
Hayes looks painfully handsome in a charcoal suit that’s just casual enough for the setting—no tie, top button undone, the fabric tailored to showcase broad shoulders I now know the feel of beneath my fingertips.
His smile as he greets us is warm, professional, and completely devoid of the heat I’d seen in his eyes that night in the SUV.
“Everyone,” he begins, the standard opening of the show that suddenly feels like a slap. “Thank you for joining me on this beautiful rooftop. Before we begin tonight’s ceremony, I want to take a moment to speak with each of you.”
The cocktail party portion of the evening has officially begun, and the last chance for connection before decisions are made.
Hayes takes Luna first, leading her to a secluded corner where their conversation involves animated hand gestures and shared laughter.
My stomach twists as I watch them, remembering Luna’s description of their “connection” during their date yesterday.
“It doesn’t mean anything,” Serena says quietly beside me, her practical nature somehow comforting. “He has to talk to everyone. It’s literally in his contract.”
“I know.” I accept a glass of sparkling wine from a passing server. “It’s just—”
“Weird to watch the guy you slept with chat up other women?” She raises an eyebrow. “Yeah, I’d imagine so.”
I nearly choke on my drink. “God, how did I let that happen?”
“You’re human?”
Before I can respond, Annabelle joins us, her red hair arranged in loose curls that catch the string lights overhead.
“Are we sharing secrets? Because I have a confession: I still sleep with a stuffed elephant named Mr. Trunks.” She presses a hand to her heart.
“God, it feels good to get that off my chest.”
The unexpected admission startles a laugh out of me, the first genuine one since last night’s confrontation. Annabelle grins, and I’m so glad to have her back.
“We were just discussing how these just keep getting more tense,” Serena covers smoothly. “With only four keys on that table.”
“Super tense.” Annabelle’s Southern accent thickens with emotion. “I haven’t been able to eat all day, which for me is saying something serious.”
Our nervous chatter continues as Hayes finishes with Luna and moves on to Gabby. Their conversation appears more serious, with fewer smiles and more intense eye contact. I turn away, willing myself not to stare.
When Hayes finally approaches our little group, his expression is carefully neutral. “Annabelle, would you mind joining me for a moment?”
As they walk away, I feel the weight of a missed opportunity settling on my shoulders. Will he even speak to me before the ceremony? Or is this deliberate avoidance his way of telling me what I can expect when those keys are distributed?
“He’ll talk to you.” Serena reads my thoughts. “He has to. It would look too obvious if he didn’t.”
“Right.” He has to—comforting.
Finally, after what feels like hours but is probably only twenty minutes, Hayes approaches me. “Brielle,” he says, my name sounding formal on his lips. “Would you join me?”
He leads me to a quiet corner of the rooftop, away from the others but still visible to them—and to the cameras tracking our every move. The city lights twinkle below us, a romantic backdrop for what feels increasingly like a goodbye conversation.
“How’s your arm?” he asks.
“Starting the process of becoming superhuman,” I say, aiming for lightness and missing by a mile. “The aching has disappeared, mostly. Just sore.”
Hayes nods, his eyes fixed somewhere over my left shoulder. “Good. That’s good.”
The awkward silence stretches between us like an expanding universe. I want to grab him by the lapels, to shake him and demand he look at me—really look at me—the way he used to. Instead, I take a deep breath.