Chapter 11
TILDA
The rankings go up after breakfast on a wall-sized holo in the main commons, because apparently public humiliation is more festive when served with fruit and synthetic coffee.
Everybody stops pretending not to care.
Conversations cut off mid-sentence. Forks pause halfway to mouths.
Chairs scrape. Even the couples who’ve spent the last several days performing cool indifference drift closer to the glowing board with the same tight-faced hunger.
The room smells like burnt caf, buttered starch rolls, nervous sweat, and the sharp lemon cleaner the production crew uses every morning to make the compound look less like a pressure cooker full of damaged exes.
I stand with my tray in my hands and feel my pulse in my wrists.
Bron comes up beside me carrying enough food for three people and the expression of a man arriving at a fireworks display he assumes will be about him.
“Morning, sweetheart,” he says.
I don’t look at him. “Don’t call me that before rankings.”
He leans in a little. “Would ‘beloved enemy’ soothe you?”
“No.”
“‘Co-parent of my unresolved—’”
I turn my head just enough to cut him a look. “Finish that sentence and I’ll poison your eggs.”
He grins, entirely too pleased with himself. “There she is.”
The holo flickers. Music swells overhead, dramatic enough to accompany a military funeral. Captain Photonic’s face blazes across the screen at approximately the size of a municipal monument.
“Champions, heartbreakers, and ratings miracles,” he booms, “the latest audience-and-performance composite standings are now live.”
A collective hush drops over the room.
Then the list begins to scroll.
Couple names. Sponsor logos. Point totals. Movement arrows. Red danger band at the bottom. Safe zone above it.
My mouth goes dry.
Bron and I stand shoulder to shoulder, close enough that I can feel the heat of him through the thin sleeve of my training jacket. I hate that I notice that. I hate even more that my body notices before my brain can start filing objections.
The names climb.
Vanna and Pajack. Safe.
Zack and Dartha. Safe.
Some pair from the mining sector whose names I can never remember. Safe.
Then—
Bron Verak & Tilda Robertson — Safe. Rank 18.
I let out a breath so fast it almost hurts.
Bron lets out a soft whistle. “Eighteenth. Look at us.”
“Don’t sound smug. We’re not even top ten.”
“We are not dead, Tilda. I feel that deserves at least a modest amount of smugness.”
Below us, the elimination line glows red.
Two couples at the bottom are already crying.
Another pair is fighting in low, vicious whispers right there in front of the beverage station.
Somewhere behind me, somebody laughs too loudly in relief and then immediately starts crying too.
Reality competition seems to reduce every adult in the room to a weather event.
I set my tray down on the nearest table before I drop it. “Safe is good.”
Bron glances sideways at me. His voice loses some of its bounce. “You okay?”
“I’m fine.”
“That sounded like a lie with decent posture.”
I cross my arms. “I said I’m fine.”
He studies me for a second, and because he has always been an unbearable student of my face, his expression shifts.
Not joking now.
Just watching.
That is somehow worse.
Before either of us can say anything else, a production assistant in a silver jacket claps her hands and calls, “Top thirty couples, please remain in the commons after breakfast for engagement notes.”
Bron mutters, “Engagement notes sounds fake, sinister, or both.”
“It’s both,” I say.
He brightens. “God, it’s nice when we agree.”
I make myself eat half a roll and drink some coffee, though my stomach is too tight to appreciate either.
Safe. We’re safe. That’s what matters. Another day in the competition means another day in the compound, another day of guaranteed care for Jesse, another day of not falling backward into the kind of panic that makes my vision narrow.
I should feel better than this.
Instead I feel like I’m standing on a ledge somebody keeps extending one inch at a time.
When breakfast clears, the top couples are herded toward a lounge set off the commons with low curved couches, too-bright lights, and floating camera drones that pretend to be unobtrusive while hovering like metal mosquitoes.
The producers call it the “connection bay,” which sounds like something you catch a rash in.
A woman named Seral waits for us with a tablet tucked under one arm. She’s one of the mid-level producers: flawless hair, brisk smile, predator’s eyes.
“Congratulations, everyone,” she says. “Audience response is strong, and we want to build on momentum.”
No one answers.
Seral’s smile doesn’t flicker. “A reminder: viewers respond to emotional authenticity, interpersonal progress, and relationship tension with potential payoff. That means meaningful interaction on camera. Vulnerability. Chemistry. Development.”
Across from us, Vanna snorts.
Seral ignores her. “Some of you are doing very well in that category.”
Her gaze lands very deliberately on Bron and me.
Bron, curse him, actually puts a hand to his chest like he’s being honored.
I close my eyes for one patient second.
Seral continues. “Your pairing tested extremely high in audience investment after the last challenge. We’d like to lean into that. More check-ins. More conversational footage. More unresolved-history beats.”
Bron murmurs, “Unresolved-history beats. Sounds romantic.”
I say, without looking at him, “If you’re enjoying this, I need you medicated.”
Seral taps her screen. “The audience loves contrast. Tilda, your restraint against Bron’s expressiveness is testing as compelling. Bron, your visible affection reads as persistent and high-risk, which viewers find engaging.”
“I am a gift to the arts,” he says solemnly.
“Please don’t encourage yourself,” I mutter.
Seral’s smile sharpens. “What we don’t want is emotional stonewalling. If you shut down every avenue of interaction, the audience interprets that as refusal to participate in the full social premise of the season.”
I lean back in my chair. “We are participating. We’re completing the challenges.”
“Yes,” she says, “but this season is built around former couples.”
“And?”
“And the audience expects a relationship arc.”
There it is.
The thing under all the glittering language.
I fold my hands in my lap so nobody sees how hard I’m gripping them. “You’re getting a competitive arc.”
Seral tilts her head. “That may not be enough.”
Bron glances at me. Not smug now. Not joking. Just measuring.
I hold Seral’s gaze. “Then you’ll have to live with disappointment.”
A tiny silence follows that.
One of the drones hums closer. I can hear the faint whir of its stabilizers, the buzz of overhead lights, the far-off clang of training equipment somewhere deeper in the compound.
My skin feels too tight. I know what they want.
A soft-focus reconciliation. Lingering glances.
Confessionals cut to swelling music. They want us to bleed neatly and call it content.
Not with Jesse in this compound.
Not with my life balanced on this insane tower of risk.
Seral makes a note on her tablet. “You should be aware that viewer scoring may reflect perceived emotional openness.”
“Then viewers are welcome to reward us for not strangling each other on live television,” I say.
Across the room, somebody chokes back a laugh.
Seral smiles that hard little producer smile again. “Noted.”
Bron stretches an arm along the back of the couch behind me, casual as breathing. If I shift even two inches, I’ll be touching him. “For what it’s worth,” he says lightly, “I’m open to emotional growth, camera-approved healing, and several categories of dramatic eye contact.”
I turn to him, low and dangerous. “We are not pretending to reconcile for points.”
His mouth twitches. “I didn’t say pretend.”
“Bron.”
Something flickers behind his eyes then—quick, gone. He lifts both hands in surrender. “Competitive partnership. Understood.”
I hold his gaze one beat longer, just to make sure.
Then Seral claps once. “Excellent. Challenge briefing in twenty minutes.”
The next arena looks like a sadist designed a cathedral and then gave it moving parts.
We file into a massive chamber open to the sky, all steel ribs and suspended platforms and translucent lanes hanging over a drop that disappears into blue-lit mist. The air tastes faintly metallic.
Wind moves through the structure in cool currents, carrying oil, ozone, hot cables, and the mineral smell of water somewhere far below.
Above us, thousands of spectators fill tiered seating under a shimmering shield canopy.
Their voices roll through the arena in waves—cheers, whistles, the rising animal roar of people thrilled to watch strangers court disaster.
I stop at the edge of the starting platform and look out.
“Oh, absolutely not,” I say.
Bron comes up beside me and tips his head back to take in the course. “Huh.”
“That is not a reassuring noise.”
“No, no, I’m just appreciating the architecture of our suffering.”
Captain Photonic’s voice explodes through the arena. “Contestants! Today you will test the twin pillars of any viable reunion—trust and problem-solving!”
“Sure,” Bron says under his breath. “That’s what my last breakup was missing. Suspended death geometry.”
A holo-model of the course blooms overhead.
Multiple lanes of moving platforms slide, rotate, rise, and separate over the void.
At intervals, tall puzzle towers block progress.
Couples must solve each station to unlock the path to the next section.
Hazard emitters sweep the lanes with arcs of light that look decorative right up until one zaps a test drone out of the air and sends it spinning into the mist.
I squint up at the rotating diagram. Symbols. Pattern sequences. Weight-balancing nodes. Directional logic gates.
Oh.
Oh, this I can work with.