Chapter 1 #2
"You know what this means?" Maya's back to scrolling through her phone, probably already planning my hypothetical reality TV wardrobe.
"That I've lost my mind?"
"That you're finally ready to bet on yourself.
" She looks up from her screen, and her expression is uncharacteristically serious.
"Trinity, you're incredibly talented. Your food is amazing, your personality is magnetic, and you deserve good things.
But you've spent so long trying to keep everything safe and small that you've forgotten how to dream big. "
Ouch. True, but ouch.
"Maybe it's time to remember," she continues. "Even if nothing comes of this, you put yourself out there. You took a shot."
I look around my small apartment, at the stack of bills on my kitchen counter and the photo of my grandmother on the mantle. She's the one who helped me with baking, who believed I could turn flour and sugar and butter into something that mattered.
What would she think about all this?
Probably that anything worth having is worth taking risks for.
"Okay," I say finally. "But if I end up as a meme, I'm moving to Canada and opening a maple syrup farm."
"Deal. But when you win, I get to plan the victory party."
When I win. Not if. Maya's optimism is both infectious and terrifying.
My phone dings with a text from Mrs. Henderson asking if her cake will be ready on time. Real life, demanding my attention. Bills to pay, orders to fill, a business to run.
But for the first time in months, there's something else too. A tiny spark of possibility that maybe, things could change.
Even if that change comes in the form of a reality dating show and an orc named Korgan the Destroyer.
What the hell have I gotten myself into?
The call comes at six-thirty on a Tuesday morning, right in the middle of my sourdough prep. I almost don't answer because I don't recall the number and I'm elbow-deep in starter, but something makes me wipe my hands and swipe to accept.
"Trinity Lewis?"
"Speaking."
"This is Jessica Powers from Paramount Reality Productions. We'd like to offer you a spot on Heart of the Horde, season six."
I nearly drop the phone into my mixing bowl.
"I'm sorry, what?"
"You've been selected as one of twenty-five contestants. We were particularly impressed with your audition video, the authenticity, the food angle. Very fresh."
Fresh. Like produce. Like something that hasn't gone stale yet.
"We'll need an answer by end of business today," Jessica continues, her voice crisp and professional.
"Filming starts in two weeks. There's a standard contestant fee of five thousand dollars, plus significant promotional opportunities for your business.
And of course, the winner receives an additional fifty thousand dollars and a feature in Food & Wine magazine. "
Fifty thousand dollars. That's more than I made last year. That's enough to pay off my equipment loans, cover rent for six months, maybe even expand into the space next door that's been sitting empty since the hardware store closed.
"I need to think about it."
"Of course. But Trinity?" Jessica's voice softens slightly. "This is a life-changing opportunity. We don't offer spots to just anyone."
After she hangs up, I stand in my kitchen staring at my phone like it might explode. Twenty minutes ago, my biggest concern was whether my starter had enough rise for today's bread orders. Now I'm holding a golden ticket to national television and potential financial salvation.
My hands are shaking when I call Maya.
"They said yes?" She's breathless before I even finish explaining.
"They said yes."
"OH MY GOD!" Her shriek is so loud I have to pull the phone away from my ear. "Trinity, this is huge! This is, wait, you're going to say yes, right? Please tell me you're not overthinking this."
Of course I'm overthinking this. It's what I do. But this time, the practical part of my brain and the dreaming part are actually aligned.
"I think I have to."
"You absolutely have to. When do you leave?"
"Two weeks. If I say yes."
"When you say yes. What are you going to wear? We need to go shopping. And we need to prep the bakery for the publicity—"
"Maya, breathe." But I'm smiling for the first time in months. Real smiling, not the polite customer-service version I've been wearing like armor.
"I can't breathe! My best friend is going to be on television! With an orc! This is the best day of my entire life!"
Here goes nothing.
"I'm doing it."
"YES!" Another ear-splitting shriek. "Okay, I'm coming over. We have planning to do."
The contract arrives via email within an hour, twelve pages of legal terminology that basically boils down to: we own your image, your story, and your dignity for the next three months. In exchange, we'll make you famous and maybe rich.
I sign it anyway.
The next two weeks pass in a blur of paperwork, medical exams, psychological evaluations, and Maya treating my impending television debut like a military campaign. She creates spreadsheets. Color-coded spreadsheets. With subcategories.
"You need a signature look," she announces, dumping shopping bags across my kitchen table. "Something that says 'approachable but memorable.'"
"I have a signature look. Flour-dusted apron and exhaustion."
"That's not a look, that's a cry for help." She holds up a soft green sweater. "This brings out your eyes."
"It's a dating show, not a job interview."
"Everything is a job interview if you're smart about it."
The bakery gets a deep clean and a fresh coat of paint on the front door.
Maya installs a professional ring light "for when the cameras come to film your hometown segments.
" She's more excited about this than I am, which is saying something because I've been walking around with a permanent flutter of nerves and anticipation in my stomach.
Three days before I leave, Mrs. Patterson corners me while I'm restocking the display case.
"Heard you're going on that television show."
News travels fast in a town of eight hundred people. "That's right."
"Shame you have to leave town to find a man. We've got perfectly good ones right here."
Perfectly good ones like your nephew who still lives in his mother's basement and collects vintage beer cans. "It's more about the business opportunity."
"Hmm." She purses her lips. "Just remember where you come from, dear. Fame changes people."
So does poverty, but apparently that's less concerning.
The morning I leave, Maya drives me to Portland to catch my flight to Los Angeles. The bakery is closed for the next month—I've posted signs directing regular customers to the competing bakery two towns over, which feels like professional suicide but necessary sacrifice.
"Text me everything," Maya says at security. "Every detail. Every conversation. I want to live vicariously through your romantic adventure."
"What if it's a disaster?"
"Then it'll be a memorable disaster. Either way, you're doing something brave."
Brave. There's that word again.
The plane to LAX is half empty, giving me three hours to second-guess every decision I've made in the past month. But when we land and I see a driver holding a sign with my name, the flutter in my stomach shifts from anxiety to excitement.
I'm really doing this.
The production compound sits in the hills outside Los Angeles, hidden behind gates and security guards who check my ID twice before waving us through. It's like entering another world—sprawling mansions, manicured gardens, and enough camera equipment to film a blockbuster movie.
"Miss Lewis?" A young woman with a clipboard and the kind of smile that doesn't reach her eyes approaches as I climb out of the car. "I'm Ashley, your production assistant. Ready for orientation?"
The next four hours are a whirlwind of contracts, costume fittings, hair and makeup tests, and interviews with producers who ask increasingly personal questions about my dating history, my fears, my dreams, and whether I've ever been in love.
"Never been in love?" Jessica Powers looks up from her notes, eyebrows raised.
"I've been in like. Strong like. But love?" I shrug. "I've been focused on other things."
"What would it take? For you to fall in love?"
I consider this. It's not a question I've asked myself in any serious way.
"Someone who sees me. Really sees me, not just what I can do for them. Someone who makes me want to be braver than I am."
Jessica scribbles something in her notebook. "Perfect. That's the vulnerability our viewers connect with."
Vulnerability as entertainment. Right. I'm starting to remember why reality TV makes me uncomfortable.
But then Ashley leads me through the main house, and I forget about my reservations because this place is insane. Crystal chandeliers, marble floors, a kitchen that's bigger than my entire bakery. A wall of windows overlook a pool that looks like it belongs in a resort.
"The bachelor's quarters are separate," Ashley explains, pointing toward a smaller building across the courtyard. "You won't see him until the Welcome Ceremony tonight."
"What's he like? In person, I mean."
Ashley's professional smile falters slightly, becoming something more genuine. "He's... different than you'd expect. Quieter. More thoughtful. The producers keep trying to get him to play up the whole 'fierce warrior' thing, but he's actually really gentle."
Gentle. Not a word I'd associated with someone nicknamed "the Destroyer."
"Has he done this before? Reality TV?"
"First time. I think he's more nervous than anyone wants to admit."
That's oddly comforting. I'm not the only one out of my element here.
Ashley shows me to my room, and calling it a room is an understatement. It's a suite with a king bed, marble bathroom, and a balcony overlooking the gardens. My entire apartment could fit in the walk-in closet.
"Dinner's at six, ceremony starts at eight," Ashley says. "Your dress is hanging in the closet. We had it tailored based on your measurements from the fitting."
After she leaves, I sit on the enormous bed and take stock. I'm in Los Angeles. I'm about to compete for a man I've never met on national television. I've left my bakery, my life, everything familiar for the chance at something that might not even exist.
What would Grandma think?
She'd probably tell me to quit overthinking and start paying attention. To the details, the timing, the person I'm getting to know.
I unpack my suitcase, hanging my clothes next to the fancy dresses the wardrobe department selected. They look like costumes compared to my usual jeans and sweaters. Like props for playing a character called "Trinity Lewis, Reality TV Contestant."
At dinner, I meet some of the other women.
There's Amber, a fitness instructor from Denver who's clearly done this before based on how comfortable she is with the cameras.
Sophia, an art gallery owner from Miami who speaks three languages and makes me feel undereducated.
Madison, whose job is listed as "Instagram Influencer" and who's already strategizing about which camera angles will be most flattering.
I sit quietly, eating surprisingly good pasta and wondering what I've gotten myself into. These women are polished, confident, beautiful in ways that translate perfectly to television. I'm a baker from Maine who's never owned a dress that cost more than fifty dollars.
But then Madison mentions something about "playing the game" and Sophia nods knowingly, and I remember something Jessica said during my interview: We were impressed with your authenticity.
Maybe authenticity is my advantage here. Maybe being genuine instead of strategic is exactly what will set me apart.
Or maybe I'll be voted off first and back in Maine before my sourdough starter dies.
At seven-thirty, Ashley appears to escort us to hair and makeup.
The glam squad descends like a team of fairy godmothers, transforming my usual ponytail and chapstick into something red-carpet worthy.
The woman doing my makeup, Carmen, has worked on movie sets and keeps up a steady stream of gossip about celebrities I've only seen in magazines.
"You've got great bone structure," she says, dusting highlighter across my cheekbones. "Very photogenic. The cameras are going to love you."
The dress they've chosen is deep emerald green, simple but elegant, with a neckline that's low enough to be interesting without making me feel exposed. It fits perfectly, hugging curves I'd forgotten I had. When I look, I barely recognize myself.
Is this what confidence looks like?
At eight o'clock sharp, we're lined up outside the main house like debutantes at a ball. The production crew swarms around us, checking lighting, adjusting microphones, shouting directions that somehow manage to sound both urgent and routine.
"Ladies, remember," Jessica addresses us from behind the cameras, "this is your first impression. Make it count. Be yourselves, but be the best versions of yourselves."
The best version of myself. I'm still figuring out what that means.
The doors to the main house swing open, revealing the interior transformed into something from a fairy tale. Candlelight, flowers, soft music. And at the far end of the room, partially hidden behind sheer curtains that flutter in the evening breeze, I catch my first glimpse of him.
Korgan.
He's bigger than I understood, not just tall, but broad-shouldered in a way that suggests real strength, not just gym muscles. Even from this distance, partially obscured by the staging, there's something about the way he carries himself that's both imposing and oddly graceful.
The cameras are rolling, the other women are moving forward, but I'm frozen for a moment by a jolt of pure curiosity. What does his voice sound like? What makes him laugh? Does he actually like cinnamon rolls, or was that just a ridiculous thing to say in my audition video?
Pay attention, I remind myself. To the details, the timing, the person you're getting to know.
This is it. The beginning of whatever comes next.
I take a deep breath, smooth my dress, and step into the lights.