2. Heidi
HEIDI
Ihead toward the contestant wing, navigating by muscle memory. The One is still filmed in the same mansion from my season. It’s tucked away on the “affordable” side of town, where the views are slightly less infinite and the property taxes are actually manageable.
On camera, the house is a Mediterranean masterpiece. It’s stately, imposing, and dripping with old-world romance. In person, it’s held together by masking tape and prayer.
The air is a losing battle between industrial-strength bleach and cheap air freshener, a desperate attempt to mask the scent of damp. Beneath me, the carpets are thinning, and if you look too closely at the ornate crown molding, you can see the chips in the paint and the crumbling drywall.
But the place is cheap, the permits are practically pre-approved, and the architecture behaves beautifully under a three-point lighting setup. In this industry, looking the part is ninety percent of the battle. The other ten is making sure no one puts their weight on anything.
I turn the corner into the East Wing, pulling up the character grid on my phone.
Grace Whitmore, 30– The Stepford Wife
Delaney St. James, 29 – The Power Player
Molly Sinclair, 31 – The Meltdown Machine
Colette Stevens, 34 – The Mystic
Penelope Miller, 34 – The Bombshell
In the real world, people aren’t stock characters.
On television, we cheat. We cast for archetypes like the firecracker, the nurturer, or the wildcard because the audience needs to read a personality in the time it takes to finish a commercial break.
No one is actually that one-dimensional, but if they don’t fit the box, the editors will trim them until they do.
Back in my season, we didn’t need the shorthand. We had eight women—lawyers, doctors, researchers—who were as grounded as they were beautiful. The conflict was intellectual and the stakes were emotional. No drinks were thrown because no one was desperate enough to throw them.
Now, I have a house full of fame-hungry sirens desperate for screen time. Three have already been sent packing.
Officially, the network can’t pick a winner. Unofficially? They’ve made it clear the ring has to go to Grace. It’s not that she’s special; she’s just profitable. She comes with a “girl-next-door” backstory—she was actually Max’s neighbor growing up—and nine million followers ready to monetize.
I can work with that. I can steer Max and Grace toward a sunset finale without making it look like a hostage negotiation. Or at least, that’s what I tell myself as I head for the East Wing.
The noise hits me before I even reach the suite. Overlapping voices and the sharp scent of hairspray. I knock once, more as a warning than a request, and push inside.
Holy hell.
On camera the women were beautiful. In person, they’re a biological impossibility.
The skin is poreless, the teeth are blinding, and the legs seem to go on for miles.
These aren’t dating app tens; these are the rare, terrifying specimens usually reserved for international billboards or runways in Milan.
And Max has the audacity to claim none of them do it for him.
“I’m Heidi,” I announce. “I’m taking over for Vanessa.”
There’s a ripple of chatter and a few sharp glances exchanged over the tops of vanity mirrors. They look me up and down, probably calculating exactly how much of a threat I am to their screen time.
“The network isn’t thrilled with the current trajectory,” I continue, leaning against the doorframe with a confidence I’m still partially faking. “We’re pivoting. Expect changes to the tone, the pacing, and the general level of...effort.”
“Oh my god,” a blonde with enough hair for three people says, peering into her compact. “Please tell me the editors aren’t going to bury my crying scene from the group date. I gave them everything in that confessional.”
The room erupts into a chorus of overlapping protests.
“We haven’t started the edits yet,” I say, raising my hand for silence. “But going forward, we won’t be leaning on fights or petty drama. We’re pivoting.”
The blonde blinks at me, mascara wand frozen in mid-air. “But that’s what Vanessa told us to do. So what—now we’re getting punished for following instructions?”
“No one’s being punished,” I say. “We’re just resetting. We’re getting back to what this show was built on: real connection. So from now on, let’s focus there.”
I suggest we go around the room with introductions.
Molly—our resident meltdown machine—is the one who spoke.
She’s a pageant girl, which means she treats her tear ducts like a special effect.
Then there’s Delaney, a redhead with full lips and an expression that says she’s already bored with my vision.
Beside her is Colette; she’s easy to clock with her sandy blonde waves and a floaty vibe that likely took three hours and a gallon of sea-salt spray to achieve.
Penelope is the outlier. Striking, with raven hair and sharp bone structure. She has the kind of high-fashion resting face that belongs on a fragrance ad—elegant and aloof.
And then there’s Grace.
She’s in a category of her own.
I’ve already studied her file. An Alton Hills socialite turned influencer, she’s five-eleven of pure, curated elegance. Her posture is so perfect it looks painful, like she was raised with a finishing-school ruler strapped to her spine.
She lives up to her name. There’s a quiet, symmetrical beauty to her—the kind that feels inherited rather than bought. In a room full of women competing for attention, Grace looks like she’s already waiting for her coronation.
“Maybe we can do some one-on-ones? Get to know each other?” I ask the room.
Colette is the only one who looks genuinely thrilled. She glides into the hallway after me, moving as if she’s walking on a cloud rather than thinning carpet.
“I knew change was coming today,” she beams, her eyes wide and unnervingly bright. “I felt a buzzing in my throat chakra the second I woke up.”
I nod, pretending I know what that is. “So, tell me…what brought you here, Colette?”
“It was a calling,” she says, tucking a perfectly messy beach wave behind her ear.
“When I saw the casting call—‘Beloved public figure. Ready for something real. Looking for a partner who sees beyond the spotlight’—it just spoke to my spirit. And when they told me it was Max? I saw him. Right there in my mind’s eye. Shirtless. And sad. So very, very sad.”
She leans in, her voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper. “I’m a little psychic. I’m very sensitive to…energy.”
I keep my expression neutral, but in my head, the character grid is already locking into place.
I know exactly why she’s here.
Vanessa would’ve spent the season turning her into comic relief.
“Right. Energy,” I say. “And how are you connecting with Max so far?”
Colette closes her eyes, seemingly checking in with some kind of mystic force. When she opens them, she’s dead serious. “He’s complex.”
I very much doubt that.
“He’s trying to lead with his head, but he’s all heart,” she adds with a solemn nod.
I return the nod, just as slowly. “And the house? The other women? Any bad energy there?”
“It’s been intense,” she admits, airy again. “But I’ve been shielding. I try to stay out of the low-frequency mess.”
“And have you and Max been…intimate?” I ask. It feels intrusive, but I need to know what I’m working with.
“Oh, no,” she says quickly, her smile faltering for the first time. “Not even a peck. Our souls are still in the introductory phase.”
The rest of the interviews go exactly how I feared they would.
Delaney treats the hallway like a boardroom.
She occupies the space, leaning forward as if every sentence is a high-stakes negotiation she intends to win.
She uses the word “alpha” with a completely straight face and mentions her “long-term strategy” twice.
To Delaney, Max isn’t a man; he’s some kind of business deal.
Penelope is the opposite. Every word she speaks sounds like foreplay, whether she’s talking about the caterers or the other women. She watches me through heavy lids with such focused intensity that, for a fleeting moment, I’m not entirely sure she isn’t hitting on me.
Then there’s Molly, who is less a person and more a one-woman weather system. She cycles from bubbly to teary to indignant and back again in under four minutes. She laments her “unpaid emotional labor” while simultaneously describing Max as “emotionally withholding—but, like, in a really hot way.”
The common thread between all the women is that they all insist they haven’t even kissed him.
Finally, Grace steps into the hallway. She’s wrapped in a silk robe that looks untouched by humidity. Her skin is luminous, as if she has a dedicated lighting technician following her through life. She doesn’t speak; she just stops and waits for me to petition for her time.
“How are you feeling about things so far?” I ask.
She adjusts the cuff of her robe, her eyes fixed on the silk rather than me.
“I was promised the other contestants would be exceptional. They’re not. So there’s that.” She smooths the fabric between her fingers. “It doesn’t reflect well on me, being grouped with…that level. You need to recast.”
“We’re not doing that,” I say.
“Then let me give you notes,” she replies easily. “Let me fix them. Elevate them. Maybe a makeover—”
“The thing is, Grace, we can’t have contestants giving notes. You should have been told that during the application process.”
“I didn’t apply,” she says, as if it’s beneath her. “The network came to me. Any my father has no idea I’m here—associating with women like that. So you’re going to fix it. Make them presentable. And the proposal better be tasteful.”
I study her for a beat. “Proposal?”
“I wouldn’t be here otherwise,” she says, like she’s doing us all a favor. “And of course it’s me. Max’s mom wouldn’t let any of them past the foyer.” A thin smile curves her mouth. “But she likes me. We see the same aesthetician.”
“And you and Max?” I press. “Do you get along?”
“What does that have to do with anything?”
Right. In her world, compatibility is for people who can’t afford lawyers.
“And have you two been intimate?”
Grace gives me a look of pure, unadulterated revulsion, as if I’ve just asked if she enjoys eating out of a dumpster.
“I’m waiting for marriage,” she says. “I don’t behave like that.” She glances toward the bedroom. “Because unlike some people, I have a father who actually cares about me.”
She turns and glides back into the room with the effortless poise of someone who has never had a bad hair day in her life.
I watch her go, a cold knot forming in my stomach. The network wants a proposal. Max wants a reason to stay awake. And the Chosen One won’t even hold his hand without a signed approval from her father.
Perfect.
My room is tucked around a bend in the hallway of the East Wing, just far enough from the contestants to maintain a shred of sanity. I head there to see if the PA dropped my bags in the right spot. I’m staying on-site for the duration; commuting is a luxury I can’t afford.
The door creaks open. My suitcase is sitting on the bed. I start unpacking with mechanical efficiency, half-distracted as I dial the network.
I reach into the side pocket and pull out a jumbo box of condoms I snagged at a 24-hour pharmacy on the way here.
They were out of the reasonable sizes, so I am now the proud owner of a fifty-count variety pack for the—and I quote—Adventurous Woman.
I wouldn’t exactly call myself adventurous, but I’ve been on enough sets to know that when the cameras go off, the hormones don’t.
If I’m going to have a lapse in judgment, I’m doing it without the risk of pregnancy or a stinging medical souvenir.
I shove the box into my nightstand drawer just as the line connects.
“Heidi,” Vivian answers, her tone bright. “Off to a good start, I hope?”
I bite my tongue so hard I’m surprised I don’t taste copper. She’d conveniently glossed over the scale of the wreckage I was inheriting, but I’m in no position to call her on it. Not when I’m one month of unemployment away from selling my car.
“It’s a transition,” I say, choosing my words carefully. “I’ve just come from the cast. Grace seems very sure there’s going to be a proposal. Is there anything I should know?”
There’s a beat of silence on the other end.
“She wanted reassurance before she signed on,” Vivian says. “I don’t see it being a problem for you. Just make it feel organic.”
Because nothing says organic like falling in love with a camera in your face.
“Of course,” I say. “I’ll make it feel real but—”
“Great.”
The line clicks dead.
I stare at my phone as the screen fades to black. I want to call someone. I want to vent, to admit I’m out of my depth, or just hear a voice that isn’t trying to get something out of me.
But my contact list is a graveyard of people I don’t call anymore.
My sister, Clara, has three kids under seven; her life is a blur of school runs and soccer practice. We used to be close—I practically raised her after our parents died. But her world is full now, and mine…isn’t. I’m away on set for months at a time. It’s hard to hold onto anything that way.
The people I thought I’d keep forever have drifted. They’ve married, settled into routines—Sunday plans, group chats I’m no longer part of. No one tells you how quickly it happens. One day you turn thirty-four, and suddenly everyone’s paired off, and you’re the one left over.
Which is why I need my work. Every few months, I get a new crew—a temporary family. Long hours, fast bonds, a shared purpose. It fills the space.
At least until the wrap party, when everyone goes back to their real lives and I’m left looking for the next set.
I shove my empty suitcase under the bed and check my reflection, squaring my shoulders. I don’t have time to dwell. We’re about to film a “group cultural experience” that Vanessa organized before she was escorted off the premises, and I have a feeling it’s going to be a disaster.
In this business, “cultural experience” is usually code for putting the contestants in expensive dresses and hoping someone gets offended or drunk—or ideally, both. I need to hit the ground running. If I’m lucky, I can turn Vanessa’s circus into something that actually looks like a show.