3. Heidi
HEIDI
This has to be a setup. Maybe I’m the victim of a prank reality show I didn’t sign up for.
The call sheet lists the cultural experience as a massage workshop: a study in trust and physical communication through the lens of Eastern healing.
What it actually is? Max lying on a table in a too-small towel while the women take turns hovering over him with scented oil.
They’re guided by an instructor who keeps saying things like “touch with intention” and “let the energy travel.”
Max’s playful mask finally slips. His entire body goes rigid, his muscles locking under her hands like he’s prepping for impact. He looks straight at me, his eyes wide in a silent, desperate plea for an intervention.
“Cut,” I call.
The women start to disperse, peeling off toward the shaded setup along the sidelines, but the instructor’s hands are still on Max, drifting dangerously close to the edge of the towel. I step in, reaching down and firmly taking her by the wrist.
“I think we’ve seen enough of the fundamentals,” I say.
She gives me a sheepish grin and retreats to her table of oils, leaving a trail of lavender scent in her wake.
I look down at Max. He exhales a long breath, though he stays pinned to the table.
For a split second, the mask is still off.
Then he looks up at me, and his eyes sparkle with a playful glint that tells me he’s already recovered from the near-miss.
“Careful, Freckles,” he says, his voice low enough to stay off the boom mic. “If you keep jumping in like that, people are going to think you’re being territorial.”
There he goes. It’s the same low-effort junk he says to every woman with a pulse.
“Next time, I’ll leave her to it.”
He gives me a slow grin. My eyes betray me, dropping to the planes of his stomach. His abs are slick with oil, every muscle carved in sharp, unforgiving detail under the afternoon sun. The light traces the deep V that disappears beneath the towel, and for a second, my brain stalls.
“Don’t worry,” he says, catching my gaze. “There’s plenty of me to go around. You don’t have to fight the centenarians for a piece.”
God, he lays it on thick.
“You look like a rotisserie chicken,” I snap. “I wouldn’t touch you with a ten-foot pole and a hazmat suit.”
“That’s not what your eyes are saying,” he murmurs.
He thinks he’s having an effect on me. He absolutely isn’t.
I smooth my shirt with hands that are suddenly, annoyingly uncoordinated, and snap back to myself.
“Alright, we’re pivoting,” I announce to the crew, projecting a confidence I’m not feeling. I give the instructor a tight, final nod. “Thank you for your time. We’re making some adjustments to suit broadcast standards. Everyone, reset for the next beat!”
I glance at the contestants. They look even less impressed than I am—especially Grace, whose expression suggests she’s already drafting a complaint to the network.
“Let’s pull it back,” I continue, my voice gaining authority as the plan forms in real-time. “New setup. Everyone stays fully clothed. One at a time, you’ll sit across from Max. You’ll each ask him a question. Something honest. Something that gets us past the surface.”
Now I have their attention. I wave Marissa, the field producer, over.
“Marissa, help them brainstorm. Nothing too heavy. No trauma dumps or childhood scars. But we need a glimpse of the real Max.”
I regret the words as soon as they leave my mouth. I’m not sure the network wants the real Max, and I’m even less sure he exists. But as I catch him watching me, I wonder if there’s a version of him that isn’t just a collection of insufferable playboy archetypes.
“And I’ll help you,” I say to Max. “With your questions.”
“Sure. Just feed me the lines,” he says.
I ignore the attitude, stepping closer so the conversation stays between us.
“Ask them about real things. What they want out of life. Their five-year plan. You know, the kind of things you’d learn on a third date.” I pause, tilting my head. “You have made it to a third date before…haven’t you?”
Max lets out a short, incredulous huff. “Have you? Who talks about five-year plans on a date?”
“You think of something then, or I can always call the instructor back over to finish what she started.”
That shuts him up. His eyes flicker toward the instructor—who is currently reapplying oil to her palms with terrifying enthusiasm—and he pales a shade.
Ten minutes later, Max is decent in a crisp white linen shirt. Molly is up first. She sits opposite him on the outdoor lounge, clutching a velvet pillow over her lap to compensate for the shortness of her dress.
“Just hold hands. And look at each other,” I call out from behind the monitor.
Max hesitates before he reaches out and links his fingers with hers. Molly beams, gazing at him with wide, hopeful eyes.
We film that for a few minutes until both of them are losing focus, and then I tell Molly to ask her question.
“If you could be reincarnated as anything,” she asks, her voice breathless, “what would you come back as?”
Max doesn’t skip a beat. “Something small, quiet, and battery-powered.”
A few crew members snort. Molly giggles on a three-second delay, she clearly doesn’t get it.
“Cut,” I bark, stalking onto the set with my arms crossed. Max stays put, blinking up at me with a look of total, manufactured innocence. “You think the audience is going to find that funny?”
“I was just being honest,” he says, his tone far too calm. “But you tell me. What should I want to be?”
“Literally anything that doesn’t require a ‘discreet shipping’ label. Reset.”
I head back to my spot and I find myself nervously chewing on the end of my pen. It’s going to be a long shoot if Max keeps trying to be funny.
We start recording again and Molly repeats the question.
“A blue fountain pen,” Max says smoothly.
I slowly take the pen out of my mouth. Max glances at the camera like a child testing exactly how much he can get away with.
“My turn,” Max continues, as he squeezes Molly’s hands. “What’s your safe word? Mine is—”
“Cut!” I’m already moving. “Take five, everyone. Max, with me.”
I lead him down the gravel path until we’re out of earshot. I turn on him. “What was that? This is a family dating show. I need usable footage that doesn’t make my lead look like a predator.”
“I told you, if you want me to be your puppet, you’ve got to motivate me.”
“I’m not a mind reader, Max. What do you want?” I ask.
“I want someone I can actually talk to. A group of women who aren’t total airheads.”
“Don’t talk about them like—”
“They’re airheads, and I’m not interested,” he counters. “My contract says I have to participate. It doesn’t say I have to care.”
I pause for a second. I need to get this under control. I need to manage him.
“Look, I get it. Faking it is exhausting. But we’re stuck here, and if you keep this up, the only thing you’re going to find at the end of this is a very expensive breach-of-contract lawsuit.”
“You’ll have to do better than that. My brother’s the best lawyer in the state. Any suit you file would be dead before it hit the clerk’s desk.”
Crap. That would have been good to know.
I think fast. He’s been in the mansion for three weeks now. That’s usually when the novelty wears off and the isolation starts to creep in.
“How about a phone call? Make it through today without a single innuendo or crossed line,” I say, “and I’ll authorize ten minutes. Supervised.”
The smirk mutes. His eyes narrow, calculating the value of the offer.
“Fifteen minutes,” he says.
“Ten. Final offer. And you’ll thank me for the privilege.”
He grins. “You’re on. Casanova’s back.”
He turns toward the set, his stride full of that irritating, effortless swagger.
“Let’s aim for Prince Charming,” I call after him.
Late that night, I’m in the control room with Miles, both of us half-asleep in front of the monitors.
Somehow, we got usable footage today. When Max feels like it, he can turn it on: charming, quick, with just enough vulnerability to please the cameras.
The girls ate it up. Even Grace smiled at him once. I count that as a minor miracle.
The new format played well. It gave the day shape, cut the chaos, and made Max look like he actually cared.
Now we’re storyboarding the rest of the season, rebuilding it from the inside out.
We strip out the worst of the manufactured drama and start over where we can.
I’ll have Max reshoot his exit interviews for the eliminated girls.
Instead of him saying they’re insane or socially taxing, he’ll just say he didn’t feel a spark. We can work with that.
Looking at who’s left, it’s messy but manageable. I start planning potential arcs for them. More importantly, I start thinking about how I can get Max to fall for Grace in the next five weeks.
It shouldn’t be too hard. She’s a little opinionated, sure, but she’s stunning.
Miles and I keep glancing at the phone. Waiting.
The new cut of the first episode has been with the network for four hours now.
It’s passable. There’s no fistfights or flying glass.
Max even manages a few flashes of charm, just enough to fake sincerity.
It isn’t brilliant, but it isn’t embarrassing.
Finally, the phone rings. I slap it onto speaker.
Vivian’s voice crackles through. “We watched it.”
I hold my breath.
“It’s…fine.”
“Fine,” I say cautiously.
“It’s boring. You’ve killed the drama, sure, but now there’s nothing else.”
I can’t argue with her. She’s not wrong. But if she saw the footage we’re working with—
“We’re going to need to reshoot the opener,” she continues. “Give people something to talk about. Bring back a few of the cut girls. The fiery one—Lia? Or Sienna. She threw something, right?”
“No.”
“Excuse me?”
“I’m not bringing anyone back. That’ll just blow everything up again.”
“Heidi—”
“You want a good season? I’ll give you one. But it’s going to come from story.” I hear myself say it and start building the pitch in real-time. “A love triangle.”
Vivian exhales. “Go on.”
“We do some reshoots for the first episode to focus on two standouts. Grace and…Colette. Grace is aspirational. She’s who every woman wishes they could be.
But she’s guarded. Cold on camera. So we introduce Colette as her foil.
Emotional, intuitive, full of heart. She draws something out of Max that Grace doesn’t. They’re opposites.”
I lean into the mic. “It’s the perfect choice versus the unlikely connection. The audience splits. Team Grace or Team Colette. And Max? He looks like a man being pulled in two directions. Head versus heart.”
“But Grace has to win.”
“That’s where we get them,” I say. “We make it feel like it’s Colette the whole time. She’s warm, present, emotionally available—viewers connect with that. But in the end, it’s Grace. That’s the twist.”
I pause to let that settle.
“We blindside them, but it will be earned. Grace will be the quiet winner. Toward the end, we start to show the cracks. Colette’s worldview—the spirituality, the crystals—it’s romantic early on. Later, we frame it as incompatible.”
I tap the desk, already visualizing the edit.
“We’ll have a dinner scene where Max looks confused or zones out while Colette’s talking.
He’s trying, but he doesn’t always follow what she’s saying.
With just a couple of moments like that, the tone shifts.
Suddenly she isn’t the one who understands him; she’s the one he can’t connect with.
But who can he connect with? Grace. The girl who comes from his world. The one who really gets him.”
Miles gives me a thumbs up. Vivian is quiet for a long beat.
“Make it work,” she says, and hangs up.
That’s a yes.
I sit back and breathe.
“Now, I just need to pull it off,” I say.
Miles turns back to his screen and sighs. “You and me both.”