4. Max
MAX
I’m lying on Heidi’s bed, which feels like a line I shouldn’t cross, but she said I’d get a phone call if I behaved today. I behaved. And then she vanished.
I don’t know how long I’ve been here because they don’t let us have watches or phones.
That’s the whole thing—no clocks, no tether to reality.
Just this crummy mansion that’s practically falling apart.
I’m not allowed near the control room or the normal people.
Just recorded, supervised time with these women who are putting on an act the entire time.
There’s nothing to do around here except work out, make awkward small talk with the crew, and fix things.
I’ve been swiping tools from wherever I can find them just to stay sane.
The shower valve in my room was reversed—scalding when you want cold, freezing when you want hot—so I fixed it. The ensuite door kept sticking, so I tightened the hinges and adjusted the latch. Now it shuts clean.
I’ve started noticing everything. A loose cabinet hinge in the kitchen. A crooked light switch. Tiny things, but they get under my skin.
I was doing the same at home. Since I left real estate, things have been quiet. I’ve been fixing up my apartment just to keep my hands busy—re-caulking, resealing, replacing things that don’t need replacing. It’s not really about the repairs. It’s the focus.
There’s something satisfying about putting things back where they belong—especially when the rest of life feels like smoke and mirrors.
The cabinet in here catches my eye. One of the doors is sagging. I turn away just as the door swings open.
Heidi steps in, and flinches when she sees me.
“There you are,” I say.
Her face does something quick—irritation, confusion, something else—and then smooths.
“What are you doing in here?”
“I was promised a phone call.”
“So you just let yourself in?”
I shrug. “Door wasn’t locked.”
She closes it now.
She isn’t a fan. That was clear the second she laid eyes on me. She looks at me like I’m something she stepped in. Still, it’s better than the way the way everyone else looks at me, like I’m a winning lottery ticket.
Heidi walks over, hands on her hips. She’s in high-waisted trousers and a white blouse, looking like she belongs in a boardroom while the rest of the crew are in T-shirts and jeans.
“My call?” I ask.
She exhales and tosses her phone onto the bed.
I sit up, reaching for it, but I freeze when I catch the time on the screen. It’s after midnight.
Shit.
I was going to call Dean. Maybe Henry. But they have kids and wives who sleep light, and I’m not waking up a whole household for a late-night spiral.
Besides, I can’t even tell them what the problem is.
I signed an NDA. They’ll find out the same time as everyone else when the episodes drop, but until then, I’m gagged.
I scroll through names in my head, looking for an alternative, and realize there isn’t one.
There used to be people—friends from school, guys I grew up with, a few women who always picked up. But they peeled off over the years. They got married, got mortgages, got serious.
What would I even say?
“Didn’t realize it was this late,” I say, easing back onto the mattress.
“It is late.” Heidi’s eyes flick toward the door.
I ignore the hint. “You always wound this tight?”
“Yes,” she says without hesitation. “Now get out.”
“You know, millions of women applied for the chance to have me in their bed.” I give her an amused smile.
“First of all, they didn’t know it was you when they applied. Second, I’m not one of them.”
Usually, the charm works. With her, nothing. She watches it land like it’s predictable, and not worth her time.
“Can I use my time to browse then?” I ask, leaning back on my elbows. I try to make it look like I’m settling in, but the bravado feels a little thinner than it did a minute ago.
She narrows her eyes. “Browse what?”
“News. Politics. Whatever’s happening in the world I’m currently banned from.”
She considers it for a beat.
“I’d bet my salary you’re just going to search your own name,” she says. “But fine. You were good today. I appreciate that.”
“Careful, Freckles,” I say. “That almost sounded like a compliment.”
She ignores me and grabs a towel from the dresser.
“I’m going to shower. No calls while I’m not listening. If you contact anyone, you’ll be sued into oblivion. And you better be gone before I get out.”
She disappears into the ensuite, and the shower kicks on a second later.
I look at the phone. If I’m going to be under her thumb for the next five weeks, I need to know who I’m dealing with.
I search her name. I expect a dry professional profile or a few production credits, but the first hit is a news headline that makes me whistle.
The Producer Behind the Lie: How Heidi Langford Built a Hero Out of a Fraud.
I scroll past a photo of a sweet-faced grandma in a cardigan—apparently a pension-thieving shark—to the commentary on Heidi.
It’s brutal. Calling her a career-hungry opportunist who traded the truth for profit.
The implication is clear. Heidi knew the old lady was guilty and sold her innocence as a story for fame.
I frown, trying to reconcile the manipulator in the article with the woman who spent all day protecting the integrity of a dating show.
I scroll further and find a photo from a few years back. Some awards gala. She won something for a documentary she did on sweatshops. I pause on the image.
She’s smiling so wide it’s almost clumsy, showing a bit of her gums—a messy, un-curated look that’s nothing like the narrow-eyed producer in the other room. It’s the kind of expression that takes over a whole face. Her freckles are everywhere, a chaotic dusting across her nose and cheeks.
I find myself staring at it for way longer than I should. I don’t move. I just lie there with the phone in my hand, studying the curve of her mouth and the way her eyes crinkle at the corners. It feels like the first real, unscripted thing I’ve seen in years.
I can’t seem to look away from her.
I have this sudden, sharp urge to keep digging. I want to solve her. I want to know which Heidi is the real one: the career-hungry shark, the uptight producer, or the woman smiling in the photo.
The shower cuts off.
I quickly search my own name and pull up an old shot from a DJ set in Prague. One where the lighting is perfect and my abs are on full display. I leave the phone face-up on her pillow and slip out of the room before the bathroom door opens.
Just a little something to remember me by.
Back in my room, I drop onto the bed and stare at the ceiling. The silence in my room is a total vacuum.
It took me all of thirty minutes to realize I’d walked into a trap.
Vanessa’s pitch about “scientific matches” was total fiction, and I’d been just desperate enough to buy it.
The last couple of years, the idea of settling down started to sound less like a prison sentence and more like something I actually want.
But the women in this town aren’t normal; they’re always pitching for something. I thought removing my name from the equation and relying on the compatibility testing would help. I thought it would lead me to someone who saw me instead of the name and the bank account.
But no. It’s just more of the same. A different script, but the same hungry look in their eyes.
I roll onto my side and squeeze my eyes shut, but sleep is a no-show. Instead, my brain keeps projecting that photo of Heidi onto the back of my eyelids. Her crinkled eyes, her head tilted back, the raw, unpolished joy.
She’s going to be a nightmare to work with, but I’m strangely glad she’s the one in charge. Vanessa was starting to make my skin crawl. She was getting handsy.
I don’t think Heidi would ever willingly touch me. In fact, she’d probably break my fingers if I even reached for her.
I stare into the dark. It’s a lot easier to trust a woman who clearly can’t stand you.
I’m up before the sun, burning through an hour of weight lifting before moving to the basketball court. I take a shot…and miss.
I’m jogging after the ball when I hear her voice. It’s clipped, professional, and irritated. Heidi rounds the corner with her phone pressed to her ear, moving with purpose.
She’s in high-waisted black trousers and a crisp light blue blouse today, her hair pulled back into a tight knot. Dark sunglasses hide whatever she’s thinking, but the set of her jaw says she’s already fighting a fire.
“Morning, Freckles,” I call out.
She stops, finishes her sentence on the phone, and hangs up before looking at me. “Don’t call me that. We’re filming on the balcony today. It’s all terracotta up there, so dress accordingly.”
I bounce the ball twice, watching her. “No balconies. I don’t do heights.”
She doesn’t miss a beat. “Don’t you live in a high-rise?”
“You stalking me? I’m flattered,” I say.
“It’s a guess based on your tax bracket.” She taps her clipboard with a rhythmic, impatient thwack. “The balcony has the best light. It’s non-negotiable. Be there at ten.”
A cold prickle starts at the base of my spine. I hate heights, always have. Looking at her, I wonder if she’s truly the ruthless producer from the articles—the kind of person who would force a man with a genuine phobia into a corner just to get the right shot.
I want to find out.
“I don’t have a balcony at home,” I say. “No open air.”
She presses her lips together, her jaw setting as she weighs the production schedule against my attitude. For a second, I’m sure she’s going to bark an order and walk away. Then, she bites the inside of her cheek and sighs.
“Fine. We’ll move the set to the courtyard. I trust you’ll behave today to make up for the hour of labor you just cost me?”
A small part of me relaxes. Not just because I’m staying on the ground, but because she didn’t push.
I like that.
“How about a wager?” I say, spinning the ball to hide the fact that my hands are a little unsteady. “You make a shot, and I’m a perfect gentleman. You miss, and I get to be a problem.”
She looks at the hoop and shrugs, like I’m a mildly annoying fly.
“Fine.”
She steps up and eyes the basket. Right as she releases the ball, I can’t help myself.
“Don’t miss.”
The ball clanks off the rim.
“Really?” she says.
“A deal’s a deal,” I shrug, walking closer until I’m in her personal space. “Guess I have to be difficult today. Such a shame.”
I give her the look. The one with the heat, the one that makes the fans forget their own names. She just stares at me like she’s wondering how a person can be so fundamentally exhausting.
“That’s fine,” she says. “I’ve worked with toddlers before. They usually follow directions better, but I’ll manage.”
“I can follow directions,” I snap, my ego prickling.
“Great. Pick Colette for the one-on-one tomorrow.”
I nearly choke. “No. Absolutely not. Colette saged my shoes yesterday. I smelled like a burning forest. And she tried to read my palm during dinner. I’m not spending three hours with her.”
Heidi fixes a look at me, and for a split second, I see the ruthless producer from the headlines. Her eyes are cold and calculating.
“She’s in your top two,” she says. “The audience will love the contrast. She’s the spiritual mystery, you’re the irritating playboy. It’s the texture this show is currently missing.”
“Look, the only one worse than Colette is Molly. It doesn’t say anywhere in my contract—”
“I’m giving it to you straight because I thought you’d prefer the truth,” she says.
“This date is happening whether you like it or not. But if you’d rather I manipulate you instead?
Fine. I can script a few ‘incidental’ moments and have you thinking the whole thing was your idea by lunch. Is that what you want?”
She’s done with me before I can even reply. I watch her walk away, disappearing toward the equipment trucks.
I should be annoyed. My contract doesn’t say anything about being forced to choose who they tell me to. I should be calling Will to get me out of this, but I’m stuck on her. I’ve never met anyone who dared to tell me to my face exactly how they were going to break me.
It makes me curious.
She might want to play god with my life, but I’m not going to play along. I watch the basketball roll slowly toward the edge of the court. She’s about to find out I’m a very uncooperative deity.