15. Heidi
HEIDI
It’s early morning. I’m hunched over the monitors with Miles, reviewing the latest cut. Specifically, Molly’s exit.
It’s wild how far the show strays from reality. To manufacture drama, you need a villain; in our case, it’s Molly and Delaney. We don’t put words in their mouths, but we’re certainly not giving them the Grace Whitmore Edit.
In person, Grace is stiff, cold, and the source of every judgmental comment on set. At tennis yesterday, she told me I have no signs of athleticism but followed it up by saying I shouldn’t worry, because I “look like the type to gain muscle in my thighs.”
But in our timeline? She’s a sweetheart. We’ve buried her insults and highlighted every frame where she looks like a victim. The audience won’t see the real Grace. They’ll see a poised, elegant woman pushed to her limit.
Molly and Delaney get the opposite treatment.
They’re bratty, sure, but they’re not cruel.
It doesn’t matter. We’re leaning into every catty remark and stretching their pauses just long enough to make them look malicious.
A simple eye-roll becomes a declaration of war once Miles slides the frames into place.
I feel a familiar, low-grade guilt watching the character assassination, but I remind myself they’re getting exactly what they signed up for: attention.
In this business, nice is a death sentence. The sweet girls are forgotten before the reunion special even airs, filtered out of the public consciousness the moment the cameras stop rolling. It’s the villains who linger. They’re the ones who get the brand deals, the spin-offs, and the longevity.
I’m not ruining their reputations; I’m making them relevant. At least, that’s what I tell myself so I can sleep at night.
“Can I see the raw footage?” I ask, leaning closer to the monitor.
Miles pulls up the dinner scene. In the current cut—the one the world will see—Grace remarks on how lovely the fish is. Molly rolls her eyes, whispers “Stuck-up cow,” and later, when Grace mentions her date with Max, Molly storms off in a fit of jealous rage. Molly looks completely unhinged.
Then Miles hits a key, and the truth plays out in the raw file. It tells a completely different story.
Grace isn’t talking about the fish. She’s leaning toward Molly. “Molly,” she whispers, her eyes tracking the way Molly’s fingers wrap around her wine glass, “you hold it by the stem. Otherwise, you look like a primate.”
Molly takes it on the chin. Her cheeks flush as she adjusts her grip.
Grace doesn’t stop. “And in the real world, we use the salad fork for the greens, not the entrée. But I suppose when you’re used to burgers in a plastic basket, the nuance is lost.”
That’s when Molly whispers “Stuck-up cow.”
Molly’s exit is even worse. In reality, Molly is enthusiastically sharing a story about her pageant days, her face lit up. Grace waits for the beat, rolls her eyes, and sighs, “All that effort, and you only got second place.”
You can actually see Molly’s face shatter. Her eyes well up as Grace hits the exact nerve she was aiming for—Molly’s fear that she’ll never be quite good enough. Molly storms out, sobbing, and the camera captures every second of the breakdown.
“I think we’ve pulled this off,” Miles says with a satisfied grin. “Grace is going to be the most popular lead we’ve ever had.”
I stay silent, watching the replay of Molly’s face as she breaks. By cutting Grace’s insults, we’re removing the reason for the outburst and just keeping the explosion. It’s effective editing, but it’s also a really crappy thing to do. And I’m the one signing off on it.
After finishing with Miles, I head to the house to check in on the girls. It’s time to start planning the hometown visits. It’s the final stage where the audience gets to see if the couples actually work in the real world.
I take a breath outside the suites, square my shoulders, and knock on the first door. Delaney is at the vanity, of course. She’s meticulously reapplying lipgloss, looking ready for a gala even though it’s barely morning.
I catch her eye in the mirror. “Just checking in. How are you feeling about everything?”
She turns, her smile smug and perfectly practiced. “Honestly? I feel like I’ve already won. The rest is just paperwork.”
I blink, my mind flashing back to the edit I just finished. The one where she and Max have zero chemistry. “That’s a confident stance. What makes you so sure?”
“He told me, remember? On that stupid picnic date.”
“Oh…right,” I say. In retrospect, it’s glaringly obvious Max was talking about me, but she has no way of knowing that.
“And yesterday, during the group date,” she continues. “When he was talking to Grace about her charity work, he caught my eye. He was signaling to me that he was bored, that he wished he was with me instead. It was a cry for help.”
I stay silent. I remember that moment from the raw footage. Max hadn’t been signaling to Delaney; he’d been looking past her to see if I was watching.
“A man like Max doesn’t want someone boring like Grace,” Delaney says, her tone dipping into condescension. “He wants a partner who can hold her own. He’s just playing the game right now to keep you producers happy. He basically told me as much.”
“He told you that?”
“Well, not in those exact words,” she admits, waving a hand dismissively. “But he told me my dress was ‘unforgettable.’ That’s code. A man doesn’t call a dress unforgettable unless he’s thinking about taking it off.”
I bite my tongue to keep from correcting her. Unforgettable is Max’s go-to filler for when he’s stopped paying attention and needs a safe, generic compliment to fill the silence.
Part of me wonders if I’m the delusional one. Maybe there’s a side to their conversations I haven’t seen, some spark of genuine interest that justifies this.
“What is it you like about Max?” I ask. I’m not just asking for the show; I’m asking for myself.
Delaney pauses, her gloss-slicked lips parted. “Well, that’s obvious, isn’t it?”
I wait, keeping my expression neutral, but she struggles for an answer. She searches the air for a personality trait that isn’t printed on the show’s promotional posters.
“He’s...” she starts, then trails off. “He’s powerful. He has this...presence. When he walks into a room, you just know he’s the one in charge.”
I watch her. She doesn’t know him at all.
“And he’s very good looking,” she finally adds, as if that’s a romantic quality.
“He is,” I agree. “We’re filming the home visits next week. Your family is ready?”
A knot tightens in my stomach. Knowing she’s the next one slated for elimination makes the question feel cruel, but I have to maintain the illusion. If her exit is going to land with the audience, it has to be a blindside. She can’t suspect a thing.
“My family can’t wait.” She turns back to the mirror, adjusting her hair as if the win is already a done deal.
I watch her reflection for a second too long, the weight of her villain edit presses down on me. She’s obnoxious, sure, but she’s still a person.
In the next room, I find Grace alone. She tells me Colette is outside meditating, and I’m more than happy to leave her to it. Grace is sitting by the window, her posture perfect as she stares out at the grounds.
“Grace, how are things?” I ask, leaning against the doorframe.
“Perfect,” she says, without looking at me.
“We have the hometown visits coming up next week. We should really start—”
“I’m not doing the family segment.” She turns to face me, her expression stone-cold. “It’s off the table.”
“It’s in your contract, Grace.”
“Then take it out.”
“The family visit is the backbone of the finale,” I say, trying to maintain my professional patience. “Without it, the audience won’t connect. It’s non-negotiable for the winner.”
“Then find a way to negotiate it. My father thinks I’m at a wellness retreat in Barbados. He cannot know about this—any of it.”
I struggle to find the logic. In a few weeks, her face will be plastered on every digital billboard from here to the East Coast. Unless her father lives under a rock, there’s no way he won’t find out.
“And when exactly were you planning to tell him? At the wedding?”
She lifts her chin. “I’ll tell him once the ring’s on my finger.
He won’t care about the lie when he sees the result.
” She looks back out the window. “Max is a Carter. He’s probably the only man under fifty my father would ever respect me marrying.
Trust me, it’s a massive upgrade from the men he’s been suggesting. ”
Is that why she’s here? So she’s not forced to marry someone else?
I can’t help myself. I’m not asking for production, I just want to figure her out.
“Grace, why do you think Max is here?” I ask.
“Because he’s a Carter. He understands legacy, and he understands that a woman like me is the only logical choice to maintain it.
” She turns to me, her eyes vacant. “Max is here for the same reason I am: to satisfy a requirement. He needs a wife who won’t embarrass him, and I need a name that protects me. It’s a clean trade.”
“Right,” I say.
She’s completely wrong, but I can hardly tell her that. I shove the guilt aside to focus on the logistics. This late in the season, we’ve exhausted every angle. We need the hometown visits to breathe life back into the show.
Without Grace’s family, I’m left with a massive hole in the schedule. I can’t sell her as the winner if the audience doesn’t see where she comes from; the finale loses its stakes. And if I remove the visits, I’ll have an entire episode to fill.
“Okay,” I say, dropping into my problem-solving voice. “You don’t want your father finding out. We can work around that. We’ll rent a place for the day. We’ll bring in your mother for a quick lunch. We’ll show her—”
“That isn’t an option,” she says.
“We need a maternal figure. If your father is out, your mother is the only—”
“My mother is unavailable,” she interrupts. She takes a slow, steadying breath. “We have a strained relationship. By which I mean, I don’t know which continent she’s currently haunting, and she certainly wouldn’t fly back to play-act a happy home for a camera crew. Not for me, anyway.”
I look at her, holding herself together so well, and the guilt doubles. This is a problem I can’t fix with a clever edit. I want to tell her we can pivot, but I can’t.
“I hear you. But if we don’t have a hometown visit for the frontrunner, the finale collapses.”
Grace shakes her head.
“Alright,” I say. “Then the winner is Colette. Delaney will be our runner up.”
Grace’s head snaps up. “You can’t do that. Vanessa promised me—”
“Vanessa doesn’t run this show. I do,” I counter, my voice steady. “Colette is a great option for Max. She brings out a side of him the audience will love. If you can’t give me a finale, I’ll get to work re-editing to make it Colette.”
I start for the door, hating myself with every step. I’m almost at the handle when her voice stops me.
“Wait.”
I stop, but I don’t turn around.
“The only thing my father would hate more than me being on this show,” she says, “is me leaving it without a ring.”
I turn slowly. She isn’t looking at me; she’s staring at her hands, gripped tightly in her lap.
“He won’t be happy,” she says quietly. “He’ll think I’ve lowered myself. Could you…could you call him? Explain why it’s necessary? I can’t do it.”
Her voice breaks, and I feel like the worst person in the world. I’ve backed her into a corner where she only has two options, and both of them are disasters.
“Yeah,” I say, my voice softening. “I can call him. I’ll handle it.”
The relief that washes over her is almost painful to watch. For the first time, I feel like I’m looking at a real person. Part of me wishes she would criticize my hair or snap at me, anything to make me stop feeling this guilt.
Grace types her father’s number into my phone, looking torn between staying to oversee the call or running to hide. In the end, she retreats to her bed, turning her back to me. I step into the hallway and hit dial. It rings twice.
“Whitmore,” a voice rumbles.
“Mr. Whitmore, my name is Heidi Langford. I’m the Executive Producer for The One—the production your daughter is currently filming.”
The silence on the other end is absolute.
“My daughter is in Barbados,” he says eventually. His tone is clipped, like he’s daring me to call him a liar. I ignore it.
“I’m calling because we are approaching the final stages. Max Carter is very serious about Grace. We’re looking at a proposal. He’s requested a meeting at your home. On camera.”
“Max Carter,” he says, as if testing the name for its market value. I can practically hear him running a mental spreadsheet. The silence stretches for a full, agonizing minute. Finally, he grunts. “Hmm.”
“We would like to film at your home next week,” I say.
The silence on the other end is so heavy I find myself checking the screen to see if the call dropped. It hasn’t. He’s just letting me wait.
“If a single frame of my home looks like a circus, Miss Langford, I will buy your production company just for the pleasure of firing you myself.”
“I would expect nothing less,” I reply.
The line goes dead. No goodbye. Just the dial tone.
I take a moment to steady my hands before pushing the door back open. Grace is exactly where I left her. When she looks up, her eyes are wide.
“He said yes,” I tell her. “But he didn’t give much away.”
She nods, but she doesn’t look relieved. If anything, she looks worse.
“Grace—”
“I’d like to be alone now.” She turns away, dismissing me before I can say anything else.
I watch her for a moment. I’ve given her exactly what she asked for, her father’s permission. But as I walk out and close the door, I don’t feel like I’ve helped her.
I feel like I’ve just handed a prisoner over to her executioner.