The rules of the show were simple: couples formed quickly, or they risked being eliminated.
That morning, the producers arranged a sunny beach picnic for the contestants. The idea was to capture flirtation, laughter, the spark of first connections. In other words, Sasha's job was to storm in and light a match.
She hated herself already.
"Remember," Gloria whispered before cameras started rolling, adjusting Sasha's blouse like a stage mom. "Interrupt someone. Smile while you do it. And if you can piss off the girl and the guy at the same time? Gold."
Sasha wanted to crawl into the sand and disappear. But then the director shouted "Action!" and her actress mask slipped into place like muscle memory.
On the shoreline, two contestants sat under a striped umbrella, sharing grapes and leaning closer with every giggle. The girl, all bronzed skin and perfect teeth, was exactly the kind of sweetheart audiences adored. The guy looked like a football quarterback dipped in cologne.
Sasha plastered on her brightest smile and strutted toward them.
"Mind if I crash?" she sang out.
Both pairs of eyes snapped up, annoyed in stereo.
"Actually," the girl began, voice tight—
"Great!" Sasha cut her off, plopping down between them before either could object. She grabbed a grape, popped it into her mouth, and winked at the cameras. "Don't mind if I do."
The guy chuckled, half-confused, half-entertained. The girl's jaw clenched.
Perfect. The producers would eat this up.
Still, Sasha felt the sour twist in her stomach as she prattled on about nothing, hijacking the conversation. Every laugh sounded fake in her own ears. Every flick of her hair felt like armor.
And then, from across the sand, she caught sight of Ethan.
He stood near the waterline with another contestant, listening politely as she spoke. But his eyes—his eyes weren't on his date.
They were on Sasha.
The same unreadable stare as yesterday. Cool. Assessing. Unflinching.
Her pulse jumped.
Sasha quickly turned back to her unfortunate "victims," tossing her hair and stealing another grape, playing the part she'd signed on for. But under the table of her performance, her chest ached.
She could fool the cameras. She could fool the audience.
But Ethan Hale?
Not a chance.
Later, in the production tent, the directors were already celebrating.
"She's perfect," one said, replaying Sasha's dramatic interruption on a monitor. "Villain edit material, day one. The audience is going to loathe her."
"Good," the showrunner replied, smirking. "Loathe is engagement. And engagement is money."
None of them noticed Ethan lingering just outside the tent, jaw tight as he overheard every word.
And for the first time, the idea of Sasha being the villain didn't sit right with him.
Not right at all.