Sasha knew the whispers had started before she even opened the bedroom door.
The villa's common room buzzed with low voices, laughter edged with spite. She walked in, all smiles, pretending not to notice the cluster of contestants huddled on the couch, their eyes darting between her and the TV screen.
The producers had replayed the Ferris wheel date on the monitors during dinner—unedited, raw footage.
And of course, it looked exactly like what they wanted it to be.
Her leaning in. Ethan staring at her like she was both temptation and sin. The near-confession hanging in the air.
It was a narrative ready-made for scandal.
"Guess some people know how to hog the spotlight," one girl muttered loudly, swirling her wine. She had the kind of practiced smile that didn't reach her eyes.
Sasha kept her own smile fixed. "What can I say? Cameras like me."
A few people laughed. A few didn't.
The quarterback-looking guy from the beach date snorted. "Yeah, but how much of that was real?"
The room quieted. Eyes turned toward her, hungry for a slip.
Sasha tilted her head, lips curving in a smirk that didn't match the thudding in her chest. "Real enough that you're asking."
The tension crackled, exactly the way producers loved it. Somewhere, she knew they were already planning how to splice this into their villain highlight reel.
Later, in the privacy of her confessional booth, the producer leaned forward, eyes gleaming. "You're on fire, Sasha. Audience will hate you in the best way. Keep pushing. Don't let up."
Sasha forced a laugh, twirling a strand of hair. "Sure. Let's make me the monster."
But when the camera light blinked off, the smirk collapsed.
Because no matter how many times she told herself it was just a role, just survival—every jab, every glare, every whispered insult from the others scraped deeper than she wanted to admit.
And worst of all, Ethan hadn't said a word in her defense.
Not on camera. Not off it.
That silence hurt more than all the scripted hate combined.