The next challenge was supposed to be fun.
At least, that's what the producers promised. A "friendly" cooking competition in the villa's gleaming kitchen, pairs racing to whip up the most Instagrammable meal while the cameras captured every giggle, spill, and stolen taste.
Sasha already knew better. Nothing on this show was ever friendly.
She tied her apron tight, brushing a strand of hair from her face. Her assigned partner? Not Ethan. Not someone neutral. No—she'd been paired with Chelsea, the bronzed beauty from the beach date, whose smile was sharper than the knives laid out on the counter.
Perfect casting. Perfect chaos.
The cameras rolled. The timer started. Sasha grabbed a cutting board, determined to get through the hour without bloodshed.
But Chelsea had other plans.
"You know," Chelsea said sweetly, dicing onions with surgical precision, "it's funny how much screen time you're getting already. Like, some of us came here for love, not to audition for Villain of the Year."
A microphone picked up every word.
Sasha's chest tightened, but she smiled, tossing vegetables into the pan with exaggerated flair. "Well, what can I say? Not everyone's cut out for background roles."
A few contestants nearby snickered. The cameras zoomed closer.
Chelsea's smile thinned. "Background roles, huh? Maybe that's why Ethan looked so bored with you on the Ferris wheel. Guess history really does repeat itself."
The words hit like a slap.
Sasha's spatula froze midair. The room went still, tension coiling like a spring. Every contestant pretended to focus on their dish, but their ears strained toward her response.
She could feel the cameras feasting on her. The producers' dream moment.
She wanted to lash out, to slice Chelsea down with something cruel enough to trend for weeks. But then—out of the corner of her eye—she caught Ethan watching.
Not with the cool detachment he'd worn for days. Not with scorn. But with something harder to name.
Sasha forced a smirk and dropped the spatula back into the pan. "If I'm so boring, Chelsea, maybe stop talking about me and start seasoning your chicken. Hate to see you lose on national television."
A sharp laugh rippled through the kitchen. Even a cameraman chuckled.
Chelsea's glare could have burned through steel.
But Sasha didn't care. For once, the armor felt steady. For once, she hadn't let the script swallow her whole.
What she did care about—what terrified her—was the flicker in Ethan's eyes.
Because it didn't look like disdain anymore.
It looked like pride.