The villa lounge was staged to perfection. Plush white couches, bowls of untouched fruit, and candles flickering just bright enough to look romantic on camera.
But Sasha didn't miss the setup. She never did.
The producers had arranged the seating chart like a chessboard—her and Chelsea facing each other dead-center, everyone else fanned out like spectators at a prize fight.
The cameras hovered. Waiting.
"So," the host began with his signature grin, "let's talk about last night's footage. Some… sparks flew."
A ripple of laughter moved through the group. All eyes darted between Sasha and Chelsea.
Chelsea leaned back, legs crossed, every inch of her radiating confidence. "I mean, it's obvious, isn't it? Sasha's here to play a role. To stir the pot. And hey—no judgment. Some of us are here for love. Some of us are here for screen time."
Gasps and giggles.
Sasha's nails dug into her palm. She knew the smart move: laugh it off, toss a quip, let the edit make her the villain. Again.
But the memory of Ethan's voice from last night clawed at her. You're letting them tell you who you are.
Not this time.
She leaned forward, eyes locked on Chelsea. "Funny thing about screen time. You don't get it unless people actually care what you're doing."
The room hushed. A few contestants exchanged wide-eyed glances.
Chelsea's smile faltered. Just slightly.
"Careful," she said smoothly. "People might start thinking you're desperate."
"Or maybe," Sasha countered, voice steady, "they'll think I'm the only one not pretending."
That landed. Even the cameras seemed to lean closer.
Chelsea's mask slipped for a fraction of a second, frustration flashing in her eyes. The producers would eat this up—the perfect rivalry, their villain finally fighting back.
But for Sasha, it wasn't about them anymore. It wasn't about winning or surviving the edit.
It was about proving, to herself more than anyone, that she could still fight.
When the session ended, the room buzzed with tension. The other contestants avoided her gaze, torn between fear and fascination. Chelsea stormed off, her heels clicking like gunfire.
And across the room, Ethan watched her—expression unreadable, but his clenched fists told her everything.
He wasn't just watching a performance.
He was watching her.