Sasha's pulse thundered in her ears as she slipped back from the cracked office door.
Elimination arc.
It wasn't just that they'd cut her rawest moment into a punchline—it was that her exit was already planned. Every scene, every smirk, every insult had been one step toward her downfall.
Her entire story had been written without her.
By the time she reached her room, her hands were shaking. She could storm into the producers' lounge, scream until her throat bled, but she already knew how that would play out. A meltdown on camera. More content. Another layer of villainy for them to exploit.
No—if they wanted her broken, she'd have to find another way.
That night, when the villa finally quieted, she slipped onto the balcony with her hoodie pulled tight. The moonlight silvered the ocean. And just as she'd half expected, Ethan found her there.
"You've been avoiding me," he said.
"Maybe I've been busy starring in my own public execution," she shot back.
His brow furrowed. "What do you mean?"
Sasha hesitated, then decided. If she was going down, she needed to know whether he was a lifeline—or another trap.
"I saw their notes, Ethan," she whispered. "They've already written me out. I'm the villain, the desperate ex, the one who gets humiliated before the finale. It's all planned."
He stared at her, silent for a long beat. Then he said, "I believe you."
The simple certainty in his voice nearly undid her.
"You don't understand," she pressed. "If I fight them, they'll spin it worse. If I play along, I lose anyway. The only shot I have is… rewriting the story."
His jaw tightened. "Then we rewrite it together."
Her heart tripped. "You'd do that? Risk your career for me?"
Ethan stepped closer, his voice low, steady. "I'd risk more than that."
And for one dizzying heartbeat, she believed him.
But then, behind him, movement flickered—just barely visible through the shadows by the door.
A red light.
A hidden camera.
Recording every word.