The next morning, the villa hummed with tension. Contestants whispered in corners, crew members shuffled nervously, and producers hovered like hawks.
Sasha walked into the main set with Ethan at her side, chin lifted, smile sharp. If the execs wanted redemption, she'd give them something no script could contain.
The cameras rolled.
"I know what people think of me," Sasha began, her voice clear, steady. "The desperate ex. The villain. The one who ruins every happy ending. Maybe I let them believe it, because it was easier than letting them see the truth. But here's the thing—"
She looked directly into the camera, refusing to blink.
"The truth doesn't scare me anymore."
Gasps rippled among the contestants. Even the producers leaned forward, sensing they were catching lightning in a bottle.
Then Ethan stepped in, his hand brushing hers in a subtle, unscripted move. "And maybe," he added, voice low but carrying, "the villain isn't the one you think it is."
The room buzzed.
Together, they weren't just surviving the narrative—they were flipping it, forcing the audience to root for them. It was dangerous, reckless, brilliant.
But danger has teeth.
That night, after the crew cleared out, Sasha slipped into her room only to find a note shoved under her door. No signature. No explanation. Just a single line scrawled in sharp ink:
"Nice act. Too bad I know the truth about you."
Her stomach dropped.
Someone inside the villa had figured out what she'd done. Someone knew about the leak.
And if they went to the producers with proof, Sasha's fragile alliance with Ethan wouldn't save her.
It would destroy them both.