The flames roared higher, sparks leaping into the night sky.
Chelsea's accusation lingered like smoke, wrapping around the circle, suffocating Sasha in its grip.
She could fight back—spill every secret she'd gathered about Chelsea, rip the mask off and make her bleed. But one glance at the cameras, lenses glinting like a hundred watchful eyes, stopped her.
No. That's what they wanted. For her to explode. For the villain mask to snap back into place.
So Sasha did the one thing no one expected.
She stayed silent.
Her hands folded in her lap, her face calm, unreadable. She let the weight of the accusation hang over her. Let the others shift uncomfortably. Let Chelsea's smirk sharpen as if she'd already won.
And then, slowly, she turned her gaze to Ethan.
The message was clear. Your move.
The silence stretched, thick as tar.
Ethan's jaw clenched. His eyes flicked between Sasha, Chelsea, and the cameras. The golden boy. The favorite. The one the audience trusted. Whatever came out of his mouth next would shape everything.
Finally, he spoke.
"You want the truth?" His voice was low, steady, carrying over the crackle of the fire. "Chelsea's right about one thing—this show isn't real. None of it. Not the dates, not the fights, not the happy endings. But you know what is real?"
He turned his gaze squarely on Sasha, holding it, unwavering.
"My feelings for her."
Gasps rippled. Even the producers stirred, some grinning, some scowling.
Chelsea's smile faltered, her carefully laid trap slipping from her grasp.
Sasha's chest tightened. The world spun around her—the flames, the gasps, the blinking red light of the cameras—all of it blurring as Ethan's words sank in.
Whether he meant them or not didn't matter.
He had just chosen her.
But at what cost?
Because now, the producers didn't just have their villain.
They had their love story.
And love stories were the easiest of all to twist into tragedies.