Chapter 3 – Arrival on Set
The car rolled up the gravel drive like it was delivering me to my execution. Or maybe a wedding. The jury was still out. All I knew was the mansion looming ahead looked less like a filming location and more like something a billionaire's ego vomited onto a hillside. White stone, columns thick enough to hold up Olympus, windows glinting like they were about to glare down at me personally.
I tugged at the hem of my dress, a so-called "effortlessly chic" cocktail number my manager insisted on. It was too tight in the waist and too loose in the chest, which felt metaphorical for my life. If my body was going to betray me in polyester blend, why not my dignity too?
"Big smile, Alexis," the driver said as he pulled to a stop. He wasn't even production, just some poor chauffeur bribed into playing pep talker. "They like a good entrance."
"They'll get an entrance," I muttered, plastering on the grin of someone about to perform open-heart surgery on herself without anesthesia.
The door opened. Cameras waited. My heels clicked against the stone steps like they were firing squad drums. I reminded myself: saboteur, not sweetheart. Chaos, not charm. Career survival over self-respect.
And then—boom.
The doors opened into the grand foyer, and I was greeted by chandeliers, camera rigs tucked behind potted palms, and about a dozen people who would apparently be my temporary frenemies. Contestants milled about, pretending not to size each other up, while still very much sizing each other up.
"Alexis Harper!" a production assistant announced like I was headlining Madison Square Garden. The name ricocheted around the room, and suddenly every pair of eyes swiveled toward me.
Oh, perfect. A spotlight entrance, complete with the low hum of whispered commentary.
"That's her?" someone hissed from the staircase.
"The Broadway one," another replied. "Didn't she choke on a high note or something?"
Charming. My failures had officially achieved mythological status. I adjusted my bag higher on my shoulder and tried to look unfazed, which, judging by the twitch in my left eye, was going about as well as expected.
The first brave soul approached: a tall blonde in a neon-pink jumpsuit that screamed both confidence and possible colorblindness. "Hi! I'm Tiffany." She extended her hand with the speed of a cobra strike. Her grip was tight enough to crush bone.
"Alexis," I replied, smiling with my teeth, the way people do when they're trying to hide imminent panic.
"Of course. We've all seen you sing. You were... bold."
"Bold." I repeated the word, rolling it in my head like a bad wine. Translation: spectacular crash and burn, emphasis on the burn.
Before I could respond, a guy with a too-bright smile swooped in, offering me champagne. "Ethan's over there if you want to say hi," he said with a waggle of eyebrows that suggested gossip ran faster here than oxygen.
I froze mid-step. Ethan?
My pulse misfired like a faulty drumbeat. Surely there were multiple Ethans in the world. Surely the universe wasn't cruel enough to plant that Ethan under this very roof.
But my eyes betrayed me.
Across the room, leaning casually against the marble fireplace like he owned the place, was the man who had once owned me. Not literally—thank God—but close enough. Dante Chase. The ex-boyfriend, the love I'd lost, the heartbreak I still couldn't think about without wanting to set something on fire.
And, of course, he looked... annoyingly good. Tall, broad-shouldered, dark hair falling just wrong enough to be effortlessly right. He laughed at something another contestant said, and my stomach twisted with a familiar cocktail: one part longing, two parts rage, a splash of regret.
I wanted to march across the room and throw my champagne in his face. I also wanted to run. Neither seemed like a winning strategy on camera.
Instead, I ducked behind Tiffany, who was still talking at full volume about her Instagram following. "...and then I told them, if the brand deal didn't include free flights to Bali, it wasn't worth it—are you listening?"
"Completely enthralled," I lied, though my gaze kept flicking back to Dante like a compass needle refusing to settle.
Memories unspooled without my permission. Our first date, cheap Thai food and a walk along the Hudson. His hand at the small of my back when I landed my first off-Broadway role. The fight that tore us apart—my ambition versus his pride, my walls versus his temper. The slammed door. The silence afterward.
And now he was here, surrounded by cameras, and I was supposed to be the saboteur. Not the girl who once kissed him until the sun came up.
"Earth to Alexis?" Tiffany snapped her fingers in front of my face. "You spaced out. Are you always this... floaty?"
"Only when I'm plotting world domination." My smile sharpened, dark humor coating the words.
Tiffany blinked, clearly unsure if I was joking. Good. Let her wonder. Chaos required unpredictability, after all.
Another contestant, a muscular guy named Ryan, clapped me on the shoulder like we'd been friends for years. "Don't worry, Alexis. We're all here for love, right?"
I nearly choked on my champagne. If only he knew. I was here for damage control, not destiny.
But my gaze drifted to Dante again, and traitorous warmth curled low in my stomach. Love. God help me, the word still hurt when it brushed against his name in my mind.
The producer's voice boomed across the foyer, calling everyone to gather for the first group shot. Contestants shuffled into place, all fake smiles and stiff postures. I found myself shoved between Tiffany and Ryan, directly across from Dante.
His eyes met mine.
And for a moment, the room blurred. The cameras, the chandeliers, the whispered rivalries—they all fell away. It was just him, just me, just the ghost of everything we'd been.
My heart skipped, stumbled, and then roared back to life, panic and curiosity colliding so hard it hurt.
The photographer shouted, "Smile!"
I did. But it wasn't for the cameras.
⸻