Chapter 9 – First Interaction
The early morning sunlight spilled through the towering windows of the mansion's main lounge, glinting off polished marble floors and reflecting in the crystal chandeliers. The house had that surreal, too-perfect quality that always made me feel simultaneously important and ridiculously small, like a toy actress in someone else's lavish dollhouse. I adjusted the strap of my dress, trying to ignore the subtle buzz of tension that had been following me around since I first saw him yesterday.
Dante.
Of course, it wasn't supposed to be this way. I wasn't supposed to feel the heat crawling up my neck or the quickening of my pulse whenever he glanced in my direction. That was bad. Dangerous, even. The whole point of this charade was control—mine and everyone else's. I was here to manipulate, to stir drama, to make waves that would keep the cameras rolling. But apparently, the universe had other plans, like some cruel director with a twisted sense of humor.
And now, it seemed, the universe had cast him in my immediate scene.
"Alexis," a familiar voice said, cutting through the soft murmur of contestants chatting and producers giving instructions.
I froze mid-step. Of course, it was him. Dante stood there with that perfectly effortless posture, hands casually tucked into the pockets of his designer jeans, yet every inch of him radiated... him. The man I had loved and abandoned three years ago, the man who had haunted my dreams and my worst regrets. And now, he was standing here, waiting for me, like a shadow I couldn't shake.
"Morning," I said, forcing a neutral tone. My voice sounded strangled even to my own ears. I reminded myself—he didn't know anything about my sabotage. He didn't need to. I was professional. I could be composed. I could... handle this.
Dante's brow quirked, a half-smile teasing the corners of his lips. "Morning," he said, that one word carrying more weight than a script of dialogue should ever have. "So... looks like we're paired for the first challenge."
I blinked, then looked down at the task sheet in my hands. Of course we were paired. Of course the universe hated me. My stomach fluttered, a mixture of anxiety, longing, and something dangerously close to excitement.
"Right," I said, gripping the paper tighter than necessary. "Choreographed... scene work." I cleared my throat. "Nothing... personal."
He chuckled, but it didn't quite reach his eyes. "Nothing personal, got it. Don't want any sparks flying."
Oh. Of course. He said that. As if three years of history and heartbreak could be neatly boxed into a disclaimer.
I swallowed hard and tried to focus on the task ahead. The producers had assigned us a simple couple's scene: two participants attempting to perform a romantic dialogue for the cameras, meant to look genuine while being carefully orchestrated. I had been briefed extensively on my role in other challenges—to subtly derail connections, to plant seeds of tension—but here, I had no choice. I was paired with him.
And my heart refused to behave.
We stepped onto the marked area, the cameras swiveling to capture every angle. Dante's presence felt magnetic, pulling at every nerve ending I had spent years convincing myself were dead. I caught myself studying him—the slope of his jaw, the slight curve of his lips, the way his eyes seemed to glitter with mischief even as they narrowed in focus.
"Action," a producer called.
I straightened my posture, forcing my hands to relax, forcing my mind to compartmentalize. This was just acting. Just a performance. Just a challenge. Nothing more.
Dante leaned slightly closer during our first cue, murmuring the line as if it had always belonged to him: "I can't believe you're here. After everything, you... you actually showed up."
My breath caught. I blinked, fumbling through the scripted response. "I—uh... I didn't have a choice. The world's watching, remember?"
"Always," he said, lips twitching in amusement. But there was something beneath the teasing tone—a note of sincerity, of vulnerability—that made my pulse spike.
As the scene progressed, the verbal sparring continued, with small jabs disguised as dialogue:
"You always think you're in control, don't you?" he said, voice smooth and measured.
"I am in control," I snapped, a little too sharply, my internal monologue screaming, Don't sound desperate. Don't let him see you crumble.
His smirk deepened. "Control... isn't everything."
I faltered, eyes locking with his, feeling the years of shared history flicker between us. My chest constricted with a mixture of guilt and longing, the reminder of how easily I had let him slip through my fingers.
The cameras, of course, caught everything. Every hesitation, every glance, every fleeting tremor of unspoken emotion.
I forced myself to step back, physically and emotionally. "That's enough for now," I said, lowering my hands in a deliberate act of control. "Let's just... move to the next cue."
Dante's eyes followed me, unreadable yet intensely focused, and I felt a rush of heat crawl up my neck. He didn't speak, just nodded, but I could sense the weight of unspoken words, the unacknowledged history between us.
As we rehearsed further, subtle sparks emerged in moments where they shouldn't have. A brush of his hand, a fleeting smile, a tilt of his head in my direction—each one igniting a tension I couldn't deny. I caught myself thinking, Why do you still do this to me?
It wasn't just the romance of the scene; it was him. Always him.
My internal struggle grew more intense with every line we delivered. Part of me wanted to lean into the chaos, to test the boundaries of his patience and my own heart. Part of me wanted to run, to retreat into the safety of my calculated persona. The lines between performance and reality blurred with each passing second, and I realized—I wasn't sure if I could tell the difference anymore.
A rival contestant, Vanessa, glanced over with a barely concealed smirk, whispering something to Jenna, who snorted and gave me a pointed look. I knew exactly what they were thinking. They thought they could get under my skin, thought they could exploit the tension between Dante and me. But they didn't know. They didn't understand the rules of this game—or the rules of my heart, which had been rewritten and tangled the moment he returned.
The producer called a short break, and Dante stepped back, running a hand through his hair. "You're... different," he said casually, though the undercurrent of meaning was unmistakable. "I don't know if it's the last three years or this ridiculous show, but... something's changed."
I raised an eyebrow, forcing a smile. "You mean I've finally mastered the art of subtle sabotage?"
He laughed softly, but there was no humor behind it. "Subtle... maybe. Dangerous... definitely."
Dangerous. That word echoed in my mind long after he walked away, leaving me staring after him, chest tight, stomach twisting with the familiar ache of desire and guilt. I had thought I could control my feelings, that I could remain detached and professional. But every interaction with him chipped away at that façade, leaving me exposed, raw, and dangerously aware of the sparks still alive between us.
By the end of the rehearsal, it was clear to me—and likely to everyone else—that chemistry existed between Dante and me that no script could contain. Even the producers noticed. One of them, watching from behind a monitor, scribbled something into their notes, muttering, "There's tension here... good tension. Ratings gold."
I wanted to scream. Not in anger. Not in frustration. But in terror. Because the stakes had just gotten impossibly higher—not just for my career, but for my heart.
The day ended with me retreating to my room, heels kicked off, hair loose around my shoulders. I sat on the edge of the bed, staring at the ceiling, replaying every glance, every word, every unspoken beat between us. My mind whirled with what-ifs, regrets, and a dangerous, undeniable hope.
Dante wasn't just a reminder of my past. He was a mirror of what I could have—and might still—lose. And the thought of navigating this chaotic, camera-laden mansion while keeping my heart intact made me feel like I was walking a tightrope over a pit of fire.
And somehow, I was excited.
Because I knew, deep down, that no one in the world—no one in the house, no camera, no rival contestant—would challenge me the way Dante could. And for the first time in a long while, that thought didn't terrify me. It thrilled me.
Even as fear twisted in my stomach, my pulse racing with every memory and glance, I allowed myself one private, impossible thought: maybe, just maybe, sparks could survive even the most calculated sabotage.
And maybe, just maybe, I wanted them to.
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