Chapter 10 – Public Taunts
The morning sunlight streamed lazily through the mansion's immense windows, painting the polished marble floors with gold streaks. I had hoped for a quiet day—a chance to regroup, maybe hide in my room with a book or binge a series—but the producers had other ideas. Reality shows, I reminded myself, thrived on chaos. And apparently, I was the centerpiece of today's storm.
I stepped into the main lounge, heels clicking sharply against the floor. Already, the room was alive with whispers, laughter, and subtle glances exchanged behind hands. The air smelled faintly of perfume and tension. My stomach twisted, the familiar mix of anticipation and dread settling in like a slow, crawling fire.
Vanessa, of course, was already there. Leaning against the banister with that infuriatingly smug smile, she looked like a cat about to pounce on a mouse. And in the very next breath, the contestants had begun circling, feeding off each other's energy, murmuring comments just loud enough for me to hear.
"She's back," Jenna whispered, voice dripping with amusement. "Watch her trip over herself today. Classic Alexis Harper."
My teeth clenched instinctively. That name had haunted me all my life—the media had wielded it like a weapon, each scandal, each failed role, each ill-fated red carpet outfit, becoming a weapon pointed squarely at my chest. And now, here, in the middle of the mansion, the whispers weren't just whispers—they were daggers, aimed with precision.
I took a deep breath and forced my shoulders back. Pride. Pride was my shield. I had survived ten years of relentless criticism; I could survive a group of amateur comedians pretending to be mean-spirited.
"Morning, Alexis," Vanessa said sweetly, her voice sugary yet sharp enough to scrape across my nerves. "Looking radiant as always. Still auditioning for the role of 'public embarrassment,' I see?"
I clenched my jaw, a smile tugging at the corners of my lips—sharp, controlled, weaponized. "Funny, Vanessa. I thought you were auditioning for 'champion of passive-aggressive commentary.' You'd win gold."
Her eyes narrowed slightly, and she laughed—too loud, too calculated—but I didn't flinch. I would not let her see me falter. Not here. Not now.
The other contestants, of course, had noticed. Some smirked, some snickered, others whispered amongst themselves, and I felt the all-too-familiar heat of scrutiny crawl down my spine. Cameras pivoted, recording every twitch, every glance, every carefully crafted retort. Reality shows thrived on spectacle, and my life was about to be the centerpiece.
I had just taken a deep breath, ready to march past them and claim the edge of the lounge, when a soft nudge at my side made me glance over. Dante.
He was leaning casually against the doorway, arms crossed, eyes scanning the room with a mixture of amusement and something more—something protective. My pulse jumped immediately, chest tightening as if I'd been punched in the sternum. He didn't say anything, didn't interfere directly. He simply stood there, present, steady. And that was enough.
For a second, I allowed myself to revel in it: the knowledge that he was watching, that he might step in if needed, that he hadn't forgotten how much he mattered to me. And then reality hit.
We're on display. Every flicker of emotion, every heartbeat, every internal reaction was a performance now. I couldn't just lean into him for comfort—not yet. Not while the cameras rolled and the contestants waited for me to slip.
Vanessa clapped her hands slowly, theatrically, like a conductor signaling the start of an orchestra. "Okay, everyone," she said. "Today's challenge is… verbal sparring. Everyone, choose your target. And Alexis? Feel free to… participate fully."
My stomach dropped. "Participate fully," she said. She didn't need to spell it out: public humiliation. Embarrassment. Watch-me-fail energy captured for thousands, maybe millions, of viewers.
I straightened, shoulders back. Pride. I could do this.
The contestants began circling, tossing subtle barbs, comments laced with innuendo and personal digs. Some aimed at superficialities—my wardrobe choices, my accent, the way I gestured with my hands. Others aimed deeper, touching on past scandals I had hoped the public had forgotten. But of course, this was reality television; nothing was ever forgotten.
"Still bitter from that movie flop?" one of them snickered, smirking at the cameras. "Or are you auditioning for the next one?"
I caught Dante's gaze across the room, and for a heartbeat, the world narrowed to just us. His jaw was set, eyes sharp, and I could almost hear the silent warning he was sending: Don't let them touch you.
It made me smile—not the laugh that I used to hide behind sarcasm, but a real, fleeting smile that no one could see. You're still on my side, I thought. Even without a word.
I stepped forward deliberately, letting my heels click against the floor like a countdown. I didn't want to show weakness. I would meet each taunt with wit, with subtle fire, with a confidence that I could barely feel but needed to project.
"Oh, thank you for the reminder," I said, letting my voice ring clear and cold. "I've been meaning to schedule a personal counseling session about my so-called 'flops.' Would you like to contribute?"
The room went quiet for a beat, then the laughter bubbled—some nervous, some mocking, but I didn't falter. I let it hang in the air, savoring the tiny victory. I had reclaimed a shred of control.
But even as I parried the jabs, my heart betrayed me. I caught the flicker of admiration—or perhaps concern—in Dante's eyes, and it sent a shiver down my spine. Protective, yes, but also hungry, a reminder of everything we'd lost and everything we could still have.
Then Vanessa's smirk returned, sharper this time. She leaned toward the camera, whispering just loud enough: "Watch closely, everyone. This is Alexis Harper. Fragile, desperate, and trying so hard to be… more than a scandal."
I wanted to snap, to throw a vase or scream in defiance, but Dante's presence held me back. Instead, I tilted my chin, met Vanessa's gaze with deliberate calm, and let the weight of my silence speak louder than any words could. Pride. I had it, even if it trembled at the edges.
The audience, both live and online, began reacting. The feeds lit up with hashtags—#AlexisRises, #TeamAlexis, #ScandalQueen—but I didn't have time to process. I had to keep moving, keep performing, keep surviving. And yet, behind the mask of composure, my mind whirled with something far more dangerous: thoughts of him.
Every time Vanessa's voice cut through, every time a contestant whispered behind a hand, I felt Dante's steadying presence. He never overtly intervened, but he didn't need to. He was there, silent and steadfast, and that was enough to make my pulse race, my palms sweat, my heart ache with a familiar, forbidden longing.
By the end of the morning, I had weathered the onslaught—taunts, jabs, subtle digs, and outright mockery. But I had survived. And when I finally stepped away to catch my breath in the hallway, Dante followed.
"You handled that well," he said quietly, close enough that only I could hear. His voice had that calm, soothing edge that always made my chest clench. "Better than I expected."
"Lucky me," I replied, a wry smile tugging at my lips. "Or maybe I'm just really good at biting back."
His lips twitched, amused but with something darker beneath it. "You're dangerous," he said softly. "Not for me. For them."
My heart did a ridiculous little flip. For them… or for you? I thought, not daring to voice it.
He gave me a glance—sharp, fleeting, protective, and utterly devastating—and then moved on, leaving me standing alone in the hallway, still trembling from the adrenaline, the tension, and the undeniable pull between us.
I had survived the public taunts. I had maintained my composure. I had held my pride. And yet, I knew the hardest part wasn't behind me—it was only beginning. Because when the cameras stopped rolling, when the whispers faded, when the lights dimmed, it would be just me… and him.
And I wasn't sure my heart was ready for that.
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