Chapter 13 – First Hint of Jealousy
The sun had barely crested over the horizon, casting a soft gold light across the mansion's manicured gardens. I had barely managed to finish my morning coffee when the producers gathered everyone in the central courtyard. Today's challenge, they announced with dramatic flair, was all about teamwork, strategy, and—apparently—flirting. My stomach sank.
Flirting. With cameras everywhere. And, of course, with Dante.
I tried to steel myself, telling my chest to calm, my heart to slow, my brain to focus on the game. After all, this was what I had signed up for: chaos, strategy, and sabotage. Real emotions weren't supposed to interfere. But as soon as Dante stepped into view, leaning casually against the fountain, the familiar tug of longing, guilt, and desire rose unbidden.
He looked impossibly good in the sunlight: hair catching the rays, eyes glinting like some dramatic movie star who had wandered into my reality show. And as I watched, a pang of jealousy twisted through me—sudden, sharp, and entirely unwelcome.
Dante smiled at someone else. Not me. Not even acknowledging the fact that my pulse had gone from zero to one hundred the instant he'd appeared. He was talking to Clarissa, one of the newer contestants—a petite, perky woman who clearly understood the camera angles and how to make her presence known. She laughed at something he said, a bright, high-pitched sound that grated against my nerves more than I expected.
A subtle burn rose in my chest. Jealousy wasn't supposed to be part of my arsenal. I wasn't here to pine, to flutter, or to blush. I was here to survive. And yet, there it was, raw and undeniable.
I squared my shoulders and strode over to my assigned challenge area, trying not to watch them too closely. The task was simple enough: guide a small ball through a series of obstacles while tethered to your partner by a long, unwieldy rope. Easy, in theory. Ridiculously difficult in practice, especially if your partner's idea of "strategy" was flirting with another contestant in full view of the cameras.
As the challenge began, I found my rope partner was none other than Vanessa. Predictably, she shot me a smug smile. "Looks like someone's distracted," she whispered, voice dripping with mock sympathy.
I ignored her, focusing on the ball and trying to calculate angles, leverage, and how to keep it moving without letting her antics interfere. But every time I glanced toward Dante, I saw him laughing with Clarissa, leaning just a bit too close, brushing a stray lock of hair from her face. My chest tightened with frustration and something more primal—a tug at my gut that screamed at me in no uncertain terms that this wasn't just about jealousy.
I bit back a snort of frustration, realizing my options were limited. I could stew in my feelings, look pathetic on camera, and hand the game to my rivals. Or… I could retaliate. Subtly. Strategically.
The ball wobbled precariously near the first ramp. I nudged it with a precise flick, redirecting it in a way that forced Vanessa to stumble. A small victory, but delicious. I gave her a faint smile, almost apologetic, though the twinkle in my eyes betrayed me. She looked furious, and I silently congratulated myself. Subtle sabotage, comedic tension, and a tiny bit of revenge all wrapped into one neat little maneuver.
From the corner of my eye, I noticed Dante glance in our direction. His brow furrowed, not in judgment, but in curiosity. I wondered briefly if he had noticed my little stunt. Did it register as clever, mischievous, or just another one of my eccentricities? The thought of him watching, analyzing, and maybe… caring, sent a flutter of something dangerous through me.
We finished the challenge, and as the group gathered for the post-event recap, the producers were clearly delighted. Cameras captured every glance, every subtle smirk, every accidental brush of hands. "Some real chemistry there," one of them muttered, a smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth.
I wanted to deny it, of course. I wanted to say, "No, it's all strategy. All performance. Nothing real here." But deep down, I knew that wasn't entirely true. My pulse still skipped whenever he looked my way. My stomach still tightened when he laughed. My chest still ached when he leaned toward someone else, even in full view of the cameras.
After the producers left, Dante approached me under the guise of "strategy discussion." The corner of his mouth lifted in that maddening half-smile. "You're getting better at these subtle sabotages," he said, eyes glinting with amusement. "I almost didn't see that move with Vanessa."
I blinked, trying to appear casual. "Almost? I was going for obvious, actually. Keeps everyone on their toes."
He chuckled softly, shaking his head. "Right. Because we wouldn't want the show to go boring. No drama, no sparks, nothing to keep the viewers entertained."
The tension between us was electric, unspoken, and entirely unscripted. I could smell him—freshly showered, faintly citrusy, the scent lingering in the air between us. I had to bite my lip to stop from leaning just a fraction closer, to stop my pulse from betraying every thought racing through my head.
"You… you seem tense," he said suddenly, eyes narrowing slightly. "Are you… jealous?"
My stomach dropped. Jealousy. A word I hadn't allowed myself to feel in years, let alone acknowledge to him. I opened my mouth to deny it, then realized that would be a lie so blatant it might have killed me socially. Instead, I gave a small, almost imperceptible shrug. "Maybe a little," I admitted, my voice lighter than my heart felt.
His smirk widened, satisfaction twinkling in his gaze. "I see. And here I thought you were all about keeping your professional distance."
I rolled my eyes but didn't argue. Truthfully, I didn't want to. The confession, tiny as it was, felt freeing. Vulnerable, yes—but also exhilarating.
The rest of the day blurred into a series of minor sabotages, awkward flirtations, and stolen glances. I couldn't help but notice the way Dante moved through the challenges, the effortless way he drew attention without trying. And yet, somehow, my heart thudded harder when our paths crossed, when our hands brushed accidentally—or deliberately.
Later, in the quiet moments backstage, I found myself replaying the challenge. My subtle retaliation against Vanessa wasn't just strategic—it was personal. It was the first time I'd allowed my feelings, my jealousy, to guide my actions in weeks, maybe months. And for some reason, it didn't feel wrong.
Dante appeared next to me as I reviewed the footage on a tablet, leaning in close under the pretense of helping analyze angles. My shoulder brushed his, sending heat up my arm and into my chest. I swallowed hard, forcing my thoughts back to the task. But I couldn't help noticing how good he smelled, how close he was, how my heart seemed determined to skip entirely.
"You know," he said softly, voice just above a whisper, "this could work in our favor. If we play our cards right, we can turn… tension like this into entertainment. People love chemistry."
I couldn't look at him directly. My pulse had betrayed me again, and I was acutely aware of how warm my cheeks must be. "Chemistry," I repeated softly, almost to myself. "Right."
He laughed lightly, a sound that made me want to forget everything except this moment. "Careful, Harper. Don't let your… personal feelings interfere with the plan."
I knew the warning was half-serious, half-teasing. And I also knew he had no idea how accurate it was—or how little control I truly had over my own heart at this point.
By the end of the day, I was exhausted in every sense: physically, emotionally, strategically. But I also felt alive in a way that I hadn't in a long time. The combination of jealousy, attraction, and competition had created a cocktail that left me dizzy, exhilarated, and slightly terrified.
As I collapsed onto the chaise lounge in my room, my phone buzzed with social media notifications. Clips from the challenge had gone viral within minutes. Fans were analyzing every touch, every glance, every smirk. The comments ranged from praise for my clever sabotage to speculation about Dante and me. "Could they be the next great reality show couple?" one comment read.
I groaned, burying my face in my hands. Of course, the world loved chaos and romance. And here I was, living both in the same room, caught between the role I had signed up for and the very real, very messy feelings that were threatening to consume me.
I knew one thing for certain as I stared at the ceiling: the line between strategy and reality was blurring. And I had no idea if I wanted it to stop.
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