Chapter 48 – Producer Interference
The morning call sheet might as well have been a list of demands from a dictator. Bold red letters screamed at me: DRAMA SEGMENT – MANDATORY. Underneath, bullet points gleamed like little daggers: betrayal arc, emotional fallout, close-up shots of tears.
In other words: they wanted me to cry on cue.
I pinched the bridge of my nose, the fluorescent dressing room lights buzzing overhead like annoyed hornets. My reflection looked equally exhausted and furious. I'd been playing along with the producers' "suggestions" for weeks now, but this? This was different. They didn't just want my vulnerability—they wanted me to weaponize it. Against him.
Against the man who had been, for better or worse, my anchor in this circus.
My ex.
"Are you seriously going to let them script you into a villain?" a voice drawled behind me.
I didn't need to turn around. The way the air shifted when he entered was as recognizable as his cologne—cedarwood, sharp and grounding. He leaned against the vanity like he owned the room, dark eyes sweeping over me with a mixture of irritation and something softer.
"Did you read the call sheet?" I asked, not bothering to hide the bite in my tone.
"Read it?" He held up his own copy, creased and folded, like he'd been gripping it too tightly. "I practically memorized the part where they want you to stab me in the back for ratings."
I winced, guilt threading through me even though I hadn't agreed to anything. "It's not like I—"
"Like you what?" His voice dropped lower, rougher, as if the weight of it might force me to tell the truth. "Like you don't hate that they're dangling your career like bait? Like you don't secretly wonder if throwing me under the bus might be easier than standing up to them?"
The words sliced, because they weren't entirely wrong. I had wondered. Not because I wanted to, but because fear does strange things to logic.
"I'm not going to do it." My voice trembled, but the steel was there. "I can't. Not to you. Not again."
His posture shifted, the tension in his shoulders easing ever so slightly. That softness—the one he tried so hard to keep buried—flashed in his eyes before he masked it with sarcasm. "Well, that'll disappoint them. Tears sell better than defiance."
I exhaled sharply, turning back to the mirror. My reflection looked more determined now, even with the exhaustion clinging to my features.
"They want me to stage a confrontation," I said quietly. "On camera. They want me to tell you I regret ever loving you."
The silence that followed was deafening. He didn't move, didn't breathe. Then, slowly, he said, "Do you?"
The question gutted me.
I spun around, anger and desperation tangling in my chest. "Of course not! God, why would you even—"
"Because they're going to make it look real," he interrupted, eyes locking on mine with an intensity that made my knees weak. "And part of me needs to know you won't let them rewrite our story."
Our story. Two words that carried years of heartbreak, laughter, arguments, nights we swore we'd never walk away from each other… until we did.
I swallowed hard. "They can't rewrite it unless we let them."
For the first time since the show started, we were on the same side of the battlefield.
He straightened, closing the space between us with deliberate steps. The air thickened with unspoken words, with the magnetic pull I kept trying to ignore. He leaned down, his voice low enough that only I could hear.
"Then let's not give them the chance."
My breath caught, every nerve in my body sparking to life. "What are you suggesting?"
"That we stop playing defense," he said. "That we strategize before they pit us against each other. They want drama? We give them everything but betrayal. Let's make them choke on their own script."
A laugh escaped me before I could stop it. "You make it sound like war."
His smile was razor-sharp, but his gaze softened as it swept over me. "It is war. And if I'm going to war, I'd rather fight with you than against you."
The words hit me harder than any producer's threat ever could.
"Why do you always know exactly what to say?" I muttered, my defenses crumbling with each passing second.
"Maybe because I still remember exactly what makes you break," he said, almost too softly.
My heart lurched. The memory of nights spent tangled together, whispering confessions in the dark, threatened to undo me completely. I looked away, clutching the edges of the vanity to ground myself.
"I don't know if I can handle this," I admitted. "The cameras, the pressure, the constant manipulation. I feel like I'm drowning."
His hand came down gently over mine, steady and warm. My breath hitched at the contact, but I didn't pull away.
"Then let me be your air," he murmured.
It was infuriating, how easily he could still disarm me. And yet, I couldn't deny the relief that washed over me at his words.
I squeezed his hand back, meeting his gaze with newfound determination. "Fine. We do this together. But no matter what they throw at us, we don't turn on each other."
His lips curved into something dangerously close to a genuine smile. "Deal."
The door banged open before the moment could stretch any further. One of the assistant producers stuck her head in, clipboard in hand, oblivious to the charged air between us.
"You two are up in ten," she chirped. "Remember—big emotions, lots of eye contact. Viewers eat that stuff up."
She disappeared before I could reply, leaving behind the bitter aftertaste of reality.
We exchanged a look. His was laced with irritation; mine, with resignation.
"They're not going to make this easy," I said.
"They never do," he replied, his voice steady. "But that's their mistake. They think easy makes good television. They don't realize the real story…" He trailed off, eyes locking with mine again.
"…is already happening," I finished for him.
For once, he didn't argue.
As we walked toward the stage, shoulder to shoulder, I realized something terrifying and wonderful all at once: I wasn't just fighting the producers anymore. I was fighting for us.
And for the first time in a long time, I had hope we might actually win.
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