Chapter 53 – Rival's Last Attempt
The text messages exploded online before breakfast.
I knew something was wrong the second I stepped into hair and makeup. Every conversation stopped the moment I entered the room. Stylists who normally buzzed with caffeine and gossip suddenly found their palettes fascinating. Contestants glanced at me, then away, guilty as children caught with stolen candy.
"What?" I asked, forcing a laugh that didn't sound remotely convincing. "Did I grow a second head overnight?"
Silence. Then, one of the interns, too young to know the meaning of discretion, blurted, "The texts."
My stomach dropped. "What texts?"
No one answered, but my phone did. It buzzed violently in my hand. With trembling fingers, I unlocked the screen and saw the flood. Notifications stacked like falling dominos, each one a new headline, a new retweet, a new opinion about something I had not even seen yet.
And then, I saw them.
Private texts. Screenshots plastered across every platform. Messages I had sent weeks ago, long before this mess had shifted into something real. Messages where I had doubted him. Called him reckless, arrogant, infuriating. Confessed my confusion, my heartbreak.
The rival had leaked them.
I could see her fingerprints all over it. Cropped images, twisted context, just enough venom in the captions to make me look disloyal. Betrayer. Fake. Manipulative. The words burned against my skin as I scrolled, each comment louder than the last.
"She used him for screen time."
"Knew she was acting the whole time."
"He deserves better."
Heat flared in my chest, half rage, half humiliation. I slammed the phone face-down on the counter, but it was too late. The damage was everywhere.
A soft voice cut through the chaos. "Hey."
I froze. Dante was standing in the doorway, still in casual clothes, hair damp from the shower. His expression was not anger or even disappointment. It was something far worse. Concern.
"I don't—" My throat closed, the words breaking apart before they formed. "I didn't mean—"
"I know," he said quietly, stepping inside.
My laugh was sharp and shaky. "How can you possibly know? You haven't even seen what they're saying."
He reached for the phone, turned it over, skimmed the messages with a glance, then set it back down. His eyes lifted to mine, steady as stone. "Because I know you. And I know what it feels like to say things in pain you don't mean forever."
Something cracked in me then. The part that had been bracing for his judgment, for rejection, gave way to relief so fierce it left me trembling.
But the room was not empty. Crew members still hovered, pretending not to watch, and I hated it. I hated that our mess had become their spectacle.
"Not here," I whispered.
He nodded once, then held out his hand. Without hesitation, I took it.
We found a corner of the set blessedly free of cameras, tucked behind stacks of unused props. The moment we were hidden, my composure dissolved.
Tears blurred my vision, hot and unstoppable. "They'll never let this go. They'll use it to twist everything. I look like such an idiot."
Dante caught my hands in his, grounding me. "You are not an idiot."
"I wrote those things," I choked out. "I said I didn't trust you, that you only cared about the spotlight. I handed her the perfect weapon."
His thumb brushed across my knuckles, soothing, steady. "You also wrote that you missed me. That you wanted to believe in us but didn't know how. That is not betrayal. That is honesty."
I shook my head, but he tilted my chin up until I met his gaze.
"Listen to me," he said, voice low, every syllable wrapped in conviction. "They can leak every word you have ever typed, every thought you have ever second-guessed. None of it changes what I see standing in front of me right now."
My breath hitched. "And what do you see?"
His smile was small, tender. "The woman I love. The woman who is stronger than she thinks. The one who keeps fighting even when the whole world wants her to fall."
The words wrapped around me like armor. My chest ached, not from humiliation now, but from the way he said them. Like they were the truest thing he had ever spoken.
Before I could answer, he pulled me into his arms. His embrace was firm, protective, a shield against the noise outside. I buried my face in his chest, inhaling the familiar warmth of Dante, and for the first time since the leak, I felt safe.
"You're not alone," he whispered into my hair. "Not this time. Not ever again."
The intimacy of it, the quiet certainty, unraveled me completely. My tears slowed, replaced by something softer, more dangerous. Hope.
I tilted my head back, and our eyes locked. His hand slid along my jaw, thumb brushing away a stray tear. My lips parted, trembling, caught between fear and the desperate need to close the distance.
Then he kissed me.
It was not the fiery, desperate kiss of a few nights ago. This one was gentler, deeper, a promise whispered without words. His lips lingered on mine, coaxing instead of demanding, until my pulse steadied under his touch.
By the time we pulled apart, my head was spinning, but not from panic. From certainty.
"They're going to come after us harder," I said softly.
"Let them," he replied, his forehead resting against mine. "We'll give them a story they will never forget."
I laughed, wet and shaky, but real. For the first time, the humiliation felt survivable. Because I was not facing it alone.
Of course, not everyone shared our quiet revelation.
By that evening, whispers rippled through the contestants. Some smirked, some sneered, some muttered about favoritism. The rival strutted through the hallways with a smile sharp enough to draw blood, basking in the chaos she had created.
But beneath it, I could see the cracks. The jealousy simmering hotter now that our bond had only grown stronger instead of splintering.
And though the storm was far from over, one truth burned brighter than all the noise.
Trust.
For the first time in years, I trusted Dante. And he trusted me.
No rival, no producer, no leaked message could take that away.
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