Chapter 59 – Producer Ultimatum
The fluorescent lights of the production office were harsh, sterile, and completely unforgiving. I sat on the edge of the chair, my hands gripping the sides tightly, nails pressing tiny crescents into my palms. Across from me, the head producer perched with the poise of a cat ready to pounce, a sly smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth. He had that infuriating "I know exactly what I'm doing" look that made me want to roll my eyes, stomp my foot, and yet nod politely all at the same time.
"Alexis," he began, leaning forward, his voice smooth and unnervingly calm. "We need to talk about… strategy." He emphasized the last word with a slight pause, giving it the weight of a death sentence. "Your chemistry with Dante is undeniable. The viewers love it. But we need something more… dramatic. Something memorable."
I felt my stomach tighten. My chest constricted like someone had wrapped a vise around it. My fingers dug a little deeper into the chair. "Dramatic? How?" I asked, already dreading the answer.
He tilted his head, as though waiting for me to draw the conclusion myself. "We need you to betray him. On camera. Something the audience will never forget. A lie, a rumor… anything that disrupts the perfect narrative of your rekindling romance."
My heart stuttered. Betray Dante? My stomach flipped violently. My mind screamed in panic. Betrayal? Betrayal was not my style, never my style, especially not when it involved him. My moral compass wasn't just crooked—it had completely spiraled into a carnival ride of questionable ethics, and even I had limits.
"I'm… not comfortable with that," I said, my voice steadier than I felt. I could feel my pulse in my throat, hammering against my sternum like it was trying to escape.
The producer leaned back, folding his hands on the desk, still smirking. "Not comfortable? Alexis, comfort has nothing to do with it. Ratings do. Drama does. The viewers don't tune in for 'comfort.' They tune in for chaos, heartbreak, scandal. And you, my dear, are the perfect agent of chaos."
I stared at him, the words echoing in my mind. Chaos. Agent. Perfect. I swallowed hard, fighting the urge to stand up and throw a chair at him—an urge I somehow resisted. My gaze flicked to the floor, taking a mental count of all the exits, all the ways I could make a graceful exit without looking like I was melting down in front of the entire production hierarchy.
"I… I can't do it," I said again, firmer this time. The chair squeaked under my shift as I leaned forward, meeting his gaze. "I won't lie. I won't betray him. Not for ratings. Not for drama. Not for anything."
For a split second, the office fell silent. You could almost hear my heartbeat over the hum of the air conditioning. The producer's smirk didn't falter—it widened, as if he were amused by my rebellion. "Interesting," he murmured. "Very interesting. You're playing a dangerous game, Alexis."
I straightened, letting the edge of defiance settle into my posture. Dangerous? Maybe. But I had a point to prove—to myself, more than anyone else. Dante wasn't just another contestant. He wasn't just a storyline. He was… well, him. And I wouldn't be the one to destroy what was real between us, no matter how staged our situation was for the cameras.
As if on cue, Dante appeared in the doorway, leaning casually against the frame, arms crossed. He had that perfect mix of nonchalance and watchfulness, the kind of stance that made you immediately know he was assessing every word, every move, every twitch of expression. My heart stuttered at the sight of him. It always did. Always.
"You okay?" His voice was soft, almost teasing, but laced with concern. He stepped fully into the room, closing the distance until he was only a few feet away. The faint scent of him—warm, woody, undeniably him—hit me, and I had to catch my breath.
I gave a tight smile. "I'm fine. Just… discussing strategy."
"Strategy," he repeated, his eyebrow arching. There was that glint in his eyes that always made me want to melt and argue at the same time. "With them?"
I nodded, glancing back at the producer. "Yes. They want me to… do something I can't. I won't betray you."
Dante's expression softened slightly, though there was a flicker of pride in his gaze. "Good," he said simply. "I don't want you to. I… I don't need that from you."
The producer, clearly enjoying the tension, leaned back and steepled his fingers. "Ah, so we have… moral integrity now? Loyalty? Very touching. But remember, television is about spectacle. What's more spectacular than a little heartbreak?"
"Not if it comes from me," I said, my voice gaining strength. "I'm not participating in any lies. Not for ratings. Not for drama. Not for anything you can throw at me."
Dante's lips curved in a slow, subtle smile that made my knees feel weak despite the professional tension in the room. "You always did have a backbone," he murmured, stepping closer. "And I've always admired that."
My chest warmed at the compliment, at the subtle closeness, at the reminder that despite all the chaos, he was here. Present. Supporting me. And somehow, against the current of lights, cameras, and potential humiliation, that made everything feel… safe.
The producer huffed, clearly unimpressed, but there was a glimmer of respect—or perhaps grudging admiration—in his gaze. "Very well," he said finally, waving a hand dismissively. "We'll see how long your noble streak lasts. Remember, Alexis, television is cruel. And the audience loves it when the hero falters."
I stood, shoulders back, feeling a spark of triumph flare within me. "I'm not the audience's pawn," I said firmly. "And I'm not yours, either."
Dante's hand brushed lightly against mine as we turned toward the door. That small touch—deliberate, warm, grounding—sent a thrill through me I didn't even attempt to hide. He leaned in slightly, lowering his voice so only I could hear. "You have no idea how much that means to me," he murmured.
I met his gaze, feeling the weight of his words in my chest, a mix of relief, pride, and that familiar spark that always set my heart racing. "Good," I whispered. "Because I mean it."
He smirked, teasing again, but softer this time, the kind of playful heat that made the air between us vibrate. "Then I guess we'll survive the producers together," he said, thumb brushing the back of my hand. "Because honestly? I wouldn't want anyone else in my corner."
For the first time that day, I smiled genuinely. The fear, the tension, the looming pressure of the cameras and ratings all seemed smaller with him by my side. And I realized something fundamental: I wasn't just defending my principles—I was defending us. Defending something that, despite the chaos, had started to feel entirely real.
As we walked out of the office together, hand brushing hand, I felt a little lighter, a little braver, and infinitely more certain of what mattered. The producers could huff and puff, rivals could plot, and the world could scrutinize every move we made. But in that moment, we were a team. United. And for the first time in weeks, I didn't feel like I was walking a tightrope alone.
Dante leaned toward me, just close enough that I could feel the warmth radiating from him. "No matter what comes next," he said quietly, "we've got this. Together."
I nodded, heart racing, chest tight, and whispered back, "Together."
And just like that, despite the looming storm of cameras, schemers, and potential heartbreak, I realized something important: sometimes courage wasn't about standing up alone—it was about standing with the one person who made you feel fearless, even when the world tried to make you tremble.
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