The air in Manhattan was sharp, carrying the metallic tang of the subway and the distant scent of expensive perfume. It was a world away from the humid jungles of Panama or the grease-stained interior of the Total Jumbo Jet.
Isabella stood at the window of a high-rise office on 5th Avenue, her reflection staring back at her from the glass. She barely recognized the woman in the reflection. Her ginger hair was no longer a wild thicket of tangles; it was pulled back into a sleek, low bun. She wore a tailored charcoal blazer that cost more than Chris McLean's daily ego-boost.
She wasn't Izzy. Not anymore. The twitch was gone. The manic humming had silenced. She was Isabella, and for the first time in three years, she was allowing her 188 IQ to radiate from her like a cold, brilliant light.
The Boardroom of Giants
Behind the heavy mahogany doors of the executive boardroom, a storm was brewing. Seven producers, three casting directors, and the head of the agency, Marcus Thorne, were gathered around a massive glass table. On the wall-sized monitors, the footage from Paris was playing on a loop. It was the moment that had broken the internet: Izzy's transformation.
The reactions in the room were a microcosm of the entire world's shock.
The 70% – The Stunned Disbelievers:
"It's a trick," whispered a junior executive, Sarah, her eyes glued to the screen. "I've seen every episode. I've seen her eat a live cockroach on a dare. I've seen her fight a shark. You're telling me that was a performance? That she's actually a genius who just spent three years pretending to be a mental patient?"
For the majority of the room, the sheer scale of the deception was too much to process. To them, Isabella was a glitch in reality—a person who had cheated the very concept of "reality TV."
The 20% – The Cynical Skeptics:
"It's a PR stunt," barked David, a veteran producer known for his cold pragmatism. "McLean probably hired a ghostwriter to give her those lines in Paris. She's a reality star. They don't have talent; they have delusions. If we cast her, we're telling the world that we're as shallow as the show she came from. We'll be the laughingstock of Broadway."
The 10% – The Visionary Professionals:
At the head of the table, Marcus Thorne remained silent. He didn't look at the drama; he looked at Isabella's eyes. He watched the way her muscles relaxed when she stepped toward the plane door. He saw the surgical precision of her movements.
"You're all blind," Thorne finally spoke, his voice like gravel. The room went silent instantly. "Look at her pupils. Look at the way she modulates her vocal cords when she whispers to that Alejandro kid. That isn't a script. That is a masterclass in psychological manipulation. She didn't just play a character for three years. She built an alternate reality and lived in it. She survived Owen, she survived Chris, and she did it while being the smartest person in the room. This isn't a reality star. This is the most disciplined actress I have seen in twenty years."
Thorne turned off the screen. "And she's sitting in our waiting room. Waiting for us to decide if we're smart enough to hire her."
The Waiting Room
Isabella sat on a minimalist leather chair, her hands folded neatly in her lap. She was running a thousand simulations per second. She knew exactly what was being said behind those doors. Her 188 IQ allowed her to map out the psychological profiles of the men and women inside before she had even met them.
She thought of Noah. He was likely on the plane right now, staring at the empty seat beside him. She felt a rare, sharp pang of guilt. Noah had stayed loyal. He had voted for Alejandro, risking his own safety in the game to protect the girl he thought was his "crazy" friend. He was a genius, but a raw one—vulnerable because he hadn't yet learned how to weaponize his mind the way she had.
She thought of Alejandro. She could still feel the phantom heat of his shoulder under her hand. When she had whispered his secrets to him—about his brother José, about his crushing insecurity—she hadn't done it to be cruel. She had done it to level the playing field. She wanted him to know that while he was playing a game of checkers, she had been playing grandmaster chess from the beginning.
Then, there was Owen. The thought of him brought a cold, hollow feeling to her chest. Owen represented the tragedy of her performance. He had "loved" Izzy, but he had never even met Isabella. And when the chips were down, he had thrown her to the "killer" without a second thought. He was the reason the mask had become so easy to wear. If the world only loved the clown, why bother showing them the queen?
The Audition
The door opened. A young assistant, looking like she was about to faint, whispered, "Miss... Miss Isabella? Mr. Thorne will see you now."
Isabella stood up. She walked with a predatory, silent grace. As she entered the room, the seven producers went quiet. The air tension was so high it felt like the room was pressurized.
Thorne didn't waste time with pleasantries. He shoved a script across the table. "Page 56. The monologue where the spy realizes her handler is actually the man who killed her parents. No preparation. No 'Izzy' antics. Just the truth."
Isabella picked up the paper. She didn't need more than ten seconds to memorize the beats. She closed her eyes, and when she opened them, she wasn't in a New York office anymore.
She was in a cold, dark interrogation room.
When she spoke, her voice was a haunting, resonant instrument. She didn't cry; she let her voice crack just once, a perfectly timed vibration of pure, unadulterated grief. She was articulate, chilling, and devastatingly human. The 188 IQ allowed her to control every micro-expression, every breath, making the performance feel more real than reality itself.
When she finished, David—the skeptic—had dropped his pen. Sarah was openly weeping. Marcus Thorne just stared at her.
"You're a monster, Isabella," Thorne said quietly. "A beautiful, terrifying monster. You've been hiding this talent in a dumpster fire of a reality show for three years."
"I wasn't hiding it, Mr. Thorne," Isabella replied, her voice steady and professional. "I was perfecting it. If I can convince the world I'm a lunatic for three years, I can convince them of anything."
The Protector in the Shadows
As Isabella walked out of the office, clutching a contract that would make her the lead in a major psychological thriller, she saw a familiar, imposing figure leaning against the lobby wall.
"You look like you just robbed a bank," Eva said, her voice a low growl of amusement.
Isabella smiled—a real, genuine smile. "I didn't rob it, Eva. I earned it."
Eva stood up, her massive frame making the sleek Manhattan lobby look small. "Good. Because the paparazzi are downstairs, Owen is crying on every talk show in Canada, and Noah is currently being interrogated by Chris McLean about what you told him. You're the most famous woman in the world right now, Isabella. And you're gonna need a bodyguard who doesn't mind breaking a few cameras."
Isabella looked at Eva, the only friend who had never asked her to be anything other than strong. "Thank you, Eva. Let's go. We have a lot of work to do."
As they stepped into the elevator, Isabella felt the last remnants of "Izzy" fall away. The mask was gone. The game was over. But as the elevator descended toward the waiting crowd, Isabella knew that the real challenge—living as herself—was only just beginning.