“Want to fill me in?” I wheeze, winded by my impromptu sprint. My tone is a little more snide than I mean it to be, but I’m just matching her attitude.
She doesn’t even look at me when she replies.
“Doug, my camera guy, isn’t answering his door, and Glen told me you’ll have eyes on my contestant tonight, so I need you. She’s gone AWOL.” I start to adjust the camera settings as we walk and talk. I don’t want to be thrown into a situation where I’m not ready to hit record at a moment’s notice.
“What do you mean by AWOL? Like missing?” I ask. She just rolls her eyes.
“That’s what AWOL means, Zoe.”
“It’sChloe,” I bite out.
At this point, I’m seething.
“Everyone is prepped and ready to go, but Molly snuck out at some point between her makeup artist wrapping up and when I came to get her. I have a feeling she’s already up on deck.”
As we reach the elevators, Demi hangs a right and takes the stairs instead—two at a time—while I struggle to match her speed. We reach theLove at First Saildeck in record time, and I weave my way through crew members milling about in the foyer and push through the double doors that lead outside.
The transition from the cool, air-conditioned climate to the oppressive heat on deck is disorienting. I squint in the bright sun, shading my eyes with my hand to find Demi’s lithe shape moving across the deck. She stalks past a group of female contestants who are huddled under an awning on the port side of the ship. Directly across from them, on the starboard side, the male contestants have gathered together as well, a few peeking over at the women excitedly, trying to steal a glance at who they’ll be meeting soon.
I follow Demi around the pool, the sparkling centerpiece toLove at First Sail’s main set. It’s surrounded by high-top tables, a few lounge areas, and a raised stage laid out directly behind it, with a striking double staircase swooping upward to the balcony deck above.
Demi beelines for the stairs as I realize what she’s caught sight of—a lone woman is leaning over the ship’s outer railing, staring at the water, with a smoke in one hand and a glass of what appears to be whiskey in the other.
“There you are…Jesus Christ, get that cigarette out of your mouth!” Demi hisses from midway up the stairs as she approaches the curvy blond woman, whom I can only assume isher contestant. She’s wearing a shimmering gold gown, scattered with tiny jewels, that fades into white at the train of the dress. A dramatic slit cuts straight up the side to her hip, and the low back dips to reveal a delicate tattoo scrolling down her spine. Her face is obscured behind the wavy, honey-blond hair tumbling over her left shoulder, but I can just tell—this woman is stunning.
I hear a shout—probably from the director—and the crew goes silent. Which means they must be starting to shoot the big entrance sequence.
And here I am, still standing on the stairs like Cinderella at a ball I wasn’t invited to.
I sprint up the rest of the stairs to the upper deck, my chest aching and my heartbeat thumping hard in my ears. At the top of the staircase, I veer away from where Demi is and speedwalk to the side of the balcony opposite her and her contestant.
A prickling sensation on the back of my neck tells me that it might be time to start shooting. As I lift my camera to my shoulder and hit record, I notice Demi has finally managed to convince the blond to ditch the smoke, just as the two groups of contestants are given the go-ahead to make their way onto the set.
Demi’s contestant twirls, her dress fanning out behind her and catching her producer’s ankle.
“Oops—sorry,” the woman snaps, her tone venomous, as Demi stumbles backward. She tucks herself into the shadows, realizing that filming has begun, and hisses at her contestant to get her ass down the stairs.
I can’t quite make out the woman’s face yet; her hair is still shrouding her features, like a silky curtain. I push in closer with my zoom and try to focus, but my elbow slips on the railing, nearly sending me over the side. I fumble with the camera, repositioning it so the woman is in frame again, but she’s angled away from me now, sweeping down the staircase like an heiress arriving at her own party. She’s raising her glassto toast the contestants, most of whom are now watching her with rapt attention.
“How comeshegets a special entrance?” I hear a woman say below me, the sentiment echoed with a sharp scoff from the woman next to her. Two men lean in close, whispering to one another as they gaze at the blond hungrily.
Before she reaches the bottom of the staircase, a breeze gently tosses her hair, and she turns her face so as not to get it stuck in her lip gloss.
But in the split second her features are unobstructed, I realizeexactlyhow familiar they are, and my breath catches.
Alarm bells blare in my head and her name rises over the din, echoing over and over again.
Molly Spencer.
The woman who ruined my life.
Immediately I remember Glen’s comments, the little asides about the difficult contestant…and suddenly I know why. Suddenly, I understand the reason they’ve instinctually decided to pursue a villain arc for this woman.
It’s a natural choice, honestly—because sheisa villain.
And there’s no way in hell I am sticking around to watch her sink this ship.
Before I can act on my realization, however, her eyes meet mine, and my stomach drops.
