“Again, this isn’t about reality. It’s about what brings in viewership,” Carol said, sounding perfectly reasonable.
Anger sparked through my panic. “I agreed to do a job. Remodel homes. Be a charming host. I didn’t agree to something that will hurt my daughter. Seeing me portrayed as some kind of femme fatale is a nightmare for a girl about to start high school. Not to mention Vance’s little girl, who has been through heartbreak and is finally feeling safe and cared for. We’re real people. With children.”
“Oh, boo-hoo,” Kenzie said. “You’re going to be rich and famous. How awful.”
“Consider it good television.” Carol shrugged casually, her eyes hard as polished stone. “You signed a contract. We’re all in this together now.”
In tandem, she and Kenzie walked away.
I swallowed hard, trapped by the stark reality of my situation. My reputation, my business, my family—all of it was in jeopardy. How had I ever thought this was a dream come true?
“Now, come on. Let’s get the rest of this scene done so we can get out of here at a reasonable hour.” Beau slipped his phone back into his pocket and left me standing there, stunned and helpless.
I leaned against the wall, heart hammering. I was trapped—in this fake world. Used and betrayed for ratings.
The rest of the day’s shoot passed in a blur. I went through the motions—discussing paint colors, reviewing tile samples, nodding at Beau’s suggestions like a puppet on strings. The cameras captured it all: my fake smile, my forced enthusiasm, the way I flinched every time Beau stood too close. By the timeCarol finally called it for the day, I felt hollow—scraped out like an overripe avocado. Nothing left but a hard outer shell, torn into pieces.
I grabbed my bag and portfolio, moving toward my car without saying goodbye to anyone. I just needed to get out of there—to go home to Vance and the girls.
My hands shook as I unlocked the door and slid into the driver’s seat. For a moment, I just sat there, staring at the steering wheel. Then my phone started buzzing. First one ping. Then another. Then a full cascade of notifications that made my heart seize.
I couldn’t get enough air into my lungs. All the moisture in my mouth vanished, leaving my palms slick and trembling. I pulled my phone from my bag. A text from Kenzie. My stomach dropped as it loaded.
There it was—the photo of me and Vance on my patio. We were kissing, the porch lights soft around us like a halo, his hand gently tucked beneath my chin. A private, intimate moment on my own property. Now splashed across a gossip blog for the world to devour.
The headline screamed in bold, all-caps font:
DESIGN DIVA IN LOVE TRIANGLE? HOME SHOW HOST CAUGHT BETWEEN CLIENT AND CO-HOST!
I stared at the screen, my vision swimming. They’d done it. Why had I thought otherwise? All three of them had been clear about their intentions.
Another notification came in. This time from Beau. Another link. I clicked it with numb fingers. Footage from this morning. The cabinet disaster—but edited. No, butchered—into something unrecognizable.
Dramatic, suspenseful music played over a grainy freeze-frame of my face mid-blink, eyes wide, mouth open like I was screaming. Then it cut to a close-up of my handsflailing. I sounded like I was shrieking, thanks to a sound mix that heightened every octave of distress. The camera angle exaggerated my movements. Jump cuts made it feel more chaotic than it really was, trimming out anything calm or composed. Then—a tight shot of me clutching my temples.
And the worst part: a slow-motion sequence of Beau stepping into frame, calm and steady, placing a hand on my shoulder. The split screen showed my tear-streaked face beside his soothing expression. He looked like the rational hero taming the hysterical woman.
Everyone in Willet Cove would see this. And what would that do to Mia and Margot? They had to go to school. Kids would ask questions. I could already hear the whispers and taunts:
“Is your mom with both of them?”
“Who’s she going to choose?”
“Did you know your mom was such a slut?”
This wasn’t just going to harm my reputation—it would make everything harder for the girls. Vance was a grown man. He and I could figure out what to do next. But the kids … they were the ones who would suffer most.
I dropped the phone into my lap, pressing the heels of my hands against my eyes. A sob caught in my throat. Get it together. I couldn’t fall apart. Not yet. Not here. Not in the parking lot where someone might see—where another camera might be waiting.
I started the car, hands still shaking, and pulled onto the street. The drive home felt endless. Every stoplight. Every turn. My mind spiraling through scenarios. Maybe I could fix this. Call a lawyer. Issue a statement. Explain that it was all manipulation and lies.
But who would believe me? The footage looked real. The photo was real. And they had the resources to spin any narrative they wanted—all for ratings. Yet something made me pause. Afeeling. An instinct. This wasn’t just about viewership. It felt personal. Calculated.
Kenzie and Beau wanted me to look bad.
The question was—why? What were they really after?
18
