"All of them. They want you to disappear so they can keep controlling the narrative. If you leave, you're confirming everything they said about you."
"And if I stay, I'm the delusional opportunist who won't take a hint."
Silence on the other end. Then: "What does your gut say?"
My gut says I should have never left my kitchen. My gut says trusting anyone outside these four walls was the mistake.
"I don't know anymore."
"Then don't decide today. Give it forty-eight hours. Promise me."
I promise because it's easier than arguing. We hang up and I sit in the growing light, feeling the minutes tick past like water torture.
By noon, I've lost three more accounts. A supplier I've worked with for two years sends a terse email about "unforeseencircumstances" and "budget constraints." The lie is almost worse than the honesty would be.
We're cutting ties because you're toxic now. Because association with you might spread the stain.
I should eat something. The thought crosses my mind the way weather reports do as factual, distant, irrelevant. Food requires energy I don't have. Requires caring about survival beyond the next hour.
Instead, I open my laptop and start recording.
The camera eye stares back at me, unblinking and patient. I fix my hair. Smooth down my shirt. Stop myself from applying makeup because that would defeat the purpose.
This needs to be raw.
Press record.
"Hi. I'm Trinity Lewis, and you probably know me as the manipulative opportunist fromHeart of the Horde."
My voice cracks. I clear my throat, keep going.
"I went on that show for my bakery. I won't lie about that. I was desperate for exposure, for publicity that might translate into sales and contracts and a future that extended beyond drowning in debt."
The words taste like ash. Truth often does.
"But somewhere between the audition tape and the cinnamon rolls, something changed. I met someone who saw past the cameras and the producers and the whole manufactured romance circus. Someone who made me feel like maybe I was worth more than just my ability to generate content."
Stop. Breathe. Don't cry.
"The clips you saw, the conversations they leaked—they were real. I did say those things. But they cut out context. They cut out the parts where I talked about integrity, about wanting todo this honestly. They cut out every moment that didn't fit their narrative of calculated manipulation."
My hands shake. The camera catches it.
"I'm not perfect. I made choices that prioritized my business over ethics. I thought I could separate the publicity stunt from the person I was becoming. But you can't. Not really. And when I realized that, when I understood that what I felt for?—"
His name sticks in my throat. Saying it out loud feels like exposure, like handing ammunition to people already armed.
"When I realized that my feelings were real, everything got complicated. Because how do you prove sincerity? How do you convince people that you're not the villain they've decided you are?"
I lean closer to the camera.
"You can't. And that's what they're counting on. The producers, the media, everyone who benefits from drama over truth. They know that once doubt is planted, it grows. They know that no amount of explanation will ever be as compelling as the lie."
My voice steadies. Finds its edge.
"So I'm not explaining. I'm not justifying. I'm saying this: I went on that show for my business, and I fell in love anyway. Both things are true. And if you can't hold space for that complexity, then you were never my audience to begin with."
Stop recording.
