My heart swells dangerously.
“See?” he murmurs, sliding an arm around my waist and pulling me into his side. “We’re a damn good team.”
“Yeah,” I admit, leaning my head on his shoulder, ignoring the cameras. “We are.”
Tina lifts her mic.
“And that’s not all! Cohen earns +10 Diva Points for threatening Joe… using only his biceps and zero homicide. Very chivalrous. Very sexy. The female audience is delighted.”
The hall erupts in whistles.
I laugh and bury my face in Cohen’s arm to hide how red—and how relieved—I am.
He kisses the top of my head.
Doesn’t care who sees.
“Let’s get back to our chalet, Angel,” he whispers in my ear, his voice rough with promise. “I need to take off that dress and make sure you really didn’t get hurt when you slipped.”
“I’m fine, Cohen.”
“Thorough check,” he insists, smirking. “You never know. Might require a massage… or something else.”
62
Judgments and Bonfires
Sloane
The bonfire crackles wildly in the middle of the clearing, but it’s not nearly enough to thaw the frost that’s settled over the couples.
If the first ceremony was a party, this one feels like a reckoning.
We’re all lined up, exhausted, smelling like burnt food, sawdust, and competitive stress.
Cohen stands behind me. He’s not holding my hand this time—he’s got both arms wrapped around my waist, his chin resting on my shoulder.
Aunt Tina climbs onto the stump she uses as her podium. Tonight, she’s not smiling. She looks like a principal about to hand out report cards after the entire class set the gym on fire. She’s wearing a massive fur ushanka and clutching the parchment of scores like it’s a death sentence.
“You were messy,” she begins without preamble. “You were chaotic. Some of you tried to poison us. Others destroyed expensive Swedish furniture.”
Her stern gaze sweeps across the semicircle, lingering on Daisy (who offers a guilty smile) and Brenda (whose mouth is a razor-straight line).
“But…” Tina’s face cracks into a wicked smile. “You made excellent television! And the points don’t lie. The leaderboard has been flipped.”
“Bring out the names!” Pedro croaks, swooping over our heads.
Tina unrolls the list.
“Let’s start from the bottom. And when I say bottom, I mean the abyss. In ninth place: our Fit-Fluencers, Chad and Kiki.”
She pauses dramatically. “Eighty points. Your tree was sad, and your dinner was a biological weapon. Kiki, sweetheart, fewer Instagram Lives and more… actual work.”
Chad doesn’t flex even once. Devastating.
“Eighth place… the Royals! Tiffany and Brent. Ninety points. Tiffany, elegance does not assemble furniture. And Brent… put the phone down or I will confiscate it.”
Tiffany shoots me a look that could freeze hell over. I blow her a kiss.
