Lyla
* * *
The speedboat cuts through water so clear it looks fake.
Sunlight fractures over the surface, throwing silver onto my knees and the white deck beneath my sandals. The island ahead is exactly what the casting ad promised—white beach, emerald jungle, a villa perched high on the cliffs like it’s watching us arrive.
Paradise.
I grip the railing anyway.
Two weeks ago, my biggest crisis involved a bride sobbing over ivory versus cream napkins. Now I’m headed toward a reality dating show I applied to at three in the morning because desperation makes people brave—or stupid.
“Ten days in paradise to find love?” Emily laughs beside me, her raven hair snapping in the wind. “This feels too good to be true.”
If it’s too good to be true, it usually is.
I smooth my sundress over my thighs and inhale slowly, grounding myself. I didn’t come here for romance. I came here for leverage.
One hundred thousand dollars and national exposure could take my business to new heights. It could buy me staff, breathing room, a future that doesn’t require me to keep sprinting on fumes.
For once, I want something that’s just…good.
The dock comes into view.
Cameras line it.
Not a couple of handhelds for behind-the-scenes footage. Real rigs. Boom mics. The kind of setup that makes your skin tighten because it’s not casual.
This is definitely not low-budget.
A production assistant beams as she helps us off the boat. “Welcome to Paradise Found! You’re our first arrivals!”
The other contestants file onto the terrace with me—Sean, Bradley, Zayne, Jessa, and Emily—faces bright with that specific blend of nervous excitement and hunger people wear when they know they’re being watched.
I tell myself my smile is normal. Tell myself my heart isn’t racing.
The host appears like she’s been conjured: Miranda. Glossy hair, glossy lips, glossy confidence. She moves like she’s hosting an awards show, not orchestrating emotional chaos.
“I can already feel the chemistry,” she purrs.
I clock the way her gaze lingers—not flirtatious. Measuring. Cataloging. The same look I’ve seen from vendors who smile while quietly inflating invoices.
Cocktails appear. The afternoon unfolds with a strange ease.
Sean talks about travel. Zayne does impressions. Bradley shocks everyone by knowing every word to a Broadway show.
For the first time in months, no one needs me to fix anything.
I’m just Lyla.
And for a few minutes, I can almost forget why I’m here.
Miranda claps her hands. “Contestants, our next arrival is here!”
We migrate toward the terrace railing, drinks in hand. Someone makes a joke about “first impressions.” Someone else laughs too loudly.
The stairs below the terrace come into view. A man climbs them, polished and confident, smile already in place—until his gaze lands on Emily.
