She’s smiling wide, effortless and camera-ready.
“Hey, bestie,” she chirps, eyes flicking to the screen. “We survivedItalian Week.”
I hover just inside the doorway, suddenly unsure how to start. Kara is usually the one who confronts people. I’m the “nice” one.
“Hey.”
She taps something on her phone, the smile softening but not disappearing. “Okay, guys, I’m gonna hop off for now,” she says, blowing a kiss. “Love you all. Lila out!”
The smile drops the second the phone goes dark.
She tosses her phone onto the bedside table, rubbing her temples in deep circles. I step farther into the room, setting my bag down a little too carefully. “Congrats on the technical.”
“Thanks.” She smooths her hair over one shoulder, not missing a beat, already reaching for a makeup wipe. “It was wild, right? That technical was brutal.”
I hum, noncommittal, and sit on the edge of my bed. I don’t look at her when I speak. “Can I ask you something?”
“Sure,” she says with a casual shrug.
I sit back, resting my weight on my hands. “Did you actually turn those pizzelle in?”
The air changes, and her eyes flick to mine.
“I just—at the table, I noticed something weird. And maybe I’m wrong, but—”
She tosses her wipe in the small garbage can near her bed, leaning back against her pillows. Her expression is pleasant enough, though a little condescending. Like she’s humoring a child.
“What are you talking about, Taylor?”
I swallow, pressing on, afraid I’ll lose my nerve. “Those pizzelle… they weren’tyours.”
Much to my surprise, she just laughs. It’s not loud or defensive. Just a small, surprised sound as a hand flutters to cover her mouth.
“Oh my god,” she says. “Are we really doing this?”
“I’m not accusing you of anything.” I amend quickly, though it definitely feels like I am. “I just thought maybe there was a mistake, or—”
“Or what?” she asks, tilting her head. The motion is almost predatory, making me swallow hard against the lump of nerves forming in my throat. “You think I cheated.”
“I’m not saying that. I think production stepped in.”
Her smile sharpens as she stands, crossing the room toward me at a pace that suddenly feels territorial. “You know how this works, right?”
“I thought I did.”
And that’s the truth. I genuinely thought this show was a bunch of home bakers coming together in good faith. We’d all show up, do our best, and the most talented among us would win the grand prize.
“It’s a show, Taylor.Entertainment. People want stories. They want faces they recognize.” She gestures toward her phone. “I give them that.”
“And the rest of us don’t?” I ask, a little offended.
She studies me for a beat and chews the inside of her cheek like she’s deciding how honest to be. “I don’t know,” she says at last, her tone clearly over this entire conversation. “It sounds to me like you’re just jealous because you’re irrelevant.”
Her words land between us, stark and ugly. No, the onlyirrelevantthing in this room is her. She isn’t talented or special; she just spends a lot of time pretending to be someone likable online.
I blink a few times before plastering a smile on my face, because that’s what I do when I’m surprised. “Irrelevant?”
She shrugs again, already turning back toward her bed.
