“Yes,” I say, without hesitation.
I lift the linen from my dough, checking the surface, even though I already know it’s fine. The motion gives me something to do with my hands.
Theo’s smile sharpens and Judy crosses her arms, expression shifting, subtle but satisfied. Like they’ve pulled something out of me they can use.
“Even if it puts a target on your back?” Theo presses.
My jaw ticks at the implied threat, and I press my fingers into the dough, feeling its resistance.
“If fairness puts a target on my back,” I say, voice even, “that says more about you than it does about me.”
The second it leaves my mouth, I know it was a mistake. And now they know exactly where to aim when they come for me.
Across the aisle, Taylor glances over. She catches my eye and offers a small smile, and the tension lodged in my chest eases. I drag a hand across my chest, fingers pressing lightly over my sternum as I hold her gaze a beat longer than I should.
“Fair enough,” Judy says, too quickly. “Tell us about your showstopper.”
Her smile returns like a switch flipped. It’s warm and welcoming, like the last minute never happened.
The shift is disorienting.
I inhale a sharp breath, then launch into a safe, automatic explanation. A whole lot of technical details that most people don’t pay attention to and are way easier to talk about.
To their credit, the hosts nod along, listening like I’m saying something meaningful. Then they move on, redirecting their attention to Diane as if I’d already been filed away.
I drop my head and let out a slow breath, tension bleeding out of my shoulders.
Out of the corner of my eye, I catch Taylor again, completely absorbed in her work. I hold the sight for another second, then square my shoulders and get back to mine.
The rest of the time in the tent flies by. Judging goes as expected. Brandon and I land at the top. Taylor and Diane take the middle. RaeAnn and Lila fall into the bottom two.
Our resident influencer smiles like she’s in the top, not at risk of going home. It’s the same bright, polished expression she’s worn every week she’s survived when she shouldn’t have.
I watch the judges speak, hands folded loosely in front of me, my expression neutral. Inside, however, irritation coils low and familiar.
Not at her, necessarily, but at the machine itself.
Production and the network have been protecting her. I should have noticed it sooner. I mean, for fuck’s sake—I grew up in this. Different industry, sure. But same mechanics.
Marketability, retention, leverage, relevance.
It’s the same beast hiding behind a different face.
When her name is finally called, the tent stills.
For a fraction of a second, Lila looks genuinely shocked. Like she believed she was safe again this week. If there was any doubt before, it’s clear now that she knew what they were doing, and expected it to keep working.
Then her face collapses, and she puts on a different kind of performance for the cameras, full of crocodile tears and breathless hiccups.
It takes everything in me not to roll my eyes at her.
Her elimination is long overdue.
Applause swells as people gather around her, offering hugs and promises to stay in touch, to call, to meet up after this is all over. The cameras move in closer, hungry for every second of it.
I clap because it’s expected, but my attention drifts.
Not to Lila or production, but to something else entirely. A thought I can’t seem to shake. Nothing here goes untouched. Not the judging. Not the narratives. Not the way conflict gets shaped into episodes.
