Page 8 of Doctor’s Forbidden Match

“Yeah, Pulse Boutique is great. Eloise, the owner, can order things in, too, if you want something specific,” Mia says as she starts to work some kind of serum through my hair. It smells like coconut.

“What’s it like living in LA?” Jaina asks, dotting cream under my eyes with a small brush. Her voice drops slightly, becoming wistful. “Is it really like everyone says?”

I consider the question carefully. These women have been nothing but kind, and I don’t want to sound like I’m bragging. “It’s great. Fast-paced, expensive, competitive. I don’t get to enjoy my apartment as much as I’d like because I’m always working or looking for the next job. But the opportunities are incredible if you’re willing to fight for them.”

Jaina’s brush moves more slowly. “That sounds amazing. I’d love to experience that energy someday. Maybe build a career there, you know? Instead of just here.”

Her shoulders sag slightly.

I catch her gaze. “I could make some calls and see if any of my friends are looking for someone.” The offer comes out before I’ve fully thought it through, but I mean it. I remember how impossible it felt breaking into the industry, how many doors slammed in my face.

Her eyes widen, hope flickering across her features. “Really? You’d do that?”

“There may be a lot of artists, but most of them are super busy. Would you be open to weddings?” I think about my event planner friend, Nikkita, who’s always complaining about flaky contractors. “High-end ones, celebrities, that kind of thing?”

“I’d take anything that’s regular,” she says, sounding excited.

“Let me make some calls, and I’ll let you know. I can’t promise anything, but I’ll try.”

Jaina’s whole face transforms as she beams. She blinks rapidly, and I realize she’s fighting back tears. “Thank you. Seriously, that would be… God, thank you.”

She pats something cool under my eyes. “You guys are making me too relaxed. I might fall asleep in this chair.”

“Well, your tea is here, so maybe drink that first,” Karyn says, appearing at my elbow with a steaming paper cup. The scent of honey and green tea wafts toward me.

“Good idea, then I need to read over my lines one more time.” I’ve already memorized them, but I want to be perfect today. So flawless that this isn’t the last time I work with this producer. I want them to enjoy working with me, to make this permanent.

This hosting gig is my shot at proving I’m more than just another reality contestant and influencer cashing in on fifteen minutes of fame. The network is watching, and the producer is notoriously hard to please, so if I nail this contract, I could land the permanent hosting spot for the next season.

I sip my tea and read my lines, while the girls chat about their lives, and before I know it, an hour has passed. My hair is styled in loose waves that look effortless but probably took Mia thirty minutes to get just right, and my makeup is full glam, with glowing skin, defined eyes, and a nude-pink lip.

“You look amazing,” Karyn says, grinning at me in the mirror.

“You guys are miracle workers.” Stepping out of the trailer, I head over to the homes that are in various states of renovations.

The director, Dain, is a man in his fifties, and when he spots me, he gives me a curt nod.

“Hannah. Let’s walk through the opening shot first. I want you to feel out the space before we roll.”

Anxiety spikes immediately. This is the moment that determines whether I belong here or not.

We walk the path together, and Dain explains his vision. The camera will follow me as I approach the first house, gesturing to the architectural details, setting the tone for the entire season. It’s straightforward and exactly what I’ve trained for.

But when the cameras roll, my mind blanks. Just a rush of panic. What if I can’t do this?

Then I breathe, find my feet, and deliver, “Welcome to Reality Renovation, Spring Edition, where five couples will compete to transform these historic homes into modern masterpieces while preserving their original charm. No eliminations, no shortcuts—every couple sees their renovation through to the finish line. The couple with the most impressive transformation walks away with the grand cash prize.”

The first few shots go smoothly. My confidence builds with each take. But then we move to the technical script, a line about “load-bearing walls and original crown molding,” and my tongue stumbles around the words.

Dain says, “Again,” in a tight voice.

Second take. I mess up the same word again. My frustration boils under my skin, making me hot all over.

By the fourth take, I’m frustrated with myself, and Dain exchanges an impatient look with his assistant.

I take a deep breath, trying to pull myself together. My hands are shaking, so I curl them tightly.

“Let’s take a break,” Dain finally says, and I’m relieved.