Page 125 of The Fake Out Flex

Trace is usually pretty uptight, but this is extreme. Even for him.

"Family meeting. Downstairs. Now." He stomps over to the door, then glares at me over his shoulder. "Now, Fraser."

"Okay, okay. I'm coming."

Geez.

I slip the present Evie gave me tonight into my top desk drawer and follow my irate brother downstairs.

It's a non-filming night.

The house feels oddly quiet without cameras and crew everywhere when it should just feel normal.

But nothing feels normal anymore.

Not since Mom and Dad decided to put our lives on display for the whole country to tune into every week and pick apart every conversation, every argument, every carefully orchestrated scene for their viewing pleasure.

I hate it.

Trace and I step into the living room. Mom, Dad, Clayton, and Dawn are all there, sitting around with solemn looks on their faces. I'm tempted to joke, "Who died?" but I have the good sense not to since someone might have actually died. The vibe is that gloomy.

"What's going on?" I ask as Dad says, "Where were you?"

"Nowhere."

I sit down beside Dawn. Her eyes are red-rimmed, cheeks flushed. "Are you okay?" I whisper to her, but she only turns away from me.

"Effective immediately, we are making some changes," my father's commanding voice fills the living room. "Filming is canceled."

My brothers and I stare at each other in disbelief.

"Are you serious?" Clayton cries out, visibly upset.

I'm in shock at Dad's announcement, but the last thing I am is upset.

Good riddance, I say. If I never have another camera shoved in my face again, it'll be too soon.

"We're in the middle of filming the season," Clayton carries on. "We can't just stop abruptly like this. We've signed contracts. Aren't we obligated?"

"We are," Dad replies tersely. "And the network has already threatened legal action. But I'll take care of that."

"Mom? Are you okay with this?" Clayton asks, turning to her as the obvious choice for support. Out of all of us, it's him and Mom who are the most into the show.

"I am. I agree with your father," Mom answers Clay, before she slowly makes eye contact with the rest of us. "And from now on, we're implementing a new rule. No one speaks to the press."

"No one," Dad reiterates, his voice practically a growl. "I don't care what they ask you, what they say to you, or where they accost you. You are to remain tight-lipped and say nothing. Not even a no comment. Nothing."

"Why?" Trace speaks up. "Why are we doing this?"

"This is going to have huge implications," Clayton says, pushing to his feet. He begins pacing, charging his fingers through his hair. "We can't stop filming. They won't let us. We're going to be in trouble. There will be repercussions."

Yeah, and you'll stop being reality-TV-famous, I think to myself because that's what he really cares about. But for the second time tonight, I manage to restrain myself.

"Sit down!" Dad barks.

Clayton stops mid-stride, stunned.

We're all stunned.

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