Page 18 of The Final Rose

The voice calls me to whip my eyes from Vera to a girl, and once she approaches, the rest of them circle us and the momentis broken. I throw them a media-trained smile and keep things light. Vera watches me in doubt and my stomach plummets.

In a way, her accusation is true. Callie whispered in my ear to pick Vera, and that’s why I did it.

Callie, a producer.

She has access to the backstage, to the showrunners. She understands what’s happening much more than I do.

As I numbly talk about my choice of suit and how the beverages are indeed heavenly, my mind doesn’t rest.

I should take the opportunity to get to meet the girls, but all I can think about is Callie.

Why do I trust her? Why did I let myself forget for a second that she’s a producer?

It wasn’t long ago when I called Maverick and told him I was going in with my eyes wide open. I would let nothing steer me. No one could put words in my mouth.

And here I am. Right in the first week, a marionette.

I remove Elliana’s biofrom the pile and then spread all the pictures on my hotel bed. I take the armchair to the side, my elbows resting on my knees, and I breathe.

Maybe I’m blowing this out of proportion, but I can’t shake Vera’s insinuation. And what bugs me is that I don’t feel manipulated.

Callie told me something, and I followed. No questions asked, no moment where I reminded her this is my life. I should eliminate who I want.

I just blindly followed her, and I wonder if it’s possible to trust someone so quickly. Especially someone you shouldn’t. Thephone rings, but my eyes never leave the pictures. I don't know why I’m playing the staring game, but I am.

It rings again, and this time I glance in the direction of the hotel phone. No one knows I’m here but the production, so obviously it’s one of them. I stand up and reach for the bedside table, my pajama bottoms hanging low, and my forehead scrunched in a frown.

“Yes?”

“Oh good, you’re there.”

Her voice fills my ear, and for just a second, I forget I was supposed to be angry. She has a raspy quality to her voice, a little out of breath at times, sassiness, and something else.

I close my eyes and breathe, “Something wrong?”

“What are you talking about? I promised to call so we can talk about the girls. You said you needed someone.”

I said all that, but now I’m struggling to remember why it was appropriate to confide in a producer. It’s the way Callie talks, the way she moves around the set that almost makes you think she’s a friend.

But she’s the one conducting the one-on-one interviews, isn’t she? It means she’s literally paid to make us feel at ease.

I can’t forget about that.

“You didn’t need to ring me. The elimination is over.”

She blows a raspberry. “Well, but you have a group date to go on and many more eliminations. So, let’s talk.”

My chest constricts. My eyes are glued to the pictures of the girls in front of me.

“Sebastian?” Her voice calls my name. “Why are you being so weird, dude? What the hell is going on?”

I don’t ask how she knows something is wrong with me. Instead, I let out a shuddering breath and give up on the charade.

“Why Vera?”

“Again with this?”

“Why are you pushing so hard for her?”

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