Page 12 of Groomsman to Groom

“That’s my girl.” Skye grins. “Now let’s get back out there before people start gossiping even more.”

I return to the main part of the mansion with new resolve. Instead of hiding in corners, I make an effort to engage with the women who seem genuine. Annabelle tells me about her dyslexia and how she overcame it to become a children’s book author. Serena shares her passion for chemistry and her dream of developing eco-friendly cosmetics. I find myself genuinely enjoying their company, this unexpected sisterhood forming amidst the competition.

Luna approaches me, and we talk about how she’s a professional influencer, which is really interesting. Then she says, “Well, we made sure Hayes’ll remember us.”

“We did.” I laugh. “You looked much prettier than I did, though. Good choice with Daenerys.”

“Thanks. I better do okay, or all my followers will think I don’t know how to flirt—the reason they come to my podcast.”

As the night winds down, Skye announces that we should all prepare for the first “Lock & Key Ceremony” where Hayes will give special keys to the women he wants to keep around, unlocking the next layer of his heart. The metaphor is about as subtle as a sledgehammer, but it’s cute.

Exhausted from the emotional roller coaster of the evening, I slip away to one of the mansion’s many balconies, seeking fresh air and a moment of peace. The night sky is clear, stars visible despite the lights from the mansion. I lean against the railing, looking up, and spot a shooting star streaking across the darkness.

Always make a wish, Mom’s voice echoes in my memory.Just in case.

4

Pay It Forward

BRIELLE

Isurvived. Not just survived but thrived—if thriving means I didn’t ugly-cry on upcoming national television when Hayes handed me a key last night. The first Lock & Key ceremony ofGroomsman to Groomis officially behind me, which feels less like an accomplishment and more like riding out the initial wave of a zombie apocalypse. Sure, I’m still standing, but there are nineteen more women ready to tear me apart for a chance at Hayes’s heart, and we’ve only just begun.

I stretch my arms overhead, watching the sun creep over the mansion’s immaculate lawn. It’s 5:13 AM according to my watch, and the house is still quiet, everyone asleep. Last night’s elimination took out ten contestants, and while I shouldn’t feelrelieved that strangers got sent home with crushed dreams, I absolutely do. Ten fewer women competing for Hayes means ten fewer potential nemeses plotting my demise.

Serena, Luna, and Annabelle made it through too, which gives me at least three allies in this designer-label hunger games. Unfortunately, Gabby also scored a key, along with her minions, Kavita and Jordan, the runner with a shark smile. When Hayes called Gabby’s name, she practically floated across the room, her pageant perfect hair bouncing with each step, her smile dripping with false modesty. I swear she shot me a look that said, “See? He prefers real women, not Trekkies.”

Whatever. I didn’t come here just for Hayes, anyway. I came here because I need a chance to find a romantic connectionoutsideof work. I needed a break from staring at my apartment walls while grieving, and because—okay, fine—Hayes and I had something on that beach that still makes my stomach flip when I think about it.

I pull on my running shoes, desperate for some alone time before another day of forced socialization begins. We have a lot of down time when Hayes is on dates and challenges with other women, but when it’s our turn, the producers have our schedules mapped out: group dates, one-on-ones, cocktail parties, and “spontaneous” activities that are about as impromptu as tax season. But every morning is unstructured so the women and Hayes can sleep in after a long night.

Slipping out the back door, I take my first deep breath of the day. The air is crisp, untainted by the scent of twenty different perfumes battling for dominance. The grounds of this place are ridiculous—five acres of manicured gardens, a swimming pool, and enough rose bushes to supply a florist for a year. Perfect for a morning run.

I start jogging down the stone path, passing a fountain featuring what appears to be a cherub riding a dolphin—becausenothing says “true love” like a naked baby on a sea mammal. The gravel crunches beneath my shoes as I pick up pace, my thoughts clearing with each step.

This is what I’ve been missing—solitude. Some people crave constant interaction, but I need quiet to refuel. My brain works overtime when I’m writing, creating entire universes and complex character arcs. Then I have to switch gears and be “on” for social situations, which requires a whole different kind of mental energy. Rinse and repeat until I’m basically running on fumes and caffeine.

I turn off the main path onto a narrower trail that winds through a section of more natural-looking gardens. Someone designed this area to appear untamed while still being meticulously maintained—the landscape equivalent of “I woke up like this” makeup.

The path curves around a stand of weeping willows, their branches creating a curtain that shields a small stone bench from view of the main house. Perfect. I slow to a walk, catching my breath, then check my fitness watch. I’ve covered nearly two miles, enough to call it a decent workout.

The bench sits beside a small pond where koi fish glide beneath lily pads. No cameras in sight. No microphones picking up my every sigh. No women sizing me up as competition or producers nudging me toward contrived drama. Just me and my thoughts—and my printed screenplay, which I’ve stashed in my oversized running jacket.

We’re allowed to bring one printed book, or Bible, so I chose my screenplay to “read,” but really, to work on. The rules are in place to make us so bored we’ll fight over nothing. But my deadline is impossible unless I at least edit while I’m here.

I pull out my packet and settle on the bench. I love my solitude while working, and, actually, I often rent a cabin in a remote place when I’m on deadline. It works like magic for me.

The tab marks the page I worked on yesterday—a rough-draft of a scene where my protagonist discovers that her AI-created hallucination is actually based on a real person from her repressed memories. I slip into the zone, that magical head space where time dissolves.

I’m so deep in the flow that I don’t notice the footsteps approaching until a voice breaks through my concentration.

“Hey, Brielle?”

I slam my papers shut with the guilty reflex of someone caught watching porn, my heart hammering in my chest. A man stands a few feet away, holding a coffee mug and wearing a headset around his neck. It takes me a moment to place him—an assistant producer, the one with the kind eyes who’s always lurking in the background during filming.

“Sorry.” He raises his free hand in surrender. “Didn’t mean to spy. I just saw you working and thought it might beHallucination AIseason two, and I got excited.”

I narrow my eyes. “You know who I am?”

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