Page 75 of Groomsman to Groom

In the privacy of the limo’s dark interior, I finally let go. The sob that tears from my throat doesn’t even sound human—it’s the raw, primal sound of a heart shattering. I curl into myself on the leather seat, arms wrapped around my knees, body shaking with the force of my grief.

It wasn’t supposed to end like this. Not after everything we’d shared. Not after the way he’d looked at me so many times, like I was something precious he was afraid of losing. Not after the private moments the cameras never caught—the whispered conversations, the secret smiles, the way he’d squeeze my hand three times when no one was looking, our unspoken code for emotions too dangerous to voice on a show where everything is public property. Not after he told me he was falling for me. Or now, that he loved me!

The limo glides through the night, taking me away from the mansion, away from Hayes, away from the future I’d foolishly begun to imagine. Through my tears, I watch the landscape blur past the tinted windows, palm trees and luxury homes gradually giving way to normal streets, normal life.

What happens now? In twenty minutes, I’ll be in some anonymous hotel room, debriefed by producers, relieved of my microphone, suddenly irrelevant to the narrative that will continue without me. Tomorrow, I’ll be back in my apartment,trying to explain to my agent why being eliminated as a villain on national television is actually great exposure for a screenwriter. In a few months, I’ll watch the edited version of my humiliation broadcast to millions, see how they shape the story of Brielle the Betrayer, the woman who knew Hayes before, who couldn’t be trusted.

And Hayes will be engaged to someone else. Serena, probably. They make sense on paper—both successful professionals, both photogenic, both with compelling backstories that viewers can root for. I imagine their finale, their engagement photos inPeoplemagazine, their eventual wedding special. The thought triggers a fresh wave of tears.

Silver lining: at least they won’t air footage of Luna calling me out for knowing Hayes before the show started filming. They would be liable since I told them, and they let me on the show, anyway. It’d be incredibly foolish to put that kind of liability on themselves. Darren isn’t that boneheaded. Is he?

My phone—confiscated at the beginning of filming and now returned as part of my exit package—buzzes on the seat beside me. A message from Paisley.

Call me when you can. Miss you.

She’ll be thrilled to hear that in a few months, my humiliation will be trending on Instagram, dissected in Facebook groups, debated on Reddit.

I drop the phone without responding. I can’t talk to Paisley yet, can’t bear to hear her say “I told you so” about the risks of reality TV. Can’t face the reality of what just happened.

The limo speeds toward Midtown, Atlanta, carrying me away from the “fairytale.” But as the city lights appear on the horizon, I make myself a promise: this isn’t the final scene. Not for me. Not yet.

Because if there’s one thing I know as a writer, it’s that every ending is just the beginning of a different story.

27

The After Party

HAYES

Iwalk back into the mansion, feeling like a shell of myself. The weight of what I’ve just done—sending Brielle away—sits on my chest like a concrete block. My hand still tingles where hers touched it last, and her tear-streaked face is branded into my memory. I promised her honesty, and then I let Darren manipulate me into the most dishonest act of my life. I let her go. I sent her away. And for what? The justifications that seemed so solid an hour ago now feel like hot air.

The foyer lights hit me, and I pause, gathering whatever scraps of composure I can find before facing the women who remain.

I love you, but there were just too many things working against us.Coward’s words. I should have said, “I love you, and I’m not strong enough to fight for us.” That would have been the truth.

A production assistant hovers nearby, eyeing me with the nervous energy of someone watching a bomb that might detonate.

“Mr. Burke? They’re waiting in the living room.”

Of course they are. The show must go on. The charade must continue.

I move through the hallway on autopilot, absurdly noting how the overhead lighting would need to be diffused to hide the pallor of my skin, the haunted look I know is in my eyes. August would call this my “sad Thor face.”

August. My son, who asked about Brielle this morning.

The living room opens before me, and I’m hit with a wall of perfume, expectation, and tension. Serena stands near the fireplace, elegant in black velvet, her eyes assessing me with precision. Annabelle perches on the edge of the sofa, her red hair falling in soft waves, fingers nervously twisting the key I just gave her.

But it’s Luna who makes something in my gut burn. The woman I was going to happily send home tonight before I was forced to change course. Yet here she stands, confident in a crimson dress, smiling like she holds all the cards.

“Everyone.” I wring my hands. “Thank you for your patience.”

A production assistant hands me a champagne flute filled to the top. I take it. “I’d like to propose a toast.” The script flows automatically despite the chaos in my mind. “To the three incredible women standing before me. This journey hasn’t been easy, but each of you has shown me something special, something that makes me excited about what’s to come.”

The words taste like ash on my tongue. All I can think about is Brielle, alone in that limo, crying, devastated. Probably hating me. Did she understand the message I tried to send her? That I love her, but forces beyond my control were working against us? Or does she think I played her, stringing her along, only to cut her loose when things got complicated?

“To new beginnings.” Serena raises her glass, but her eyes look heavy.

“To finding love!” Luna’s enthusiasm grates on my already frayed nerves.

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