Page 77 of Groomsman to Groom

Darren’s eyes narrow slightly. “Anything I should know about?”

“Just some spiritual guidance.” Skye touches the origami birds in her hair. “Reminding Hayes that sometimes the universe removes people from our path to make room for our true destiny.” She winks at me. “Isn’t that right, Hayes?”

I force a smile, channeling every acting class I never took. “Yes, exactly.”

Darren doesn’t look entirely convinced, but he nods. “Well, we still need those confessionals. And Hayes,” he adds, his tone deceptively casual, “stay on script.”

The threat couldn’t be clearer if he’d spelled it out. I stand, straightening my jacket. “I remember. I’m ready to tell the viewers exactly how difficult tonight’s decision was, and how excited I am to continue this journey with Serena, Luna, and Annabelle.”

Something like approval flashes across Darren’s face. “Perfect.” He steps aside, gesturing for me to precede him through the door. “After you.”

I glance back at Skye, who gives me an almost imperceptible nod. A promise. Help is coming, her eyes seem to say. Just hold on.

And I have to believe in her. Because the alternative—that I’ve lost Brielle forever only trying to protect her—is too painful to contemplate.

28

Home Sweet Home?

BRIELLE

The reality of elimination hits me as I slide my key into my apartment lock. For weeks, I’ve lived in a mansion with other women, cameras documenting my every move, my every expression, my growing feelings for a man who ultimately sent me home with tears in his eyes and an inexplicable “I love you” on his lips. Now I’m just... back. Back to my IKEA furniture and the faint smell of the eucalyptus candle I must have burned before I left. Back to a life that suddenly feels like it belongs to someone else.

The door swings open with a creak I never noticed before. Everything is exactly as I left it four weeks ago—coffee mug in the sink, screenplay draft splayed open on the counter, sweaterdraped over my reading chair—yet it all feels foreign, like I’ve wandered into an exhibit of someone else’s life.

“Home sweet home,” I whisper to no one.

The silence that answers is deafening after weeks of constant chatter, camera crews, and producer directions. I drop my bags by the door, my fingers lingering on the handle of my suitcase, still warm from the car service that delivered me to my door. I should unpack. I should shower. I should call my agent. I should do anything except stand here, paralyzed, in the entryway of my own apartment.

My phone buzzes for the fiftieth time since I turned it back on last night. Notifications cascade down my screen—calls from my agent, texts from friends who’ve seen the episode previews, DMs from strangers with opinions. I silence it without looking at any of them. I’m not ready for the outside world yet.

Instead, I shuffle to the kitchen, fill a glass with warm bottled water, and gulp it down while staring at nothing. The mansion had filtered ice-cold water in crystal decanters. Hayes would always add a sprig of mint to his, a habit I found endearing in its pretentiousness. The memory of him—standing at the kitchen island, methodically bruising mint leaves between his fingers before adding them to his water—hits me with physical force. My glass slips, crashes into the sink, and shatters.

“Perfect,” I mutter, not bothering to clean it up. “Very symbolic, universe. Real subtle.”

I abandon the kitchen and drop onto my sofa, which feels both too soft and not soft enough after the mansion’s designer furniture. My laptop sits on the coffee table, its presence accusatory. There are deadlines waiting, meetings to reschedule, a career to salvage after my reality TV detour. God, that amounted tonothing. But opening that laptop means accepting I’m back to normal life, that the Hayes chapter is closed, that the fantasy is over.

I can’t do it. Not yet.

Instead, I grab my keys and flee my apartment like it’s on fire. I can’t be alone with my thoughts, with the ghost of the life I had before Hayes and the shadow of what might have been. There’s only one place I can go, one person who will understand without me having to explain.

The drive to Paisley’s house is a blur. I operate on autopilot, barely registering the familiar streets, the stoplights, the fact that I’m now just another anonymous driver in Atlanta traffic instead of a contestant being ferried around in production vehicles.

By the time I pull into Paisley’s driveway, my hands are shaking. I sit there for a long moment, engine idling, gathering courage. Through the front window, I can see movement—Paisley with her baby on her hip, her daughter coloring at the kitchen table eating breakfast. Normal life. Family. Love that doesn’t come with cameras and producers and key ceremonies.

I must have been sitting there longer than I realized, because suddenly Paisley appears at my car window, concern etched on her features. She taps gently on the glass. I roll it down, attempting a smile that feels like it might crack my face.

“How long were you planning to sit out here?” she asks, no preamble, just the direct approach that is so fundamentally Paisley.

“I wasn’t... I just...” The words tangle in my throat.

“Come inside, Bri,” she says softly, reaching through the window to turn off my ignition. “You look like hell.”

It’s such a Paisley thing to say—honest, unvarnished, with an undercurrent of fierce love—that something inside me cracks. Tears spring to my eyes. The first I’ve allowed myself since the limo drove me away from Hayes.

Somehow, I make it from the car to her front door, each step requiring more effort than it should. The moment we’re inside,the moment I hear her click the lock behind us, the dam breaks. My knees buckle, and I collapse into my sister’s waiting arms, a sob tearing from my throat that sounds more animal than human.

“Shhh, I’ve got you,” she murmurs, lowering us both to the floor right there in her entryway. “Let it out, baby girl. I’m here.”

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