"Truth under bright lights never hides for long."
The studio lights were too bright.
Ava sat center-stage on a gleaming white sofa, surrounded by sleek floral displays and LED panels cycling through romantic skyline animations. Cameras circled on slow-moving tracks.
A production crew moved like dancers around the perimeter — clipboard clicks, headset whispers, countdowns flashing in red lights.
Across from her, Ryan adjusted the cuff of his dark blazer like this was a legal negotiation instead of a televised compatibility test broadcast to half of South Korea.
He looked annoyingly good under pressure.
"So," he murmured under his breath, "what's the over/under on me ruining this with one bad joke?"
"You already did that by showing up in a blazer that tight," Ava said, forcing a smile as another camera swung toward them.
Ryan smirked.
The host—a chipper woman with pastel nails and a voice like a windchime—stepped into the spotlight.
