The mansion felt colder now, larger somehow. Harper stood in her new suite—bigger, brighter, and undeniably lonelier. She was the last one standing. The only one left to play the part of Eli Rivers' girlfriend.
She stared at the racks of gowns lined against the walls, all perfectly steamed and labeled with her name. A stylist would arrive shortly, along with a makeup artist and another PR handler whose job was to ensure Harper didn't say anything that could damage "the brand."
It didn't feel like winning. It felt like drowning in velvet and lip gloss.
Her phone buzzed with a schedule update:
8:00 AM – Personal Styling Session 10:00 AM – Etiquette Coaching 12:00 PM – Media Prep 3:00 PM – Wardrobe Finalization 6:00 PM – Rehearsal for Public Gala Appearance
It was relentless.
By the time she was zipped into a soft cream dress and her curls were styled to perfection, Harper had rehearsed small talk with six PR trainers and learned how to laugh on cue.
But nothing prepared her for the way the staff looked at her now.
She was no longer just a girl in the competition. She was the girl.
Darius found her outside by the fountain, fiddling with her bracelet.
"Careful," he said, easing beside her. "That face you're making—it's too real for TV."
Harper laughed, but it caught in her throat. "I don't know how to be what they want."
"Good," he said. "That's why you're here."
"Why are you here, Darius? I mean, you're not crew."
He shrugged. "Eli and I grew up in the same label family. I'm the friend who tells him when his ego's showing."
"Does it show often?"
"All the time." Darius grinned. "But especially now."
Later that evening, Harper walked into a candlelit dinner set for two. Cameras lingered just far enough to pretend they weren't there. Eli stood when she entered, dressed in a black button-down, collar open, eyes unreadable.
"You clean up well," he said softly.
"You say that like you expected me not to."
He gave a small, almost-smile. "I expected someone to quit by now."
They sat. Silverware clinked softly against porcelain. A string quartet played faintly from somewhere in the halls.
Harper cleared her throat. "So… this is weird, right?"
"Extremely."
He poured her water. "You did well today. The interview especially."
"Did I?" She looked up, hesitant.
"You were honest. People underestimate that."
"And Vanessa?"
"She was honest too. About the wrong things."
The conversation drifted between awkward and oddly tender—Eli asking about her life before the show, Harper giving clipped answers that hinted at struggles she wasn't ready to voice.
He didn't press.
But when dessert came and the plates were cleared, he leaned back in his chair and fixed her with a look that cooled her spine.
"I need to be clear about something," he said. "This arrangement… it's still fake."
"I know."
"I mean, no real feelings. No expectations."
She blinked. "Are you warning me not to fall for you?"
"I'm reminding you this is business."
Harper looked at him carefully. "Then maybe you should remember not to make it feel personal."
They didn't speak much after that.
As Harper returned to her room, the silence pressed in harder than any camera flash.
Tomorrow, she would have to smile through interviews, photo ops, and chemistry tests. She would wear tailored clothes and pretend this was all normal. But tonight, she allowed herself one raw moment beneath the silk sheets—wondering how something fake could already feel so real.