1 I never expected to run into my wife of three years on the set of a reality dating show. Serena Ross was an A-list darling with two Best Actress statuettes sitting on her mantel and enough star power to shut down LAX whenever she landed. I, on the other hand, was an uncredited working actor whose greatest career milestone was handing a poisoned goblet to an A-list lead in a period drama two seasons ago. Our marriage was an arrangement brokered by our grandmothers before mine passed away. We had a private ceremony with fewer than ten people, signed the papers, and drew up a clear set of rules: keep it off the public radar, never interfere with each other’s careers, play the dutiful couple at family holiday dinners, and live completely separate lives the moment the front door closed. Over the last three years, the number of nights we spent under the same roof barely required two hands to count. So when she walked through the doors of The Coastline Retreat—a beachfront villa in Malibu rigged with forty live-streaming cameras—my fingers froze around my glass of water, nearly letting it shatter against the hardwood. Serena stopped dead in her tracks. The sleek black pen in her hand gave a sharp, involuntary click. We ended up standing at the far end of the emergency stairwell during the pre-show break, staring at each other like two thieves caught with their hands in the same safe. “What are you doing here?” I kept my voice low. She looked at me, her sharp hazel eyes narrowing. “What are you doing here?” “One of the male leads threw his back out this morning,” I said. “The casting director called me seven times begging for a last-minute fill-in.” “My agency booked this as part of a promotional rollout.” Silence settled between us, heavy and suffocating. After half a minute, Serena asked, “Did production pair you up with anyone before you walked in?” I shook my head. “Did they pair you?” “They want a showmance between me and Mason Price.” Mason Price. The twenty-two-year-old pop prodigy turned screen heartthrob. Flawless skin, tailored streetwear, and an army of rabid teenage fans. Just last month, I worked as his scene partner and body double on a streaming series. He took fourteen takes to get through a single crying scene, and when the show aired, the edit used the back of my head and my trembling hands for the close-ups. Twitter spent three days praising his ‘shattered, raw vulnerability.’ In this town, building your brand on someone else’s uncredited labor wasn’t an outrage; it was just Tuesday. I let out a dry, quiet laugh. “You’re Serena Ross. Since when does your agency dictate who you date on camera?” She pressed two fingers against the bridge of her nose. “The network and the studio finalized the press package before I even saw the schedule.” “You didn’t want to come?” “I’ve turned down every unscripted show for five years.” “Then why are you standing in this stairwell?” She looked past the heavy fire door toward the hallway, where production assistants were calling for touch-ups. “My father asked me to do it. He said the Price family did ours a massive favor back in the day, and Mason’s team needed an A-list co-star to cement his transition into serious film.” I didn’t answer. The Ross family had once owed my grandmother a debt, too. If they hadn’t, my grandmother would never have pushed me into this hollow marriage in the first place. Serena caught my eye. “It’s just television, Jesse. It’s business.” “I know the drill. Scripted chemistry.” She paused, studying my face. “What about you? Are you planning on actually looking for someone here?” I almost laughed. “Relax. I’m seat-filler. I smile, stay out of the way, collect my day rate, and walk out of here as single as I arrived.” Serena looked at me for two long seconds. “Single?” I lifted my left hand, lightly tapping the empty space on my ring finger. “To the rest of the world, isn’t that what we are?” The producer’s voice outside grew frantic, shouting for the talent. I pushed the stairwell door open first. Right by the craft services table stood Mason Price, holding a ceramic mug of hot tea. He glanced at me, then at Serena stepping out right behind me, his boyish face breaking into an easy, calculated smile. “Hey, Jesse,” Mason said smoothly. “You and Serena know each other?” Serena fell in beside him, her expression perfectly composed. “We worked on a set together once.” Mason beamed. “Oh, got it. For a second there, I thought you two were close.” I looked at the steam curling off his mug. “Not at all.” Serena’s gaze flicked to my face, but I didn’t look back. 2 The eight of us—four men, four women—sat on the low linen couches in the living room facing the panoramic ocean view. The main cameras zeroed in on Serena and Mason immediately. Production had seated them side by side, with nothing between them but a single throw pillow. I was shoved onto the furthest armchair by the potted ficus, barely in the wide shot. When the introduction reached me, I gave a brief nod to the lens. “I’m Jesse Cole. Working actor.” Across from us, the live chat monitor flickered with viewer comments: Serena Ross is actually here?! Mason and Serena look insanely gorgeous together. Who is Jesse Cole? He played the guard who died in episode three, right? Looks familiar, but totally forgettable. I picked up a grape from the fruit platter and chewed it slowly. The comments weren’t wrong about my status, even if they had no idea the associate producer had practically begged on his knees for me to save their production schedule. For the first round of anonymous ‘First Impression’ votes, I tossed my vote to Nora Finch, an indie folk singer sitting quietly across the room with her guitar case leaning against her leg. When the board lit up, I had zero votes. All three other male contestants had voted for Serena. Serena’s vote was locked on Mason. The host turned toward my corner with a sympathetic, made-for-TV smile. “Jesse, walking away with zero votes in the first round… feeling a little discouraged?” I dropped the grape skin into a napkin. “Not really. I’m used to it.” Mason leaned over and lightly tapped Hayley Evans, an influencer-turned-panelist sitting beside him. “Don’t put him on the spot like that. Jesse’s a contestant, too.” The line sounded defensive, but the patronizing undertone drove the nail straight into the coffin. The showrunner immediately seized the narrative, announcing over the house mic that since Jesse was ‘unattached,’ he would serve as tonight’s kitchen assistant to help prep the welcome dinner. The live chat scrolled at lightning speed: He really does give off house-help energy. Why did they even cast a D-lister with this lineup? I tossed the napkin into the wastebasket. Mason picked up the printed dinner menu and walked it over to my chair, offering a contrite smile. “Jesse, do you mind handling the prep? I sprained my wrist during tour rehearsals last week.” I took the paper from his hand. “Sure.” Hayley giggled from the couch. “Looks like we’re relying on Jesse tonight.” Serena’s brow pulled tight. “The schedule said dinner prep is a group activity. It’s not meant for one person.” Mason immediately ducked his head, looking small. “I just thought… since Jesse does so much period drama work, he’s probably really good at taking care of people.” I looked up from the menu, meeting his wide, innocent eyes. “Playing an extra in an apron doesn’t mean I was born to wear one in real life.” 3 In the kitchen, I stood by the deep stainless sink, scaling a whole sea bass. Mason hovered around the marble island, holding a sprig of fresh mint over a serving platter. “Serena, does this look better on the rim or tucked under the lemon slice?” “Either is fine,” Serena said without looking up from the wine glasses she was setting out. “I think our presentation should look clean,” Mason said, leaning slightly into her space. The camera mounted on the overhead track glided forward to catch the intimacy. I kept my head down, the rhythmic scrape of the scaler against fish skin the only sound coming from my station. Hayley leaned against the double refrigerator, sipping seltzer. “You’re pretty fast with that knife, Jesse. Do you practice that on set?” “I practiced it growing up,” I said. “My grandmother taught me.” Mason chimed in from the island, his tone dripping with faux wonder. “Your family must be super ordinary, right? Someone on the last crew told me you still take the subway home after wrapping late.” I laid the cleaned fish onto a prep tray. “Taking public transit isn’t a crime.” He blinked rapidly, all wide-eyed innocence. “Oh, no! I just mean you’re so… down-to-earth.” Nora Finch walked over, placing a bowl of washed scallions on my cutting board. She turned slightly, looking straight at Mason. “‘Down-to-earth’ isn’t a polite synonym for poor, Mason.” Mason’s smile stiffened. Hayley tried to laugh it off. “Nora’s always so protective.” “I just have a low tolerance for performative stupidity,” Nora said evenly, not bothering to look at Hayley. Mason lowered his head, biting his lip. “I’m sorry. I guess I phrased that wrong.” He set the mint down and turned to grab a ceramic bowl from the counter behind me. As he squeezed past, his elbow caught the edge of a large prep bowl filled with chili oil and dark soy marinade. The heavy bowl tipped. A wave of red, oily sauce splashed straight across my chest. My crisp white shirt was ruined in a second, soaked from collar to waistband in greasy crimson. The camera zoomed in instantly. Hayley’s first reaction was a dry laugh. “Well, that color certainly makes a statement.” Serena set the wine glasses down with a sharp clack. “Cut the feed.” The red tally lights on the cameras stayed solid. The director wasn’t stopping anything. Mason grabbed a fistful of paper towels and rushed forward, frantically dabbing at my chest. The rough paper only ground the chili grease deeper into the cotton fibers, spreading the stain. I reached out and caught him by the left wrist, gripping it firmly. “Stop touching me.” Mason’s eyes welled with tears instantly. “I was just trying to help…” Serena crossed the kitchen in three quick strides, pulling off her oversized black designer blazer and holding it out to me. “Take this. Go change.” I didn’t reach for it. Mason pulled his arm back, rubbing his wrist and speaking in a small, trembling voice. “Serena, please don’t be mad at Jesse. He’s just upset about his shirt.” I looked directly at Serena. “What do you think?” She hesitated, her eyes flickering toward the ceiling cameras before settling back on my ruined clothes. “Just… go take care of the shirt first.” I turned without another word and walked down the hallway toward the guest suites. As I passed the living room monitor, the chat was a blur of outrage: Jesse has zero anger management. Mason was literally crying while apologizing! Serena offering her jacket was so classy. What is his problem? In the bathroom, I stripped the shirt off and turned the faucet on high. The hot water hit the cotton, turning the chili oil into a smear of pale orange, impossible to wash out. Looking at my reflection in the mirror, an uninvited memory surfaced. Three years ago, standing on the steps of the county courthouse, Serena had worn a tailored white shirt, too. She had looked at me with the polite detachment of a corporate executive signing a lease. “Mr. Cole, this marriage is solely to satisfy our families’ wishes. If you meet someone you genuinely care for, I will never stand in your way.” And I had looked back at her with the same sterile courtesy. “The same applies to you, Ms. Ross.” A light knock sounded on the bathroom door. “Jesse?” Nora’s voice came through the wood. “The wardrobe department didn’t pack extra shirts for the male guests. I had my assistant bring an extra hoodie from my van. It’s outside the door.” I cracked the door open an inch. On the floor sat a clean grey zip-up hoodie with the tags still on. “Thanks,” I said. Nora stood two paces back, keeping her eyes respectfully averted. “There’s a stationary camera mounted above the spice rack. The lens angle caught his elbow. He aimed for the bowl.” I looked at her through the gap. “Why are you telling me this?” “Because,” Nora said quietly, “I hate watching people get used as stepping stones.” 4 When I walked back out into the hall wearing the grey hoodie, Serena was standing near the corridor archway. Her black blazer had already been returned by a production assistant, draped uselessly over her arm. She took in the grey fleece on my shoulders. “Whose is that?” “Nora’s.” Her brow twitched. “You two are close enough to share clothes?” I couldn’t help a dry chuckle. “Serena, this is a dating show. That’s the premise.” She looked at me, her voice dropping. “I know what show this is.” “Then don’t ask questions you don’t actually care about.” She stepped forward, blocking my path to the kitchen. “Earlier… I wasn’t taking his side.” “You handed me a jacket,” I said. “Very generous.” “The cameras were on us.” “Right. And you didn’t want your agency’s golden boy looking bad on a live feed.” She went silent. I nodded slowly. “Got it.” She reached out, her fingers brushing the sleeve of my hoodie, but I took an immediate step back, out of reach. “Don’t,” I said coldly. “If the cameras catch you touching the extra, you’ll have a hard time explaining it to your father.” When I stepped back into the kitchen, Mason was sitting on a high stool near the counter, sniffing softly. Serena’s black blazer was now draped over his shoulders. The floor director patted Mason’s shoulder, looking over at me. “Mason’s pretty shaken up, Jesse. He’s young. Let’s try to show some mutual understanding here.” I tied a clean canvas apron around my waist. “He ruins my clothes, and I’m the one who needs to show understanding?” Mason lifted his tear-streaked face. “I said I was sorry…” Hayley chimed in from the doorway. “It’s just a shirt, Jesse. There’s no need to make a federal case out of an accident.” I looked straight at Hayley. “How about I dump a bowl of hot oil down your silk blouse, tell you I’m sorry, and we call it even?” The director frowned, tapping his headset. “We’re live, people. Watch the tone.” I picked up the chef’s knife. “Are we finishing dinner, or are we staging another scene?” Nora walked past Hayley and grabbed a cutting board. “I’ll help you prep the sides.” Mason suddenly cleared his throat, putting a hand over his mouth. “The fish smell… it’s making me a little nauseous.” The director looked at Serena, waiting for her to intervene. Before she could open her mouth, I drove the blade cleanly through the fish spine, letting the heavy thud echo off the stainless steel. “The fish is the main course for eight people,” I said without looking up. “If his stomach is too delicate, the pantry has instant oatmeal.” Mason bit his lower lip, looking devastated. “Jesse… are you still mad at me?” “Yes,” I said. He froze, clearly not expecting anyone to bypass the polite showbiz script on camera. “I don’t like people ruining my things,” I said, my voice completely level. “And I like it even less when they sit at the table crying like they’re the ones who got burned.” Mason reached out with a trembling hand, grabbing the edge of Serena’s sleeve. “Serena, please… don’t let him fight. It’s all my fault.” As he tugged her sleeve, the oversized blazer shifted, sliding down his arm to expose a faint red line across his wrist. The director pounced like he’d found gold. “Mason, is your wrist hurt? Camera two, get a close-up on that.” Mason tried to pull his sleeve down, looking brave. “It’s fine. It’s just… Jesse grabbed me a little hard earlier.” Hayley gasped. “You actually bruised him?” Nora set her colander down in the sink with a sharp clatter. “The red mark is on his right wrist. Jesse caught his left wrist when he knocked the bowl over. There are three overhead lenses in this room that can replay the footage right now.” Mason’s face went dead white. A fresh wave of tears spilled over his eyelashes. “I… I got confused. I was just so panicked…” Serena finally spoke, her voice cutting through the room like ice. “Mason. Enough.” He clamped his mouth shut. I lowered the seasoned fish into the smoking pan, the roar of hot oil filling the silence with a rich, savory aroma. Serena walked over to the range, stepping into my peripheral vision. “Let me take the pan.” I didn’t move an inch. “No need.” She paused, her voice low. “The oil is spitting.” “Ms. Ross,” I said, keeping my eyes on the searing skin, “I’ve spent twelve-hour days frying prop chicken on period sets. I know how hot grease works.” 5 Dinner was served at eight. The pan-seared sea bass was undeniably the centerpiece of the table. Mason didn’t touch it, sitting quietly in his seat while sipping a bowl of plain rice soup. Toward the end of the meal, the director prompted everyone to share their impression of their designated partners. When the microphone reached Serena, she kept her gaze neutral. “Mason is very dedicated to his craft.” “And?” the director prodded, angling for romance. Serena paused, her eyes drifting across the table toward my side of the layout. “And Jesse is an exceptional cook.” The dining room went dead quiet. Mason’s porcelain spoon hit the rim of his bowl with a sharp clink. My hand, lifting a forkful of greens, paused for a fraction of a second before continuing. The director forced a laugh to smooth over the awkwardness. “Well! Looks like Jesse’s culinary skills made a serious impression on our leading lady tonight.” Hayley smirked, leaning across the table. “Does that mean Serena might consider giving Jesse her vote next round?” Mason lowered his head, coughing faintly into a napkin. I picked a fish bone from my plate and set it neatly on the edge of the dish. “Let’s not. I’d rather not spend tomorrow getting crucified by the internet.” Right on cue, the living room monitor refreshed its display, pulling in live social media metrics. The top trending entertainment tags lit up the screen: #1 Mason Price Chili Spill #2 Jesse Cole Wrist Footage #3 Nora Finch Calls Out the BS The color drained entirely from Mason’s face. 6 The next morning, production announced a sudden rule change: each of the four male contestants had to prepare a signature breakfast plate. The female contestants would do a blind taste test, and the man with the most votes would earn priority booking for tonight’s private date. I was in the dressing room finishing a cup of black coffee when Mason caught me in front of the vanity mirrors. His PR team had already been working overtime. He showed me his phone screen with a smug little tilt of his chin. The official press release claimed Mason had suffered an accidental slip in the kitchen, Jesse had reacted with understandable emotion resulting in a minor scratch, and both parties had reached a warm, professional reconciliation behind the scenes. I looked at the text and smiled faintly. “Who reconciled with you?” He locked his phone, dropping his boyish charm. “We still have four days of shooting, Jesse. Wouldn’t it be better for everyone if we kept things civilized?” “Civilized doesn’t mean letting you use my back as a floor mat.” Mason set his powder puff down, lowering his voice so only the two of us could hear. “You’ve been grinding in this industry for years. You should know how this game works. Some people have capital behind them, and some people don’t. Serena’s agency is protecting me. Production is protecting me. Why make yourself look like an angry, bitter nobody?” I looked at his flawless, airbrushed reflection in the mirror. “Are you really that sure Serena is going to protect you forever?” He let out a soft laugh. “Right now? She’s standing on my side.” The dressing room door swung open. Serena stood in the doorway, her expression dark and unreadable. Mason’s demeanor shifted in a split second, his shoulders caving in. “Serena… I was just trying to apologize to Jesse again.” Serena looked at me. “Jesse, give us a minute. I need to speak to Mason.” “Gladly,” I said, stepping past her into the hallway. Before the heavy door clicked shut behind me, I heard Mason’s soft, fragile whine: “Serena, my wrist really aches today…” For the challenge, I made a slow-simmered seafood and ginger rice porridge, using the exact broth reduction my grandmother spent decades perfecting. When the blind tastings concluded, Serena chose my bowl. Nora chose mine, too. Mason’s sweet pumpkin puree received a single vote from Hayley. The host’s smile stiffened as he revealed the cards. “Serena, are you sure about this dish? You didn’t prefer the sweet puree?” “This had the best depth of flavor,” Serena said simply. Mason’s spoon hovered in mid-air. Hayley chimed in with an exaggerated pout. “I thought you said Mason had a delicate stomach, Serena?” Serena didn’t blink. “It’s a blind tasting. I voted for the cooking.” When my name was revealed as the winner of the date priority, Mason’s smile cracked at the seams. The host turned to me. “Jesse, as the winner of the morning challenge, you get to choose—” “Ah…” Mason suddenly slumped back in his chair, pressing both hands hard against his abdomen, his breathing shallow. Serena turned immediately. “What’s wrong?” “My stomach…” Mason gasped, leaning his weight heavily against the table. “I didn’t eat anything last night… I think it’s flaring up.” The crew instantly swarmed the table. Mason reached out blindly, his fingers curling tight around the cuff of Serena’s sweater. “Serena… can you please come to the urgent care clinic with me? I’m scared of getting a shot alone.” Serena looked toward the floor manager. “I’ll ride in the transport van with him.” The director turned to me, offering a placating shrug. “Jesse, we’ll hold your date voucher for later. Medical emergencies take precedence.” “Fine by me,” I said. As two production assistants helped Mason out of his chair, he brushed past my shoulder. Leaning in, his voice was a razor-thin whisper meant only for my ear: “Win all you want, Jesse. You still end up alone.” Nora walked up beside me as the van pulled away from the driveway. “You’re really just going to let that slide?” “Does arguing change anything?” I asked. She looked at the empty gravel road. “I can help you with the afternoon chore instead.” The maintenance task for the un-paired guests was restoring the beach house’s weathered wooden welcome sign. I crouched in the gravel courtyard with a bucket of white and marine-blue weather paint, while Nora held the heavy redwood plank steady on two sawhorses. She watched my brushwork—the clean, even strokes and the way I mixed the tint. “You’ve done professional restoration before?” “Picked it up hanging around the scenic art department between takes,” I said. “Figures.” “Figures what?” “Yesterday the fish, today the lacquer. None of it looks like something a person just ‘picks up’ for a hobby.” I mixed a dollop of deep blue into the base white. “When you’re an extra trying to stay alive in this town, you learn how to do all the work nobody else wants to get their hands dirty doing.” Nora was quiet for a long moment. “You shouldn’t be spending your life in the background, Jesse.” My phone buzzed against my thigh. I pulled it out. An unsaved number had sent a single text: The elder Mrs. Price wants to see you regarding the outstanding Cole family ledgers. I read the screen once, held my thumb down, and hit delete. Nora glanced over. “Everything okay?” I slid the phone back into my pocket. “Just spam.” Around four in the afternoon, the production van returned. Mason stepped out wearing a fresh white linen shirt, his skin painted with a delicate, pale ‘convalescent’ makeup palette. He walked straight over to the courtyard holding an insulated bakery box, offering it to me with both hands. “Jesse, I had Serena stop by that French patisserie on the way back from the clinic. I felt terrible about ruining your morning date voucher.” Serena stood a few paces behind him, watching us in silence. I didn’t reach for the box. “You had her buy it?” Mason nodded eagerly. “She picked them out herself. She said you probably needed something sweet after working in the sun all day.” I looked past him to Serena. Her jaw tightened slightly. “Mason mentioned you’d had a long afternoon.” “I don’t eat peanuts,” I said flatly. Mason blinked, looking confused. “Oh, these aren’t peanut. They’re roasted hazelnut tarts.” “I don’t eat tree nuts either,” I said. Serena stared at the bakery box, her throat moving as she swallowed. When she spoke, her voice was raspy. “You’re allergic to tree nuts?” I let out a quiet, humorless laugh. “Ms. Ross, we’ve known each other for three years.” The camera operator standing six feet away instantly lowered his lens by several inches, looking panicked, as if he’d just captured something that could get him fired on the spot. Mason’s eyes darted between the two of us. “Three years? I thought you guys only crossed paths on that one guest spot?” Serena didn’t say a word.
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