I was famous for my cold, deadpan stare on “The Spark”. To me, everyone on that beach looked like a walking corpse, and speaking even a single word to them felt like a chore. The network wanted to prop up their favorite “sweetheart couple,” so they deliberately paired me with Ryder—a shameless player so greasy the internet was practically screaming to have him canceled. We were the designated trainwreck. Our director pointed a finger right at our noses. “One’s a brick wall, the other’s a sleazebag. You two make the perfect contrast to get the audience rage-watching.” Ryder ran his hands through his hair, putting on a cheap show of desperation, misery, and helplessness. But underneath the act, I caught the faint twitch of his lips curving upward. One of us was a peacock desperate for an audience, a textbook performer who lived off emotional validation. The other was an iceberg who refused to throw him a single lifeline. Individually, we were toxic reality TV rejects. But together? That was pure gold: “The Player Begging for Scraps, the Ice Queen Pulling the Strings.” The ultimate slow-burn romance. I kept my hands in my pockets, watching him put on his little show. When he realized I wasn’t giving him an ounce of feedback and awkwardly peeked at me to check my reaction, I said quietly, “Your acting is absolute trash. If you actually want to make it through this, from now on, you follow my lead.” … “Daisy’s group: five thousand dollars in starting cash and the oceanfront villa.” “Maeve’s group: fifty dollars and Cabin 3 on the shore.” The director’s voice boomed through the megaphone. I stood with my hands tucked in the pockets of my windbreaker, watching a crew member slap a crisp fifty-dollar bill onto the rickety wooden table. The sea breeze whistled through a gaping hole in the window. Daisy stepped over the threshold, wearing a designer sundress and sandals. Two cameras followed her every move, one practically pressed against my face. “Oh, Maeve… how are you guys even going to live here?” She pulled a hundred-dollar bill from her purse and held it out to me. “Don’t be mad at the director, Maeve. He’s just following the rules. Take this. Get yourselves a warm meal tonight. I’d hate for you to starve while we’re filming.” Her eyes welled with performative tears. I stared at the bill, unmoving. Ryder instantly slapped on his signature grin. “Daisy, you’re an absolute angel. Unlike some people who don’t know how to appreciate anything.” He reached for the money, his fingers lingering just a second too long as they brushed against the back of Daisy’s hand. “Smack.” I kicked the back of Ryder’s knee. He stumbled forward, his hands slamming hard onto the wooden table. “Ow—Jesus, Maeve! Are you insane?” he yelped, clutching his hand. I ignored him, stepped forward, and snatched the hundred-dollar bill from Daisy’s fingers. A tiny, triumphant smirk played on her lips. I flicked my wrist, tossing the bill right back into her chest. “Get out.” Daisy’s tears spilled over instantly. “I was only trying to help, Maeve! Why do you always have to humiliate me?” She turned, burying her face in her hands, and ran straight into the arms of Trent, her screen partner, who had just arrived at the door. Trent glared at the camera. “Seriously, Maeve? Don’t be ungrateful. Daisy was just trying to do something nice. Have some class.” Daisy sobbed against his chest as he ushered her away. The damp cabin fell quiet, leaving only me and Ryder. He stormed up to me, his finger practically brushing my nose. “What the hell is wrong with you? What are you trying to prove? That was a hundred bucks! That’s two decent meals! You want to starve out here in the wind? Let me tell you something, Maeve. I was playing women before you even knew how to write your own name. Don’t try that dead-eyed routine on me!” When he finally stopped to catch his breath, I walked over to the corner, picked up a heavy splitting maul, and hefted it. Ryder took a sharp step back, his hands defensive. “Whoa, what are you doing? We’re live! Murder is a felony!” I walked out to the small dirt yard, propped a thick piece of driftwood onto the chopping block, gripped the handle with both hands, and brought it down with the full weight of my hips. “Crack.” The wood split cleanly down the middle, a stray splinter grazing Ryder’s cheek. I held the axe in one hand, turning my cold gaze toward him. “Get over here and carry the wood.” Ryder swallowed hard. His throat bobbed, and his loud mouth shut tight. He walked over, rolled up his linen sleeves, and began stacking the logs I had split. 8:00 PM. On the table sat two bowls of watery, plain oatmeal and a tiny dish of preserved pickles. Ryder stirred his bowl listlessly with his spoon. He looked up, winking at the cameraman stationed in the corner. “Come on, man. Look at how pathetic we are. Can’t you talk to the director? Throw us a bone, maybe a piece of chicken?” I reached out, grabbed the back of his head, and shoved his face straight down toward the table. “Ow!” His nose smacked against the rim of the bowl. I let go, reached into my pocket, and pulled out a small plastic bag containing half a cold, hard-boiled egg I had pocketed from the morning buffet. I tossed it into his bowl. “Eat. Then go patch the hole in the roof.” I pointed up at the gap where the night stars were visible. “If it’s not fixed, you’re sleeping on the beach.” Ryder looked at the half-egg in his oatmeal. He looked up at me, his eyes slightly raw, his cheeks flushing a sudden, deep red. He looked down quickly, scraping his bowl clean, eating every last bite of the oatmeal. Amid the ocean of hate comments on the live stream’s chat, a few strange remarks began to slip through: “Wait… why is the player suddenly acting so… submissive around the ice queen?” I picked up my bowl and took a slow, quiet sip. “Hurry up. The boards are outside.” The next morning, the top trending hashtag on X was: #MaeveAggressiveLove. Ryder climbed down from the roof with dark circles under his eyes, carrying a hammer. “You’re seriously looking at your phone right now? My reputation is completely shot because of you!” He threw the hammer aside. I locked my phone, ignoring him. “Attention, guests,” the director’s voice boomed over the speakers. “Today’s challenge is Island Treasure Hunt. Your points will directly determine the quality of your dinner tonight. Daisy’s group, head to the East Beach. Maeve’s group, head to the West Cliffs.” Ryder yelled at the camera, “Are you serious? The west side is nothing but jagged rocks and sheer cliffs! There isn’t even a path! You want us to die out there?” The director’s voice held a sickening amusement. “Ryder, you two are currently public enemy number one. Be glad you’re even getting airtime. If you don’t like it, pack your bags and pay the thirty-million-dollar breach of contract fee.” Ryder clenched his fists. I walked up to him and pulled a length of climbing rope from my backpack. “Stop whining. Give me your hand.” He hesitated, then held out his left arm. I tied the safety rope securely around his waist in a double knot, wrapping the other end tightly around my own wrist. “Stay close,” I said, looking him dead in the eye. “If you fall, nobody is coming to save you.” The waves crashed violently against the moss-covered rocks. The ground was slick and treacherous. I led the way with steady, practiced steps, while Ryder slipped and stumbled behind me. “There’s literally nothing out here. What kind of treasure is hidden on a cliffside?” “Maeve, slow down! Is there a fire?” The cameraman struggled behind us, trying to find a stable angle from a distance. Ryder’s eyes flickered with an idea. As we reached a steep, muddy slope, he accelerated, catching up and stepping beside me. “Hey, Maeve, careful. It’s slippery. Let me help you.” His voice dropped to a low, husky register as he reached out to wrap an arm around my waist. I saw his hand out of the corner of my eye. I didn’t even turn my head. I simply dropped my shoulder, shifting my weight half a step to the left. Ryder’s hand grabbed empty air. His foot lost traction on the mud, and he went tumbling down the embankment. “Holy shit—!” He rolled down the slope, landing straight in a deep, stagnant pool of muddy seawater and silt. “Splash.” Mud flew everywhere. When he finally stopped moving, his designer windbreaker was covered in black slime, and his face was caked with muck. He sat there in the puddle, stunned. Ryder slowly lifted his head. I squatted at the edge of the slope, looking down at him. I pulled a bottle of water from the side pocket of my backpack, unscrewed the cap, and tossed it down. The bottle landed in his lap, splashing water over his chest. “Wash your face. You look hideous.” Ryder stared at me, his jaw clenched. He opened the bottle, poured water into his palms, and aggressively wiped his face. Muddy water dripped from his chin. When he looked up again, his eyes were bloodshot. “Maeve, do you actually have a heart?” His voice was raw. “Can’t you just give me a normal reaction? Even calling me an idiot would be better than this!” I looked at his reddened eyes. “Is this how you usually play the devoted gentleman? By staging dangers, forcing a display of chivalry, and then demanding gratitude?” Ryder froze. His mouth parted, but no words came out. He looked down, squeezing the empty plastic bottle until his knuckles turned white. “Wait… now that Ryder isn’t acting greasy, him sulking like that is actually… kind of hot?” “The tension is insane.” I stood up, tugging the safety rope on my wrist. “Once you’re clean, climb back up. Don’t waste my time.” That night, the crew set up a bonfire on the beach. The director stood with his megaphone, announcing the rules of the mid-season game. “Tonight, we’re playing Anonymous Vote. You will write down the name of the guest you believe performed the worst today. The person with the most votes faces the ultimate penalty: handing over their safety gear and spending the night alone in the deep woods of Devil’s Cove.” The guests whispered nervously. Devil’s Cove was a notorious thicket on the north shore—even local fishermen avoided it. Spending a night there with zero gear was a nightmare scenario. Daisy sat across the bonfire, the flames dancing across her face. During a camera transition, I saw her whispering to the other guests, her lips silently forming the name: “Maeve.” I looked down, adjusting the collar of my windbreaker. My finger brushed the power switch of a tiny, high-grade recording pin hidden on my lapel. A faint red light flashed once. Recording started. “Before we begin the anonymous vote, does anyone want to say anything?” the director asked. Daisy immediately raised her hand, her eyes glistening. She looked at the camera. “I think this rule is really harsh, but if I have to choose…” She bit her lip, turning her gaze to me. “I have to vote for Maeve. This afternoon, Ryder fell into that horrible mud pit, and Maeve just stood up there, watching him. She didn’t even offer a hand. I don’t think partners should be so heartless to each other.” The moment she finished, Trent chimed in. “Daisy’s right. People with zero team spirit are just dead weight.” Several other guests nodded in agreement. I sat on my folding stool, hands clasped over my knees, entirely silent. I turned to look at Ryder, who sat next to me with his head bowed. His body was rigid. I knew the director was screaming in his earpiece, ordering him to vote for me. Ryder gripped his voting pen, the veins on the back of his hand bulging. He looked up, scanning Daisy, then the other nodding guests, and finally me. I didn’t return his gaze; I just stared into the fire. Suddenly, Ryder stood up. “Slam!” He smashed his voting board onto the table, snapping it clean in two. Silence fell over the beach. Ryder pointed a finger directly at Daisy’s face, laughing coldly. “She didn’t pull me up because I tripped over my own damn feet! But are you people blind? Didn’t you see the safety rope tied to her wrist? If I had actually slipped down the cliff, she would’ve gone down with me!” He yanked his collar open, glaring at Daisy. “You play the fragile little flower day in and day out. Aren’t you tired of the act? Because watching it makes me want to throw up. I’m voting for Daisy. Anyone got a problem with that?” The bonfire crackled in the dead silence. Daisy’s tears froze on her eyelashes. The director’s voice boomed through the megaphone, furious. “Enough! Ryder, you are openly soliciting votes and verbally abusing another guest! That is a severe violation of the rules! Ryder’s vote is void! Maeve has the most votes, her penalty stands! And because Ryder broke the rules, you will both serve the penalty. You’re spending the night at Devil’s Cove together!” Staff members stepped forward to remove our safety ropes. I stood up, brushing the sand off my pants. Without a word, I walked toward the dark tree line. As I passed Ryder, I paused. “You actually acted like a man for once. Get ready to freeze tonight.” Ryder stood frozen for a second, then looked at my back and laughed. He jogged to catch up. “Hey, Maeve! Wait up!” The north shore housed an old, abandoned cannery. The glass roof was mostly shattered, the rafters creaking loudly in the wind. There were no lights, no heat, nothing. Tonight was the show’s “Heartbeat Live Connection Night.” All guests were forced to wear black heart-rate monitors, with their data synced in real-time to the live-stream screen. While Daisy and the others sat in the heated studio sipping hot cocoa, Ryder and I were locked inside this drafty, leaking ruin. “Boom—” A flash of lightning ripped through the sky as a sudden squall hit the island. Cold rain began pouring through the shattered roof. In the studio, the main screen displayed our split-screen feed. Daisy cradled her warm mug, pointing at Ryder’s heart rate on the screen, letting out a soft laugh. “Oh, where did Ryder’s legendary charm go? Alone in a dark room with Maeve, and his heart rate is flatlining at seventy? He looks practically dead. I guess the rumors are true—their chemistry is totally fake.” “Keep the cameras rolling!” the director hissed into his headset. “Don’t open those doors! I want to see them drenched, miserable, and tearing each other apart!” Rainwater quickly pooled on the concrete floor. Ryder was soaked, his lips turning blue from the cold. But he didn’t complain. He didn’t even look at the cameras. Instead, he gently pushed me toward a dry corner of the room. “Stay back there. Don’t get wet. There isn’t even a basic first-aid kit on this godforsaken island.” His voice trembled slightly from the cold. I leaned against the damp concrete wall, watching his broad shoulders block the wind for me. My heart monitor still read a steady seventy. “Crack—Crash!” A sudden gust of wind sheared off a heavy wooden support beam from the ceiling. A massive sheet of glass, along with half the timber, came hurtling straight down toward my head. I closed my eyes. But the impact never came. Ryder threw himself over me, shielding me with his body, his back taking the brunt of the falling debris. “Thud. Shiver.” Something warm and thick dripped onto my collarbone. The copper smell of blood cut through the salty rain. I opened my eyes and looked at Ryder. His face was contorted in pain, his jaw clenched so hard his muscles shook. In the studio, Daisy’s smile vanished. Her mug slipped from her hand, shattering on the floor. Every guest stood up in shock. On the screen, Ryder’s flatlining heart rate of seventy began to climb. …120… 140… It tore past 160. A flashing red warning light lit up the screen. Through the static-heavy audio feed, Ryder’s ragged, breathless voice cut through: “Cut the crap…” His warm, shaky breath brushed against my neck. “Maeve… are you okay?” The director screamed into his microphone: “Cut the feed! Cut the feed now!” The live stream went completely black.
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