Chapter Twenty-Eight

Chapter Twenty-Nine

Chapter Thirty

Chapter Thirty-One

Chapter Thirty-Two

Chapter Thirty-Three

Chapter Thirty-Four

Chapter Thirty-Five

Chapter Thirty-Six

Chapter Thirty-Seven

Chapter Thirty-Eight

Chapter Thirty-Nine

Chapter Forty

Chapter Forty-One

Chapter Forty-Two

Chapter Forty-Three

Epilogue

ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

ABOUT THE AUTHORS

Les arbres tardifs sont ceux qui portent les meilleurs fruits.

The trees that are slow to grow bear the best fruit.

—Molière

Chapter One

The long-running and much-celebrated director of the reality show Celebrity Ballroom, Wes Duncan, poked his head around the dressing room door. “Plum, fifteen until showtime. How are you feeling? Pumped?”

I opened my mouth to answer (not exactly sure how to respond), but thankfully I didn’t have to since Wes barreled on anyway. “Tonight, I need you to be bouncy, bubbly, effervescent—the girl America fell in love with on EVERLYday. Ready to give them that thousand-watt smile?”

No, I was not, in fact, ready. Far from it. My hair was still up in curlers while my stomach was tied up in knots. I could not, would not, vomit on live TV. If I’d somehow managed not to toss my cookies when I ate goat eyeballs as a contestant on Guts or Glory Extreme Edition, then there was absolutely no way I was letting a little two-step take me down. I focused on inhaling deeply and slowly through my nose and exhaling through my overlined and well-glossed lips.

Farrah Littman, the showrunner, squeezed past Wes, who was still lingering in the doorway, and gave a soft knock.

“Hey, girl,” she called from behind her clipboard. “You look sensational. For tonight, I need you to really lean in to that sex appeal. We’re planning on a lot of great close-up shots of you and Viktor, so it’d be good if you could pretend to actually like him.”

“I do actually like him.”

She looked up from her papers. “You do? Hmm . . . well, then let’s make sure it’s oozing out of you, okay? I want to see sensuality, passion, fire . . . like a deep carnal desire for one another . . .”

Wes cleared his throat. “I can’t imagine it’ll be too hard for you. For one, Viktor is gorgeous and is just dripping in sex appeal. And two . . . well”—he leaned in a little closer, as if everyone in the room wasn’t already aware of the sex tape of me and my ex that was leaked out to the press a little over a year ago—“we all know how you can really make a splash when it comes to showcasing carnal desire on camera.”

He’d meant it as a playful jab, but the remark packed a Mike Tyson–size wallop that practically knocked the wind out of me. It was one thing for the world to have been privy to what I believed was supposed to be a private and intimate moment between me and my ex-boyfriend Rhys, but quite another for that experience to now read as an actual credential on my résumé.

I wasn’t sure if it was Wes mentioning that godforsaken tape, the mounting pressure of filming the show’s biggest episode yet, or the thirty or so instructions that’d just been hurled at me in the last five minutes, but my head was racing just as fast as my heart was pounding. How the hell was I supposed to be bouncy and effervescent aaaannnnddd sultry and seductive at the same time?!

Harley Quinn, the famed comic book antihero with red and blue pigtails and a maniacal grin, was the only image I could come up with, and I was almost certain that wasn’t what they had in mind. I guess I had no choice but to figure it out. After all, that’s what I was getting paid for, wasn’t it? To be whoever the producers wanted me to be once the cameras started rolling.

I’d been doing it my whole life, jumping from one reality show to another: EVERLYday, Guts and Glory Extreme Edition, Spelunking with the Stars, Love Lagoon, The Great Bake Off—Microwaves Only, just to name a few from my hit list. This was simply another day, another persona, and I was ready to transform into whatever character they needed me to be.

Wes and Farrah left to make space for my glam squad, who were champing at the bit to finish getting me ready. Gabby, the makeup artist, came charging into the dressing room to mist setting spray on my face while Desi, the show’s hairstylist, tugged out the last of the rollers from the top of my head. Thankfully, having been on TV from about the age of about eleven onward, this constant whirlwind of showrunners and glam squad members whizzing about felt normal. The chaos barely even fazed me anymore, the blurs zipping by sometimes barely registering as people at all. Just turbulence . . .

Desi spun me around in the chair as he began to tease the roots of my hair before pulling it up into a clever updo, meant to be easily unfastened in the middle of the number. “Are you nervous? Don’t be. You’ve got it in the bag. What are you and Viktor dancing again?”

I sighed. “A paso doble.”

He gasped.

The dreaded doble. A dance that required not only precise footwork but a rock-solid core and a commanding-enough presence to effectively convey the story and emotions of the music. Viktor and I completely botched it during week five of the competition.

Desi raised his eyebrows and slowly nodded. “Isn’t that the same one that gave you two trouble earlier in the season?”

I mustered a forced smile. “Viktor and I thought it would be a good comeback story if we manage to nail it this time.”

“Pucker your lips out like this,” Gabby directed. “Perfect, a little goes a long way under the set lights. And close your eyes . . .” She raised the spray bottle in front of my face, and I quickly did as commanded. “One more coat,” she said, then proceeded to spritz me with so much sealant, I was worried I might need a chisel to get the makeup off at the end of the night. For some reason, it seemed a bit excessive, but maybe Gabby could see how much more I was sweating this week than usual?

When she finished, I leaned toward the mirror to take in the whole look. The transformation, as always, was beyond impressive. The Regency-style updo, soft with wispy tendrils, paired so well with the stunning period costume. The rich, billowing scarlet fabric of its tufted bustle contrasted with the narrow curve of my waist and conveniently emphasized my ample chest. But for as gorgeous as it was and they made me look, I wasn’t sure how I was supposed to dance, let alone kill it out there, when all I could focus on was the sharp poke of the bone corset digging firmly into my sides, causing me to wince.

“You need some help getting to the stage?” Desi asked, probably after catching me awkwardly adjusting the ribbing so that the hard edge wasn’t causing me to lose my breath.

“I think I’m okay. I’ll shuffle there if I have to,” I joked, slapping on my game face. It was a move I had mastered over the years.

“How are you supposed to paso doble in that dress if you can’t even walk in it?” Gabby asked.

“Our dance is an homage to Bridgerton. Viktor’s playing the Duke of Hastings, and I’m playing Daphne. So really, I’m only in the dress for about fifteen seconds before he rips it off to reveal the much sexier costume underneath.”

“How naughty,” Desi purred.

“Right?” I answered with a curved brow.