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.
“Knock, knock,” said a singsongy voice at the door. Nancy, my longtime agent, joined us in the already way-too-crowded dressing room. “How are we feeeeelingggg?”
The tornado of prep spiraled to a gentle gust as Desi tucked a few more bobby pins into my hair, gave me a good-luck kiss on the cheek, and ducked out of the dressing room, followed closely by Gabby, leaving only me and Nancy behind. I relished the momentary silence before I answered. Examining my reflection in the brightly lit mirror, I stared down at the girl now looking back at me and took in a deep lungful of air, the room a little less stifling now that everyone’d cleared out.
Nancy scooted closer and raised her voice, snapping me out of my momentary daze. “I saw your family seated in the audience. That’ll be good for ratings.” She waggled her eyebrows up and down and smirked. “No Rhys, though?” She pouted out her bottom lip in disappointment.
No matter how many times I told Nancy that Rhys and I were broken up, she still seemed surprised when he wasn’t around, probably because he always had been. Rhys (back when he went by the name Brian Braunpheiffer) and I met as freshmen in high school. He was handsome but totally unaware of his good looks, funny, sweet, and best of all he was more into Dungeons & Dragons than TV and popularity. He didn’t even watch EVERLYday and was pretty unfazed by me and my famous family.
We were initially paired up as lab partners during our freshman chemistry class, where our friendship began to blossom amid the bubbling beakers and humming Bunsen burners in the dimly lit classroom. Rhys and I didn’t just share notes; we exchanged secrets, jokes, and our aspirations. In a world where everyone saw me on the screen, he was the only one genuinely interested in getting to know the real me. Our connection went beyond the spotlight, but eventually, it began to erode. Like everyone else in my life, he got entangled in the machinery of fame. He took on a recurring role on EVERLYday, portraying my loving boyfriend, rebranded as Rhys Braun from Brian Braunpheiffer, now a celebrity in his own right. That’s when things started to unravel, culminating in a highly publicized breakup last year, caught, of course, by none other than TMZ.
Nancy continued, “So I just got off the phone with the folks at Lululemon, and if you win, they’re prepared to do a full rollout of a Plum Everly athleisure wear line in the fall. Isn’t that fantastic?”
It would be fantastic, especially considering my current financial situation, which I think anyone could safely call dire. It seemed no matter how many reality shows I landed, between my agent, manager, publicist, and lawyer’s fees, I was still barely scraping by. “And if I don’t win?”
Nancy tilted her head and sighed. “If you don’t win, well, I’m not sure we can count on any of the endorsement deals coming through.”
“No pressure or anything,” I scoffed.
“Oh God, no! The last thing I wanted to do was come back here and stress you out. I was hoping to use this all as fuel to amp you up. But don’t worry about any of that now. Just focus on that paso doble.”
My head shot up. “How did you know we were doing a paso doble?”
Her overly fillered cheeks grew even tighter when she sassily pursed her lips. “Honey, after that disaster a few weeks ago, of course you and Viktor need to redeem yourselves.”
Dammit, is this corset growing tighter? I’m not even dancing yet!
I could barely inhale a full breath, and small spots started to float like gnats in the beams of the vanity lights.
“Five minutes till showtime, five minutes till showtime,” a voice bellowed over the stage’s intercom.
I squinted my eyes, willing them like hell to adjust, as I hoisted myself up out of the chair. Wiggling fiercely against the bone ribbing, I tried everything I could to loosen the corset before I put on my brave face and sucked it up like the trained seal I was.
“I should really get going. Viktor likes to give me a pep talk before we perform.”
“Well, darling, break a leg.” Nancy gave me a quick kiss on each sweat-moistened cheek and a squeeze on the shoulder.
“Viktor told me dancers don’t tell each other to ‘break a leg,’ it’s bad luck. Instead, they say merde.”
“Merde?” Her eyes darted back and forth as she tried to decipher the meaning. “I don’t know that expression.”
