I woke at 7. The room was bright; sunlight lay across the sheets like it had been waiting for me to move. My body still buzzed—a leftover charge that refused to fade.

Sleep had been shallow, stitched from half-dreams and memory. Felix was there: the taste of rain on his lips, the heat of his body. What haunted me most was how the memory of him echoed our Muay Thai sessions—his hands correcting my stance, his weight steady at my back. In the ring, his touch had been precise and respectful; in the garden, it had been softer, more human. In my head, his voice kept saying the same things: breathe, shift, feel the rhythm. Only this time, there was no technique to learn.

I woke with a tenderness I hadn't realised I could feel. I lay there, replaying the small mercies of the night—his hush against my skin, the way he looked at me like I mattered outside the camera lens. It almost let me forget where I was.

Almost.

When I stepped into the hallway, the house was already busy. Crew moved from room to room, rolling suitcases, boxing up belongings, and stripping beds. Team Harper's rooms were being cleared.

I stopped at the end of the corridor and watched. No one spoke. Hands folded shirts, slid photos into bubble wrap, sealed boxes with practised gestures: fold, label, remove.

An empty nightstand sat in one room, and the bed was stripped, giving the impression that someone had paused and never returned.

A few days ago, it had been Anna. Now an entire team was gone—whisked away under the polite euphemism of "medical attention." No updates. No footage. Just absence.

But Vicky was still here. I should have wanted to rip her down from that ridiculous throne she sat upon. But the system would protect her. The audience probably loved her. Because every story needs a villain.

She'd turned their disgust into armour. She wasn't playing the game; she was running it.

I left the corridor and went to the kitchen. I needed coffee.

The breakfast room was quiet. Vicky sat at the far end of the marble counter, robe smooth, lipstick perfect. A single croissant sat on her plate like a prop.

When she noticed me, she said, "Morning."

"Morning," I answered.

We kept our distance: opposite ends of the counter, the space between us like a ceasefire. I poured coffee and let the mug warm my hands.

After a moment, she said, "You look tired."

It wasn't just a casual comment; it was her way of undermining my confidence and trying to get into my head. But after the night I'd had with Felix, I wasn't falling for it.

"I slept."

She smiled. "The red dress has been generous to you—good optics. Forbidden love, clandestine meetings. The viewers eat that up."

My throat tightened. "This isn't an act."

But her words hit somewhere deep, a tiny pulse of doubt I didn't want to name. Because if she thought this was all performance, then why did it hurt so much to hear it? Why did Felix feel more real than anything I'd known in years?

Her smile didn't move. "Isn't it? The crew talks, the drones see. Everything becomes a headline. You should be careful what you give them."

"I don't want headlines."

"Everyone wants something, Sadie." She stirred her coffee. "Some of us craft what we need. Some of us get handed roles and play them well."

Anger flared. "You mean roles like the ones you create by shoving ladders?"

Her spoon froze mid-air. Then she set it down and smiled that perfect smile. "You saw something, did you?"

"I saw you push their ladder."

Her expression didn't flicker. "You think you know what you saw. Be careful. That accusation can be costly here."

"So can murder." The words were out before I could stop them.

She laughed. "Drama suits you. The audience loves drama."

My fingers brushed the knife beside my plate. The thought crossed my mind—one motion, and the world would be rid of her. Too easy. Too final. Too much like her.

I pushed the knife away.

Vicky watched me. "You really think Anj and Jess will hold the line for you? Sweet girls, but loyalty fades."

"Don't talk about them."

She shrugged. She rose, smoothing her robe. "Enjoy your coffee, Sadie. It might be your last peaceful one."

She didn't leave; her eyes followed me as she moved to the counter to refill her coffee, pretending to be casual.

I sat still, watching the knife catch the light. Killing her would've been simple. Surviving her would take everything I had.

Poppy breezed into the kitchen like a commercial for sunshine. Her ponytail bounced, her cheeks flushed pink. She wore a tight tank top and shorts, glowing like she'd just finished a yoga retreat instead of a government dating show.

"Morning!" she said, piling fruit and danishes onto her plate. "Isn't today gorgeous?"

I blinked. "You're awfully chipper for someone who almost fell off a cliff yesterday."

She grinned. "Mike's full of surprises."

I raised a brow. "Oh?"

Poppy smirked and bit into a strawberry. "Let's just say dinner didn't end at dessert."

I hid a smile behind my mug. Vicky, however, went very still.

Vicky's voice turned sugar-sweet. "Do tell. How was your evening with our leading man?"

Poppy twirled her fork, oblivious. "Eventful. He's... different when the cameras are gone. Thoughtful. Romantic."

Vicky's fingers tightened around her cup. "How wonderful," she said. "I do hope you enjoyed yourself."

"Oh, I did," Poppy said cheerfully, scooping another danish. "It was a long night."

Vicky smiled. It didn't reach her eyes. "I'm sure it was."

I watched her go, sipping my coffee and silently praying for Poppy's sake that she slept with one eye open.

A few hours later, we were told to change. Each bed had a pastel shift dress laid out on it, colour-coded like a candy store. Everyone got something different—mint, lilac, lemon, baby blue. Mine was pink. I hated it.

"Of course," I muttered, holding it up. "Perfect for the State's favourite breeder Barbie."

Anj appeared in my doorway, rolling her eyes as she adjusted her pale green dress. "You look like propaganda."

"You look like a fertility ad."

We laughed, even though neither of us felt like it.

They drove us to a warehouse this time—big, echoing, divided into box-like rooms along the walls. The air smelled of paint and dust. In the centre sat a pile of furniture, fabrics, paint cans, props—a DIY graveyard waiting to be resurrected.

The host strutted out, smiling like this was the best day of his life. "Ladies!" he announced. "Today's challenge is all about you. Your values, your goals, your dreams. We want to see who you are beneath the lashes and lip gloss."

That earned a few nervous laughs.

He clasped his hands. "Each of you will decorate a personal living space. You'll have three hours to complete your design. Paint, wallpaper, repurpose—anything goes, as long as it reflects who you are."

He turned in a slow circle, voice booming. "The public will vote! Each of you will receive an average score out of ten. Anyone who scores below five..." He let the pause hang. "Eliminated."

My pulse steadied. At least this wasn't one of Vicky's sabotage opportunities.

We were given numbers matching the rooms. Mine was next to Anj's. Jess was further down the line, opposite us.

Anj peeked into her room and groaned. "Seventies nightmare. Broken chairs, a plastic table, and curtains that look like disease."

I snorted. "Mine's worse. Orange walls, broken cot, and a 'Live Laugh Love' sign."

"Burn it," she said.

"Tempting."

We tried to spot Jess a few doors down. She gave us a thumbs-up, mouthing excited! with a grin.

"Maybe she's lost it," I whispered.

Anj smirked. "Haven't we all?"

I turned back to the mess in front of me. The orange walls practically vibrated. "I never thought I'd have kids," I said, the words slipping out before I had a chance to think. "Maybe that's where I went wrong. Maybe that's how I failed society."

Anj's voice softened. "You didn't fail anyone. Women used to have choices, Sadie. That's how they take it away. They don't rip it out of your hands. They get in your head and make you think you gave it up willingly."

I looked at her, then back at the room. The colour closed in like a bad punchline. For a second, I couldn't tell if it was the walls shrinking or my sanity packing its bags.

Who even was I anymore? A code monkey with delusions of rebellion? Someone's future mother? Someone's propaganda puppet? The thought was so absurd I almost laughed—almost.

Then Felix flashed through my head—his voice, his warmth, the way he made me feel like a person instead of a storyline. Was that what I wanted? Him. A kid. A life that didn't fit neatly in the State's brochure?

Great. Existential crisis before noon. Classic Sadie.