The next morning, Allyson sat cross-legged on her faded living room rug, a thick blanket wrapped around her shoulders.

She stared at her phone. The hashtag AllysonGetOut was trending at number one.

Hollie's phone vibrated violently on the coffee table. Hollie snatched it up, her face tight with stress. As she listened to the person on the other end, her expression morphed from anger to utter shock.

Hollie slowly lowered the phone. She turned around, staring at Allyson, who was dry-swallowing a spoonful of cheap cereal.

"That was Dexter Finch," Hollie said, her voice hollow. "The executive producer of the reality show Heartbeat Rules."

Allyson choked on her cereal, coughing into her fist. Dexter Finch was the king of reality TV.

"He wants you on the new season," Hollie continued, tossing a thick contract onto the table. "But don't get excited. He wants you because of the hate traffic from last night."

Allyson picked up the contract.

"He wants you to play the villain," Hollie explained, her tone grim. "The desperate, clingy woman who tries to ruin everyone else's romance. And worse... Byron and Joanne are the headline guests."

Hollie sat down heavily. "Don't do it, Allyson. If you go on there and act like a stepping stone for Joanne, the internet will bully you into quitting the industry."

Allyson flipped to the last page of the contract. Her eyes locked onto the payment figure. It was a number with an obscene amount of zeros.

Her breathing sped up. This was exactly the amount she needed to pay the termination fee to her bloodsucking agency.

Without a word, Allyson grabbed a pen and signed her name on the dotted line.

Hollie buried her face in her hands, groaning in despair.

An hour later, Allyson pushed open the door of a dusty, rundown bookstore on the corner of her street. The bell above the door jingled weakly.

She navigated through the narrow aisles, her eyes scanning the self-help and romance sections. She needed material. She needed to be the most obnoxious, clingy villain reality TV had ever seen.

Her eyes landed on a bright pink spine tucked in the bottom corner.

100 Cheesy Pickup Lines to Make Him Yours.

She pulled it out and flipped to a random page. The words printed there were so incredibly cringe-inducing that a physical shudder ran down her spine. Goosebumps erupted on her arms.

It was perfect.

She walked to the counter and slapped a five-dollar bill down. The old man behind the register glanced at the garish pink cover, raised a single, judgmental eyebrow for a fraction of a second, and then wordlessly took her money. Allyson pulled her baseball cap lower and practically ran out of the store.

Back in her apartment, she sat on the floor, forcing herself to memorize the terrible lines.

She looked in the mirror, attempting to wink seductively. She ended up gagging at her own reflection.

Her phone buzzed on the floor.

A text message from "B".

Are you really going on that show?

Allyson's heart missed a beat. She stared at the screen, her stomach tying itself into a tight knot. He was probably terrified she would slip up and ruin his pristine reputation.

Her fingers trembled slightly as she typed her reply.

Don't worry. I will strictly follow the NDA. We are strangers. I won't implicate you.

She hit send.

She sat there for twenty minutes, watching the screen. The read receipt appeared, but no typing bubble followed.

The silence from his end felt like a physical weight pressing down on her chest. A sharp pang of disappointment flared inside her, but she quickly shoved it down.

She slapped her own cheeks hard, the sting waking her up. She grabbed the pink book and shoved it into her suitcase. She was going to use these lines to make Joanne sick to her stomach, and maybe test just how much Byron could tolerate.

The pre-show banquet was held in a massive, glittering ballroom in the Hollywood Hills.

Allyson stood alone near a towering champagne fountain, wearing a borrowed, out-of-season dress. She took a slow sip of her drink, watching the room.

In the center of the hall, Joanne was surrounded by a circle of directors and producers, soaking in their praise like a sponge.

Joanne spotted Allyson. A malicious gleam lit up her eyes. She broke away from her circle and strutted over, a group of sycophants trailing behind her.

Joanne stopped a few feet away, her eyes raking over Allyson's dress.

"Oh, Allyson," Joanne said, her voice a sickeningly sweet pitch. "Is that from last year's clearance rack? It looks so... rustic."

The group behind Joanne snickered loudly. Heads turned in their direction.

Joanne stepped closer, dropping her voice to a venomous whisper. "You could throw yourself at Byron a hundred times, and you'd still never make it into his bed."

Allyson didn't flinch. She let out a soft, dark chuckle. She took another sip of champagne, her eyes locking onto Joanne's.

"At least I don't have to sleep with casting directors to steal roles," Allyson said, her voice carrying clearly over the ambient music.

Joanne's face paled. She instantly widened her eyes, letting tears pool in them, playing the victim.

Whispers broke out around them. People pointed at Allyson, muttering about her jealousy and toxic behavior.

Joanne leaned in again, her voice trembling with fake hurt. "Byron will always love me. I'm his past, and I'm his future. You're just a joke."

Allyson's grip on her glass tightened until her knuckles turned white.

Allyson took a sudden step forward, closing the distance between them until she was practically in Joanne's personal space. She lowered her voice to a deadly, hushed whisper meant only for Joanne and the two sycophants closest to her.

"His past?" Allyson asked softly, her eyes glinting like shattered glass. "You mean three years ago? When he was in that car crash, lying in a hospital bed with his career on the line, and you bought a one-way ticket to Europe to abandon him?"

The words landed like a precision strike. The smugness on Joanne's face died instantly. Joanne's perfect mask cracked, her mouth opening and closing like a suffocating fish.

Before Joanne could formulate a lie, the heavy oak doors of the ballroom swung open.

Byron walked in.

He wore a dark charcoal suit, his presence so commanding it sucked the oxygen out of the room. He looked like a king stepping into a room full of peasants.

Joanne's eyes lit up. She plastered on a tragic, beautiful smile and rushed toward him, her dress flowing behind her.

"Byron," she breathed softly, reaching her hand out to touch his arm.

Byron didn't even break his stride. His eyes looked straight through her as if she were completely invisible.

Joanne's hand hovered in the empty air. A few muffled laughs echoed from the crowd.

Byron walked straight past her, his heavy footsteps echoing on the marble floor. He stopped directly in front of Allyson.

Allyson's breath caught in her throat. She braced herself, assuming he was going to defend his ex-girlfriend.

Byron looked down. His dark eyes bypassed her face and landed directly on her right ankle, which was still slightly swollen from the red carpet fall.

"Can you stand steady?" his voice was a low, icy rumble, but loud enough for the entire silent room to hear.

The crowd was paralyzed. The untouchable superstar was publicly showing concern for the most hated woman on the internet.

Joanne stood frozen in the background, her face contorted with raw, ugly jealousy.

Allyson's brain scrambled. Was this a test? Was he trying to see if she would break the NDA?

She took a deliberate step backward, creating distance. She forced a polite, distant smile.

"Thank you for your concern, Senior. I am perfectly fine."

The word Senior hit Byron like a physical blow. The temperature around him plummeted. His eyes darkened into a dangerous, storm-filled black.

He stared at her for one long, suffocating second. Then, without a single word, he turned on his heel and walked toward the VIP section, leaving the entire room in a state of shock.

The California sun beat down on the sprawling beachfront villa. The live broadcast for Heartbeat Rules had just started, and the viewer count was already in the millions.

The live chat was a chaotic mess of fans screaming for Byron and Joanne to reunite.

Joanne arrived first. She wore a pure white, floral sundress, looking delicate and fragile. She stood at the bottom of the long stone staircase leading to the villa, two massive pink suitcases sitting beside her.

She looked at the camera, her lower lip trembling slightly. "Oh no, these are way too heavy for me."

At that exact moment, Byron walked out of the heavy wooden front doors. He wore a simple black button-down, the sleeves rolled up, one hand casually tucked into his pocket.

Joanne's eyes sparkled. She looked up at him, her voice dripping with honey. "Byron, could you please help me with these?"

The live chat went wild, anticipating the romantic rescue.

Byron looked down at her from the top of the stairs. His eyes were dead, devoid of any human warmth.

"Don't you have hands?" he asked, his voice flat and cold.

He turned around and walked back inside.

Joanne's smile froze. The live chat went completely silent for three agonizing seconds before erupting into confusion. Joanne bit her lip, her face burning red, and began dragging the heavy bags up the stairs herself, panting and sweating.

Just as the awkwardness peaked, the roar of a V8 engine shattered the quiet beach air.

A bright, obnoxious red Ferrari convertible, rented by the production team specifically for a dramatic, villainous entrance, slammed to a halt in the driveway.

The door swung open. A pair of long legs, strapped into diamond-encrusted stilettos, stepped out.

Allyson stood up. She wore a skin-tight, fiery red dress that left absolutely nothing to the imagination. She pushed her vintage sunglasses down her nose and stared straight into the main camera.

The live chat immediately filled with vomit emojis and death threats.

In the production truck, Dexter Finch punched the air in triumph. The traffic was spiking.

Allyson winked at the lens-a slow, exaggerated, incredibly greasy wink. She reached into the passenger seat and pulled out a battered, twenty-four-inch suitcase.

Then, she pulled out the bright pink book. She held it up so the camera could clearly read the title: 100 Cheesy Pickup Lines to Make Him Yours.

The hate comments in the chat suddenly morphed into strings of question marks.

Allyson dragged her suitcase up the stairs, her heels clicking loudly against the stone. She pushed open the heavy front doors and stepped into the massive living room.

The other cast members-Fernando, Charlie, and Melody-were already seated on the plush sofas. They all turned to stare at her.

Joanne, who was sitting on a sofa near Byron, immediately shrank back, clutching a throw pillow to her chest as if she were terrified Allyson was going to attack her.

Byron sat in a single armchair. He held a mug of black coffee. As Allyson walked in, his eyes flicked up.

When he saw the skin-tight red dress, his pupils dilated. His throat worked as he swallowed hard.

Allyson scanned the room. Her eyes locked onto Byron.

She took a deep breath, mentally pulling up the first line from the pink book. She ignored everyone else in the room and marched straight toward him.

Joanne braced herself, ready to cry on cue.

But Allyson walked right past Joanne. She stopped directly in front of Byron's armchair.

The room went dead silent. The cameramen practically shoved their lenses into the actors' faces.