The heavy doors of the van slammed shut, sealing them inside. The vehicle lurched forward, leaving the gates of the Beverly Hills estate behind.

The air inside the cabin was thick and suffocating. Taylor sat in the front passenger seat, twisting her body around to point a handheld camera directly at the backseat. The red recording light blinked relentlessly.

Cecile shifted Damien onto the leather seat beside her. She reached for the seatbelt. Her hands fumbled slightly with the heavy metal buckle, her muscle memory from her past life lacking the simple skill of buckling a child in.

The metal tongue clicked into the buckle with a sharp clack.

Damien's entire body jerked. He thought the sound was a lock. He scrambled sideways, pressing his back hard against the van door, his knees pulling up to his chest.

Taylor's camera captured the flinch perfectly.

Taylor looked down at the tablet resting on her lap. The live viewer count was skyrocketing. The chat was a blur of hatred.

Did you see how he jumped? She definitely hits him.

Get child protective services on the phone right now.

A cruel smile tugged at the corner of Taylor's mouth. She cleared her throat and read the screen out loud. "Wow, Cecile. User 'MommaBear99' says, 'A toxic woman like you doesn't deserve to be a mother.' Any thoughts?"

Cecile didn't scream. She didn't throw a tantrum like she used to. She slowly lifted her chin and stared dead into the camera lens.

Her eyes were pitch black, devoid of any emotion. It was a look so hollow and chilling that the rapid-fire chat on the screen actually paused for three full seconds. The viewers behind their screens felt a sudden, inexplicable chill down their spines.

Cecile broke the stare. She unzipped her oversized tote bag and pulled out a soft, folded cashmere blanket. She leaned over and gently draped it over Damien's trembling legs.

Damien looked down at the fabric. He took a tiny, shallow breath. There was no suffocating scent of expensive perfume on it. It just smelled like clean laundry and sunlight. The rigid tension in his shoulders dropped a fraction of an inch.

Taylor frowned. The silence wasn't good for ratings. She reached into her folder and pulled out a glossy photograph. She held it up to the camera, then shoved it toward Cecile.

It was a picture of Abbey White, the internet's favorite "perfect mom," baking cookies with her stepson, Brayan.

"Abbey is currently leading the viewer polls by ninety percent," Taylor said, her voice dripping with fake sweetness. "How does it feel to compete against someone who is universally loved by her family and the public?"

Cecile glanced at the photo. A bitter, mocking smile touched her lips.

"A real mother," Cecile said, her voice flat and low, "doesn't need a camera crew to prove she loves her kid."

Taylor's fake smile vanished. The implication was clear. The chat erupted again, this time divided between outrage and shock at her audacity to insult the saintly Abbey White.

Suddenly, a blaring horn shattered the tension.

The van's brakes locked. The tires shrieked against the asphalt. The massive vehicle violently jerked forward.

Taylor screamed as she was thrown against the dashboard.

In the backseat, the extreme momentum ripped Damien forward. His small body launched off the leather seat, his forehead rocketing straight toward the hard plastic casing of the front seat.

Cecile didn't think. Her body moved on pure instinct. She threw her upper body across the gap, slamming her right arm flat against the plastic casing just as Damien's head hit.

Thud.

Damien's forehead smashed into Cecile's forearm. The bone-jarring impact sent a shockwave of pain up Cecile's shoulder. A sharp grunt escaped her lips. Cold sweat instantly beaded on her forehead.

The van rocked to a complete stop.

Damien gasped, his hands flying to his head. He blinked, his amber eyes wide with shock. He wasn't hurt. He looked down.

Cecile's arm was pinned between him and the seat. A dark, angry red welt was already swelling across her pale right forearm.

Damien looked up at her face. For the first time in his life, he saw pure, unfiltered terror in his mother's eyes-not for herself, but for him. Something heavy and tight in the center of his chest suddenly cracked.

Taylor scrambled back into her seat. She didn't ask if they were okay. She shoved the camera directly at Cecile's face, trying to catch the aftermath of the chaos.

Cecile shoved the camera lens away with her left hand.

"Check the road!" Cecile roared at the driver, her voice vibrating with authority. "Now!"

The driver, pale and shaking, stammered, "A-a stray dog ran out. I'm sorry. I'm so sorry."

Cecile ignored him. She turned her entire focus to Damien. Her trembling fingers gently probed the back of his neck, checking his spine. "Are you hurt? Does your neck ache?" she whispered rapidly.

On the live feed, a few scattered comments broke through the hate.

Wait, did she just block his head with her arm?

She looks genuinely terrified for him.

Taylor saw the shift in the comments. She quickly lowered the camera. "We're pulling into the LAX VIP drop-off," she announced loudly, cutting off the moment. "The other cast members are waiting."

The van rolled to a stop. Outside the tinted windows, a sea of flashing camera flashes erupted like a strobe light. A massive crowd of paparazzi and angry protestors swarmed the vehicle, pressing their faces against the glass.

Damien's breathing hitched. His chest began to rise and fall in rapid, shallow jerks. His small hands clawed at the edge of his seat. The PTSD response was kicking in.

Cecile saw his chest heaving. She immediately stripped off her grey sweatshirt, leaving her in just a thin white t-shirt. She threw the oversized fabric over Damien's head, covering him completely from the waist up.

She scooped the bundled-up boy into her arms, pressing his covered face tightly against her collarbone.

With her injured arm throbbing, Cecile reached out and shoved the van door open.

The roar of the crowd hit them like a physical wall. Curses and camera flashes blinded the air. Cecile's eyes hardened into ice. Like a queen stepping onto a battlefield, she walked out into the storm.

The noise was deafening.

"Child abuser!" a voice screamed from the left.

"Go back to rehab, you psycho!" another yelled from the right.

Cecile kept her chin tucked, her uninjured arm wrapped like a steel band around the grey bundle against her chest. She pushed her shoulder forward, using her body as a battering ram through the suffocating crowd.

A hand shot out from the mass of bodies. A man with a rabid look in his eyes grabbed the edge of the sweatshirt covering Damien's head, trying to rip it away.

Cecile's eyes went dead. She didn't hesitate. Her free hand snapped out like a viper. She grabbed the man's wrist, her thumb pressing hard into the nerve, and twisted sharply downward.

The man shrieked, his knees buckling as he stumbled backward into the crowd.

The brutal, efficient movement sent a shockwave through the paparazzi. The aggressive pushing stopped. The crowd instinctively parted, leaving a narrow, two-foot path to the glass doors of the VIP terminal.

Cecile didn't look back. She carried Damien through the sliding doors, leaving the chaos behind.

The heavy glass doors slid shut, muffling the roar of the crowd to a distant, angry hum. The relative quiet of the VIP lounge felt like a sanctuary. Cecile walked to a secluded corner, sat down, and gently pulled the sweatshirt back.

Damien blinked against the soft lighting. His breathing was still fast, but he wasn't crying. He looked at her arm, then at her face.

"Flight's boarding," a producer called out.

Cecile stood up, keeping a firm grip on Damien's hand. They walked down the jet bridge and stepped into the luxurious cabin of the private charter.

The three other families were already seated. The moment Cecile stepped in, the air pressure in the cabin seemed to drop.

Hayleigh Owen, a former pop star with a spray tan and a permanent sneer, let out a loud, theatrical scoff. "Wow. I can't believe they actually let you on the plane. Don't you have a liquor store to rob?"

Hayleigh's son, Jaxon, giggled loudly and pulled a grotesque, mocking face at Damien.

Damien's amber eyes darkened. He instinctively shrank further behind his mother's leg, his small hand gripping the fabric of her leggings tighter. The woman's loud, ugly voice made his head hurt, and the sudden noise triggered a familiar, suffocating panic deep in his chest. He squeezed his eyes shut, wishing he could just disappear into the floorboards rather than face another screaming adult.

Before he could pull away, Cecile's hand squeezed his shoulder. A gentle, grounding pressure.

Cecile didn't even look at Hayleigh. She kept her eyes fixed straight ahead, walking past the pop star as if she were a piece of ugly furniture. She guided Damien to the very last row of the plane and sat down in silence.

Hayleigh's face burned dark red. Her insult hung awkwardly in the air, completely ignored. She slumped back into her leather seat, fuming.

A few rows up, Sloane Adler, an A-list actress, lowered her sunglasses and watched Cecile with a flicker of genuine surprise.

Then, the rustle of fabric signaled movement. Abbey White stood up. She smoothed down her pristine pastel cardigan and picked up a glass of warm milk from the flight attendant's tray. She walked down the aisle, a camera operator trailing right behind her.

Abbey stopped at Cecile's row. Her face was a mask of pure, angelic concern.

"Cecile, honey," Abbey cooed, her voice soft enough to sound intimate, but loud enough for the microphone to catch. "I saw the news about the van. Is your arm okay?"

Before Cecile could answer, Abbey turned her glowing smile to Damien. She held out the glass of milk. "Here, sweetie. Warm milk helps calm the nerves. You must be so scared."

Damien stared at the white liquid. He didn't reach for it. Instead, he leaned his body weight entirely against Cecile's side, pressing his face into her ribs. It was a blatant, physical rejection.

Abbey's hand hovered in the air. A micro-expression of pure irritation twitched at the corner of her left eye, but she quickly forced a sad, understanding smile. "Oh, he's just shy."

"He's lactose intolerant," Cecile said. Her voice was flat, devoid of any emotion.

The silence in the cabin was absolute.

Cecile looked up at Abbey. "It's in the basic medical file the producers sent to all of us. Did you not read it before you decided to play savior for the cameras?"

Abbey's face drained of color. The glass of milk trembled slightly in her hand. Her perfect facade cracked, exposing the frantic calculation underneath. She had no response.

Behind the monitor in the front galley, Director Octavia's eyes lit up with greedy excitement. This was television gold.

Two hours later, the plane touched down on a cracked, weed-infested runway.

The doors opened, and a blast of freezing wind carrying grit and dust hit the passengers. The celebrities groaned, pulling their designer coats tighter. Cecile didn't flinch.

Cody Mason, the rugged local guide hired by the production, stood on the tarmac. "Welcome to Rust Creek," he barked. "Get on the bus."

The ride into town was brutal. The rusted bus hit every pothole on the dirt road. Damien's face turned a sickly shade of green. He gripped his stomach, fighting the urge to vomit.

Cecile reached over. Her fingers found the pressure point on the inside of his wrist, right below the palm. She pressed her thumb down, massaging in slow, firm circles. Within minutes, the color slowly returned to Damien's cheeks. He leaned his head against the rattling window, breathing easier.

The bus stopped at a barren dirt square in the center of the town. A large chalkboard stood in the middle, displaying five photographs of houses. House 1 was a decent cabin. House 3 was a massive, modern luxury villa. House 5 was a collapsed mud shack with a hole in the roof.

Octavia stepped up with a wooden box. "Draw your lots. This determines where you live for the next week."

Hayleigh practically sprinted forward. She pulled a stick. "House 2!" she cheered.

Abbey nudged her stepson, Brayan. The boy walked up obediently and pulled a stick. "House 3." he read quietly. Abbey clapped her hands in delight, kissing his cheek for the cameras.

Cecile walked up last. There were two sticks left in the box. As she reached her hand in, her fingers brushed the bottom. She felt a thick layer of double-sided tape holding one stick firmly in place.

The draw was rigged.

Cecile didn't pause. She didn't complain. She pulled the only loose stick available. She flipped it over.

A bright red number 5 stared back at her.

A sharp, grating laugh echoed across the dirt square.

Hayleigh clutched her stomach, pointing a manicured finger at Cecile. "House 5! The mud shack! Oh my god, the universe really does punish bad people."

On the live stream, the chat moved so fast it was a blur.

Karma!

She's going to freeze to death tonight.

I give her two hours before she quits.

Abbey's eyes gleamed with triumph, but she quickly smoothed her features into a mask of deep, agonizing pity. She took a step toward Cecile, clasping her hands together in front of her chest.

"Octavia," Abbey called out, making sure she was facing the main camera. "This isn't right. That shack is exposed to the elements. It's not safe for a child."

She turned her tragic gaze to Cecile. "Cecile, please. Put your pride aside. Let Damien come stay in House 3 with me and Brayan. He can have the heated guest room."

The other celebrities murmured in agreement. It was the perfect trap. If Cecile said no, she was a monster denying her child warmth. If she said yes, she admitted she was an unfit mother and handed Abbey the ultimate victory.

Hayleigh crossed her arms. "Yeah, Cecile. If you have a shred of decency left in your cold heart, give the kid up. Don't make him suffer for your failures."

Damien stood beside Cecile. His stomach churned. He knew exactly what House 3 was. It was a house rigged with cameras in every corner, ruled by a woman who pinched Brayan's arms where the lenses couldn't see. He opened his mouth to refuse.

Suddenly, the world went silent.

Cecile had dropped to her knees. She brought both of her hands up and clamped them firmly over Damien's ears.

Her palms were warm. The pressure was solid, completely blocking out Hayleigh's screeching and Abbey's fake sympathy.

Damien looked through the gap between her fingers. He felt the tension in her hands, a fierce, protective pressure that blocked out the ugly noise of the world. Through the small gap between her fingers, he caught a brief glimpse of the tight, furious line of her jaw before she gently pulled him closer. She wasn't looking at him; he could feel the rigid posture of her body as she glared down the women trying to tear them apart.

Cecile stood up slowly, keeping her hands over Damien's ears for a second longer before letting them drop. She stepped forward, closing the distance between herself and the group.

She stopped in front of Hayleigh. Her eyes were like shards of broken glass.

"You care so much about children?" Cecile asked, her voice dangerously quiet. "Why don't you care about the fact that your son spat his chewed gum onto the carpet of a private jet three times, and you pretended not to see it?"

Hayleigh's jaw dropped. Her face flushed a violent, mottled red. She looked frantically at the cameras, opening her mouth to deny it, but the footage already existed.

Cecile didn't wait for a response. She turned her head, locking her sights on Abbey.

Abbey's fake smile faltered.

"And you, Mrs. White," Cecile said, taking a slow step forward. "My son is not a prop for your maternal performance. Keep your repulsive acting to yourself."

The words hit like a physical slap. Abbey gasped, taking a step back. Tears instantly welled in her eyes. "I... I was only trying to help," she whimpered, playing the victim perfectly.

Cecile ignored the tears. She turned her terrifying gaze to Director Octavia.

"Section four, paragraph two of our contracts," Cecile recited, her voice echoing across the silent square. "No production member or cast member may forcefully separate a parent-child unit during the survival phase. Attempting to do so is a breach of contract, resulting in immediate termination of the broadcast."

Octavia's face went pale. She hadn't expected Cecile to actually read the legal documents, let alone weaponize them. The director quickly grabbed her walkie-talkie. "Move it along," she hissed to the host.

The host cleared his throat loudly. "Alright! Guides, please take the families to their respective homes!"

Cecile turned around. She reached down and took Damien's hand. Without looking back at the stunned crowd, she followed Cody, the guide, toward the dirt path leading into the woods.

Abbey stood frozen in the square. She watched Cecile's retreating back. The tears vanished from her eyes, replaced by a look of pure, unadulterated venom. Beside her, Brayan saw the shift in his stepmother's face and shrank back, terrified.

The walk to House 5 took thirty minutes. The path was steep, choked with rocks and thick mud. Cecile was wearing thin, flat designer shoes. Every step was a battle. Mud splattered up her calves, ruining her leggings.

Damien looked down at her ruined shoes. Without a word, he quickened his pace, his small hand gripping hers tighter, trying to pull his own weight so she wouldn't have to drag him.

They crested a small hill.

House 5 stood in a clearing. It wasn't a house. It was a rotting wooden shed. The door hung off one hinge. Half the roof was missing, exposing the interior to the darkening sky.

Cody stopped. He looked at the shack, then at Cecile, a flash of genuine pity in his eyes.

"Listen," Cody muttered, stepping away from the cameraman. "If you look into the lens and say you can't do it, production is legally required to give you a weatherproof tent. Just say the word."

Cecile looked at the camera lens. She knew exactly what Octavia wanted. A clip of her begging.

"No," Cecile said flatly. "I can handle it."

She pushed past Cody, pushed open the screeching, rotting door, and stepped into the freezing, damp darkness of the mud shack.