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.

The path leading to House 5 dead-ended at a clearing choked with dead weeds and the exposed roots of old pines. The structure stood there, listing to one side like a wounded animal. Rotted planks, a roof with a mouth gaping open to the grey sky, a door hanging by a single rusted hinge.

Cecile stopped fifteen yards from the shack and scanned the perimeter. A cracked wooden rain barrel sat beneath a sagging gutter, half-full of murky water filmed with fallen pine needles. She turned to the cameraman.

"Two minutes. No filming."

The cameraman hesitated, the lens still tracking her face. Cecile did not repeat herself. She just stared at the red recording light until it blinked off.

She strode to the rain barrel, knelt, and plunged her right forearm into the icy water. The cold hit the swollen welt like a punch, stealing her breath for an instant. She held the arm submerged, watching the grey water soak through the sleeve of her white t-shirt, feeling the bone-deep ache slowly retreat into numbness. When her fingers began to stiffen from the cold rather than the injury, she withdrew her arm.

She tore a long strip from the hem of her t-shirt with her teeth, then wound it tight around the bruised forearm. The pressure steadied the deep contusion. She flexed her hand into a fist and released it twice. It hurt—a grinding, bright pain beneath the compression—but her grip would hold. It would have to.

She stood, water dripping from her elbow, and walked back toward the shack without glancing at the cameraman. The red light flickered back on.

The floorboards groaned in agony under Cecile's weight. The sound was a sharp, splintering crack that echoed in the small space.

The cameraman squeezed in behind them, shoving the lens right into a massive spiderweb in the corner, then panning up to the gaping hole in the roof where the grey sky threatened rain. He was hunting for the exact moment Cecile would break down and cry.

Cecile's face remained a mask of stone. She let go of Damien's hand and began pacing the perimeter of the room. Her eyes darted rapidly, assessing the structural integrity.

Damien stood frozen by the doorway. The smell of mold and wet dirt assaulted his nose. His severe OCD flared up, making his skin crawl. He crossed his arms tightly over his chest, his small face scrunched in misery.

Cecile stopped by the window. The glass was shattered, letting in a biting wind that cut straight to the bone. In the corner sat a wooden bed frame, missing its front left leg, tilting dangerously toward the dirt floor.

She turned and saw Damien shivering by the door.

She didn't sigh. She didn't complain about the unfairness of it all. She walked over to him and crouched down so they were eye-to-eye.

"Give me two hours, Damien," Cecile said, her voice steady and absolute. "I promise you, we will sleep in a warm place tonight."

On the live stream, the chat rolled their eyes collectively.

Delusional.

She doesn't even know how to boil water.

Cecile stood up. She took off her expensive grey sweatshirt, folded it neatly, and placed it over the relatively clean wooden threshold. "Sit here," she told Damien.

Underneath, she wore a simple, tight white t-shirt. She rolled up the sleeves, revealing pale, slender forearms.

She turned back to the room and went to work.

She grabbed chunks of rotting wood and piles of wet leaves with her bare hands, hauling them out the door. Dust plumed into the air, coating her face and hair in a layer of grime. She didn't stop to wipe it away.

Behind the shack, she found a collapsed woodshed. Digging through the debris, her fingers brushed against cold, heavy metal. She pulled out a rusted claw hammer and a pile of discarded, semi-solid pine planks.

Cecile weighed the hammer in her right hand. A sharp bolt of pain shot from her forearm to her elbow the moment the weight settled into her grip. She clenched her jaw, exhaled slowly through her teeth, and adjusted her hold until the hammer's balance carried more of the strain. Her first swing sent a jarring shock up her arm. She did not stop. By the tenth strike, the hammering had settled into a grim rhythm—her forearm screaming beneath the compression wrap, her face expressionless as stone. She drove each nail with three brutal blows, the repetition becoming a mechanical, pain-ignoring cadence.

The cameraman flinched, the lens jerking downward. He stared at her, his mouth slightly open.

The chat froze.

Wait.

Did she just measure that with her hand?

Cecile picked up a handful of bent, rusty nails she had salvaged from the shed. She held a plank over the broken window.

Bang. Bang. Bang.

Three strikes per nail. No hesitation. No bent metal. The hammer fell with a rhythmic, brutal efficiency. Within five minutes, the window was completely sealed. The howling wind in the cabin died instantly, replaced by a sudden, heavy silence.

Damien sat on the threshold, his amber eyes wide. He stared at the back of the woman swinging the hammer. In his five years of life, he had never seen his mother do anything more strenuous than lift a champagne flute.

Who was this person?

Cecile moved to the broken bed. She inspected the splintered joint where the leg used to be. It was beyond simple repair.

She gripped the heavy wooden slats of the bed base with both hands. When she pulled upward, the strain tore through her right forearm, the deep bruise burning like a brand beneath the bandage. She shifted her weight, driving the force through her left arm and her shoulders, breaking the rotted joints free one by one. The slats came loose with a sound of snapping rusted nails. She took the remaining planks, wedged them under the four corners of the base, and drove the nails through them deep into the hard-packed dirt floor, anchoring the bed frame solidly against the ground.

In twenty minutes, she had built a low, incredibly sturdy platform bed.

Cecile dropped the hammer. She wiped her forehead with the back of her left wrist, smearing a streak of dirt across her pale skin. She turned slightly away from the camera, pretending to inspect the sealed window. In that brief blind spot, she cradled her right forearm against her stomach, her fingers tracing the edge of the soaked bandage. The muscles beneath the skin trembled with exhaustion and muted pain. She allowed herself one ragged, private breath.

Then she straightened, turned to Damien, and let out a breathless, triumphant exhale. A genuine smile broke across her face.

It was the first time Damien had ever seen her look truly happy. A shaft of weak sunlight broke through the clouds, filtering through the roof hole and illuminating her face. She looked radiant.

Suddenly, the wind carried a sound from across the valley.

It was a sharp, angry voice. Abbey White.

"Do it again, Brayan! You missed the key! Do you want to look stupid on camera?"

The distant yelling was a jarring contrast to the quiet, dusty peace of House 5.

Cecile walked over to the threshold. She held out her dirt-stained hand to Damien.

"Come on in," she said softly. "Welcome to our new home."

Cecile looked up at the gaping hole in the roof. The wind was blocked, and they had a bed, but the temperature was dropping rapidly. They had no blankets, no fire, and no food.

"We need supplies," Cecile said, brushing the dried mud off her leggings. "Let's go to town."

They walked back down the muddy path, heading toward the small commercial strip of Rust Creek.

Halfway down the trail, the path widened. Walking toward them was Abbey White.

Abbey wore a pristine, cream-colored trench coat and spotless designer boots. Two cameramen flanked her, capturing her every angle. When Abbey saw Cecile's dirt-streaked face and ruined shoes, a flash of pure disgust crossed her eyes.

But as the cameras swung toward them, Abbey's face instantly melted into an expression of profound, heartbreaking concern.

She quickened her pace and stopped right in front of them. She dropped to a crouch, bringing herself down to Damien's eye level.

"Oh, Damien," Abbey sighed, her voice trembling with manufactured emotion. She reached into her deep pocket and pulled out a bar of expensive, foil-wrapped Swiss chocolate. She held it out to him like one might offer a treat to a stray dog. "You must be starving. Here, sweetie."

Damien stared at the silver foil. His mind instantly replayed the sound of Abbey screaming at Brayan over the piano keys just an hour ago. His stomach twisted in revulsion.

When Damien didn't move, Abbey looked up at Cecile.

"Cecile, really," Abbey said, making sure her voice carried to the microphones. "Are you actually going to make him sleep in that mud pit? It's going to be freezing tonight."

She stood up, brushing imaginary dust off her coat. "I have a heated guest room in Villa 3. It has a plush rug and a real bed. Damien," she looked back down at the boy, her voice dripping with honey, "why don't you come with Auntie Abbey? I have warm food. Not like your mommy, who can't even boil an egg."

It was a vicious, calculated strike. She was trying to humiliate Cecile by proving that even her own son would choose a stranger over her.

In the live chat, Abbey's massive fanbase cheered.

Yes! Save him, Abbey!

Cecile is such a failure. The kid is definitely going to go with Abbey.

Cecile didn't say a word. She didn't defend herself. She simply looked down at Damien. She wanted to know if the last two hours had meant anything to him.

The silence stretched. The cameramen zoomed in on Damien's face.

Damien looked at the chocolate in Abbey's hand. He looked at Abbey's perfectly painted, fake smile. Then, he turned his head and looked up at Cecile. He saw the dirt on her cheek, the exhaustion in her eyes, and the steady, unyielding strength in her posture.

Damien reached out. His small fingers bypassed the chocolate entirely. He grabbed the hem of Cecile's dirty white t-shirt and gripped it tight. He stepped behind her leg, using her body as a shield.

"No thank you," Damien said. His voice was small, but it was crystal clear. "My mom is making me a bed."

The words hit the air like a physical shockwave.

Abbey's face froze. The angelic smile shattered, leaving her features rigid and grotesque. Her hand, still holding the chocolate, trembled in mid-air.

The cameraman to her right caught the exact moment her mask slipped. The live chat abruptly stopped scrolling.

A surge of heat rushed into Cecile's chest. Her son had chosen her. He had defended her.

Cecile reached down with her left hand and placed it over Damien's, squeezing his fingers gently. Then, she looked up at Abbey. A slow, mocking smirk spread across Cecile's lips. "Did you hear him, Mrs. White?" Cecile's voice was a low, dangerous purr. "Take your cheap pity and your chocolate, and go worry about your own son."

Abbey's face flushed a dark, ugly purple. She stood up so fast her heel caught on a rock. She stumbled, her arms flailing wildly for a second before she caught her balance. The pristine image was completely ruined.

Humiliated and furious, Abbey sneered, "Fine. Let's see what kind of magic trick you pull for dinner tonight."

She spun around and stormed off down the path, her cameramen struggling to keep up with her frantic pace.

Cecile watched her go. She crouched down and gently tapped Damien on the nose with her left index finger.

"Good job, little knight," she said softly.

Damien's cheeks turned a faint shade of pink. He wasn't used to praise. He quickly looked away, staring at the trees, but the corners of his mouth twitched upward in a tiny, undeniable smile.

Cecile stood up. The victory felt good, but the cold wind biting through her thin shirt was a harsh reminder of reality.

"Come on," Cecile said, her eyes fixed on the town below. "We need to find the woodshop."