"Miss Martinez! Are you here to stalk Kayson?"

"Did Henderson family force you out?"

"Are you planning to ruin the show?"

The questions were needles. The flashes were knives. Casey raised her hand, using the back of her wrist to shield her eyes. Her jaw clenched tight.

A male reporter stepped too close, his microphone almost hitting her chin. "Miss Martinez, any comments on being called a desperate stalker?"

Casey didn't speak. She dropped her shoulder and drove it forward, slamming into the reporter's chest.

He gasped, stumbling backward into the crowd. Security guards scrambled, pulling up velvet ropes to hold back the press.

Casey didn't wait. She pushed through the gap, her boots clicking on the polished floor. She walked into the dark tunnel leading to the main stage. The roar of the crowd grew louder.

She took a breath and pushed open the heavy double doors.

Spotlights hit her. Three beams of blinding white light, pinning her in place. The heat from the lamps was suffocating.

Boos erupted from the audience. Thousands of people, screaming their hatred. Holographic comments floated in the air above her head.

Get out of A13!

Toxic bitch!

Go back to the slums!

Casey tilted her head back slightly, scanning the floating text. Her expression didn't change.

Kayson Cross stood on the other side of the stage. The golden boy. The idol. His arms were crossed over his chest, his handsome face twisted in disgust.

He saw her and started walking. Fast. Angry. He stopped inches away from her, towering over her.

"Listen to me," he hissed, his voice low but venomous. "Stop your disgusting games. Stay away from Coralie, or I'll make your life a living hell."

Casey looked at him. Really looked at him. She saw a spoiled brat. A boy playing tough. She felt nothing but a vague sense of confusion. Why was this insect talking to her?

Her silence, her utter lack of reaction, snapped something inside him. Kayson's face turned red. He lunged, his hand shooting out to grab her wrist.

Before he could pull back, her body reacted on pure instinct. She didn't dodge. Instead, she slammed the heel of her palm upward into his wrist, using his own momentum against him. The unexpected, brutal force made him cry out and stumble back. It wasn't a trained martial arts form, just the raw, desperate strength of someone used to fighting for their life.

Kayson gasped. A sharp intake of breath. His knees buckled. His tall frame bent awkwardly as pain shot up his arm.

The audience gasped. The holographic comments froze for a second, then exploded with exclamation marks.

Casey leaned in close, her lips near his ear. "Don't touch me," she whispered, her voice like ice. "You're dirty."

Kayson's face flushed crimson. Humiliation and rage battled in his eyes. He tried to yank his arm away.

Casey let go. Abruptly. He stumbled backward, nearly falling on his ass. He caught himself, rubbing his wrist, staring at her like she was a monster.

Casey slowly clapped her hands together, dusting off invisible dirt. The insult was clear.

The crowd went wild. The comments turned into a wall of hate, demanding her head, but amidst the flood of insults, a few stray comments flickered: 'Damn, that was a clean move.' 'He started it, lol.' 'Who is she? Kinda badass.'

Casey glanced at the floating text. A smirk touched her lips. She raised her left hand, tapping the interface on her wristband. She navigated to the settings.

She hit the button. The holographic comments vanished. The silence in her own head was sudden and absolute.

She turned her back on the audience.

Casey walked toward the edge of the stage. She didn't look back.

Callum Cabrera stepped out from the shadows. He was a wall of muscle, his face hard. He reached out and grabbed Kayson's shoulder, holding the sputtering idol back.

"Let me go!" Kayson yelled, trying to shake off Callum's grip. "She's crazy!"

"Shut up," Callum growled. His voice was deep, commanding. "We're live. Do you want to ruin your career?"

Kayson's chest heaved. He glared at Casey's back, but he stopped struggling.

From the side of the stage, Coralie appeared. She hurried over to Kayson, her face a picture of distress. She took his injured hand in hers, stroking it gently.

"Kayson, are you okay?" she asked, her voice trembling.

Kayson's expression softened instantly. "I'm fine. She's just insane."

Coralie looked up, her gaze landing on Casey. For a split second, pure malice flickered in her eyes. Then it was gone, replaced by saintly sorrow.

She walked toward Casey. Her steps were small, careful. She stopped a foot away and opened her arms, offering a hug.

"Sister," Coralie said, her voice carrying through the microphones. "No matter what happens, I hope you find true love here."

Casey stopped walking. She turned her head slowly. She looked at Coralie's outstretched arms, then at her tear-streaked face.

Casey didn't move. She didn't step back. She just stood there, staring at Coralie like she was looking at a corpse.

The silence stretched. The audience held its breath. Coralie's arms hung in the air, trembling slightly. Her eyes widened, tears spilling over.

The holographic screens, though Casey couldn't see them, flashed red with anger.

Casey tilted her head. "Move," she said. Two words, cold as the vacuum of space.

Coralie flinched like she'd been slapped. Her body shook.

Callum was there in an instant. He stepped in front of Coralie, shielding her completely. He glared at Casey, his eyes promising violence.

"That's enough," he snarled. "Back off."

Casey shrugged. She looked bored. She sidestepped the pair of them, giving them a wide berth.

She walked to the far edge of the stage, into the darkest corner. She sat down on a metal bench, closed her eyes, and waited.

Behind her, Coralie collapsed against Callum's chest, sobbing. Callum held her, his eyes burning holes in Casey's back.

In the control room, Director Quinn Vance stared at the monitor. The ratings graph was a vertical line going straight up. He slammed his hand on the desk, laughing.

The stage lights dimmed. A deep, resonant electronic chime echoed through the studio.

Director Quinn Vance jogged onto the stage, a microphone in his hand. His face was flushed with excitement.

"Ladies and gentlemen!" he shouted. "The twelfth season of 'Ancient Love' is about to begin!"

A massive hologram flickered to life above the stage. It showed Planet A13. Red dirt. Black forests. A wasteland.

Quinn cleared his throat. "The rules are simple. Survive on the planet for one month, and you split the grand prize!"

The contestants buzzed with excitement. They whispered to each other, forming alliances.

In the dark corner, Casey's eyes snapped open. One month. That wasn't enough. She needed a year.

She stood up. She walked toward the center of the stage, her stride purposeful. The crowd parted for her, sensing the danger radiating from her.

She reached Quinn and grabbed the microphone right out of his hand.

Quinn gaped at her, reaching for it back. "Hey!"

Casey sidestepped him easily. She brought the mic to her lips.

"Director, a one-month challenge is boring. I want to invoke Clause 7.4 of my contract," she said. Her voice was clear, cutting through the noise of the crowd. "I'll survive for a year, and the planet becomes mine."

Silence. Then, laughter. It started as a chuckle and grew into a roar. The audience pointed at her, tears streaming down their faces.

The holographic comments reappeared for a split second on the main screen, just so she could see the mockery. She's insane. Gold digger wants to die.

Coralie covered her mouth, her eyes wide with fake shock, but her shoulders shook with hidden glee.

Quinn's face turned red. "Give that back!" he hissed. "You're disrupting the show!" He shoved her shoulder. "Get off the stage, or you're disqualified!"

Casey didn't move. The shove didn't budge her. She stared Quinn down.

"I want to invoke Clause 7.4," she repeated.

Security guards started moving toward her.

Then, a sound broke the tension. Slow, deliberate clapping.

Everyone looked up. In the VIP box on the second floor, a man lounged in a velvet seat. Giles Henson. The Second Prince. He was handsome, with a lazy, dangerous smile.

He pressed a button on his armrest. His voice boomed through the speakers. "I find this... entertaining. Director, grant her request."

Quinn started sweating. He wiped his forehead. He knew better than to argue with royalty.

He sighed into his backup mic. "The challenge... is approved."

The crowd erupted. They stared at Casey like she was already dead.

Casey shoved the microphone back into Quinn's chest. She looked up at the VIP box. Her eyes met Giles's. She didn't thank him. She just looked at him like he was a variable in an equation.