Reality Love

Betty

I’m on a reality show. By accident, not ambition or a hunger for fame. A show where an anonymous, total stranger picks... a wife. It’s filmed in Vegas, so the wedding happens during the finale.

Then the lucky couple gets flown to some island for a honeymoon, monitored by cameras 24/7. Just the two of them. No crew in sight. Not even the people on the boat that brings supplies. Or those occasional “surprise gifts” from sponsors.

I signed up as a joke. Literally. A bet with the girls — loser fills out the application form. I lost. I filled it out. Then I picked up a call, went in for an interview, and before I knew it, I was sitting in a conference room answering a psychologist’s questions with a face like I knew what I was doing.

What do you think of monogamy?

Are you open to compromise?

Describe your relationship with your father. Christ. Then came the personality tests — as if you could lock a human being inside a color-coded spreadsheet and declare, “Yes, this one will make a fine wife.”

And that was just the beginning. Interviews, photoshoots, body evaluation (“Please turn around. Again. Yes, in the light.”), medical exams (including that awkward one, which honestly felt like they just wanted to make sure I had all my parts and wasn’t some kind of robot), and of course — simulated conversations with the host.

Smile, but not like a psycho. Sound natural, but remember camera three.

And I passed. I passed it all. Which means that today — exactly today — I have to put on a dress that looks like it was designed by someone who’s never seen a woman’s body, sit in a chair labeled Blue, and answer questions from a guy behind a wall who might decide I’ll be his wife.

I don’t know his name. I don’t know his age. I don’t know if he likes cats, eats meat, or can say “sorry” without grinding his teeth. But I do know he has a choice — five women, five colors, five voices. And I’m Blue.

Blue. Like the sky before a storm. Or the drink I’ll slam once this is over — when one of the other girls walks out of the studio as someone’s wife, flying off with her newly-wedded prince to a month-long vacation sponsored by a detergent company and luxury condom brand.

One of three upscale bungalows on some pacific dream island, with cameras in every damn corner. A reality show for housewives and wannabe starlets. A pure product.

Final touch-ups: makeup, hair, mic pack. I can barely hear myself think through this stage version of a ’90s pop song blaring from the speakers. When we step onto the stage, the lights hit like a wave — warm and blinding.

I sit on a chair with a blue footrest. From now on, I don’t have a name.

I’m Blue. The other girls are Green, Yellow, Red, and Orange.

A color-coded key to matrimony.

We’re all wearing something like wedding dresses. As if someone told the stylists to design outfits for brides in a musical about cheap divorces. White, tulle, sparkly in all the right spots to catch the camera’s attention. We pretend purity and dreams of everlasting love, but really...

Each of those four came here for something. Recognition. Exposure. Maybe a brand deal with a shoe polish company.

Only I don’t want to be here — but I have to, or I’ll pay a fine for breaking the contract. Unless I fake an injury. Maybe I break a leg stepping off this stupid blue chair. But I won’t break any bones — or the heart of the mystery man they call Black.

The music fades, and the host begins the show. Words flow out of his mouth — the usual blah blah blah. He talks about how lucky we are to stand before The Great Life-Changing Opportunity for Love.

“Love.” I snort inwardly, gripping a fold in my dress that’s scratching my thigh. Right, sure. Because every girl dreams of meeting her future husband on TV, in front of millions of eyes, under cheap lighting and a host with the smile of a greased-up shark.

I glance at the others. Green looks like she just walked off a perfume commercial. Hands on her lap, hair in perfect waves, smile that says: I was made to be loved by you, stranger.

Yellow’s rocking slightly in her chair. Nervous. Maybe too young.

Red? Glitter, claws, and the gaze of a cat who already ate the canary.

And Orange... well. Orange seems to have mistaken this for a poolside pageant. Her cleavage is trying to escape her dress, and I’m pretty sure that’s exactly what she intended.

To our left is a shadowed booth — and inside it, the man of the hour: mysterious Black, the guy who’ll be asking us questions. We don’t know his name. We don’t know his age, what he does, what he looks like.

“The Groom,” the crew keeps saying, their eyes gleaming like they’re talking about some fairytale prince. And maybe that’s what they’re hoping for — that we’ll fall for the fantasy. That we’ll kick off our heels the moment we see a smooth face and an expensive suit. But I’m planning to keep my shoes on.

Anyone could be sitting in that booth. A lawyer dumped by his girlfriend. A washed-up actor’s bored son. Or just a good-looking supermarket cashier who was charming enough to pass the casting. Because they, the would-be husbands, go through auditions too.

I wonder if they measure their dicks. I stifle a laugh, picturing the candidates lining up to drop their pants while some casting lady squats with a ruler in hand: “I’m sorry, sir, you don’t meet the minimum requirement. Please exit the studio.”

The music fades completely. The lights shift into something softer — “romantic,” supposedly — but we all know it’s just theater. Scenery for emotions designed to look good on screen. To the right, the camera crew is ready to catch every hint of a tear, every “spontaneous” glance. To the left — our Black, hidden from the world.

The host’s voice takes on a serious tone.

“It’s time to begin the first round of questions. Our Groom will ask each of you one question. Please be honest. This is… a game for the future.”

Of course. A game for the future. Frosted in silver icing and sold in a golden wrapper. I wait for the question. Maybe something simple, like “What do you value in a man?” Or something totally fucked up and psychological, like “Do you think fidelity is a duty or a choice?”

The voice from the booth is surprisingly deep. It carries a calm I wasn’t expecting. Doesn’t sound like a kid or a clown. Doesn’t sound like a guy treating this like a joke, either. There’s a subtle accent, but I can’t place it. Sounds foreign.

“Blue, you’ll go first. If you could choose one thing you’d never forgive — what would it be?”

Well, shit. No small talk.

I don’t look into the camera. I stare straight ahead. I don’t answer right away. The studio goes quiet, tension rising like PMS bloating.

“Shame,” I say at last. “Not the small kind, like party embarrassment or a badly chosen dress. I mean the kind of shame that sticks with you for years. Being exposed. Someone who sold you out, humiliated you, pulled your secrets out and laid them on the table like poker cards. And laughed.”

I don’t need to add that those people don’t get forgiven. You leave them behind — but the memory stays, like a tattoo done drunk. Except on the inside.

The other girls give the usual fluff:

Red says she’ll never forgive cheating.

Green says cruelty to animals.

I stop listening. I’m waiting for the next question from our fairytale Prince.

“What does love mean to you?”

Yellow (pretty, perfectly styled hair, sounds like she’s recording a tampon commercial):

“Love is butterflies in your stomach. It’s that feeling when your heart races and the world looks more beautiful.”

Green (quiet, sweet, clearly rehearsed in front of a mirror):

“To me, love is trust. And partnership. And… breakfast together. Every day. In bed, if possible.”

Red (stunning looks, but something in her eyes says ‘Instagram is my résumé’):

“Love is a luxury everyone should afford. But only with someone who knows my worth.”

Orange (sounds like she’s quoting a TED Talk from bad-quality subtitles):

“Love is a process. A daily choice. An awareness of your identity within the relationship.”

“Love is when you can walk into the toilet after him and not want to kill him. Or go to a football game with him even though you hate the sport. Love’s in the small things — even in handing him a spoon at dinner. Not tossing it carelessly near the plate, but passing it into his hand, your fingers brushing his.”

I say it honestly, not giving a damn whether my answer fits whatever image Black is looking for.

Green nods like she just heard divine wisdom. Yellow tries to smile, but it’s clear she doesn’t get it — to her, love is more like a perfumed balloon bouquet than a dinner spoon.

The host raises an eyebrow, unsure if it was a joke or a moment of brilliance. The booth stays silent. No sigh, no laugh. Black says nothing. Maybe he’s analyzing. Or maybe he’s just thinking about handing someone a spoon.

Another question comes from the speakers:

“Name one trait that instantly disqualifies a guy as a potential partner.”

Red blurts out without hesitation:

“Ugly shoes. Seriously. If a guy can’t pick the right shoes, he can’t handle life.”

Yellow again, full teen-drama voiceover mode:

“Impatience! Love takes patience. And… caring.”

Orange:

“Inability to communicate emotions. If he can’t talk about feelings, we can’t build something deep.”

“I don’t know. It might be something I’d tolerate in someone else, but with that particular guy it’d just cancel everything out — because it simply doesn’t fit him.”

I answer without thinking.

Orange rolls her eyes like I’ve just served up canned philosophy with a tuna aftertaste.

Red smirks condescendingly, and Yellow whispers something to Green—probably along the lines of “what a weirdo.”

But the host looks again like he’s been handed a logic puzzle he can’t quite solve. Doesn’t know whether to thank me or cry.

And Black? Silence.

His silence is starting to develop character—like every word I say is drilling somewhere deep and settling there, waiting to be digested.

I need to start talking nonsense soon, or he just might pick me—and I just want out. Alone. As me.

The next question drops from the ceiling like confetti with depression:

“What do you think ruins a relationship the most?”

Green straightens up in her seat and answers like she’s quoting a 1963 bride’s manual:

“Neglect. If you don’t take care of it, it falls apart.”

Red tilts her head and declares with conviction:

“Lack of sex. Without physical closeness, everything crashes. Fast.”

Yellow goes full drama:

“Lies. Just one and it’s over. Like glass—it breaks once and it’s never whole again.”

Orange rolls her eyes and throws in:

“When someone doesn’t want kids. Seriously, why start something serious if you don’t have shared plans?”

Green nods enthusiastically like she just found the meaning of life in adopting a Labrador.

And me?

“Thinking the other person will embody our ideals,” I say flatly.

“You either accept someone as they are, or leave them alone.”

I don’t know if Black is taking notes or just staring at the ceiling, but I’m not about to filter myself.

If he wants Barbie, he can pick Yellow.

I’m not here to impress anyone.

Black’s voice rolls across the room again.

“Can you imagine going to bed with someone you met the same day?”

Silence falls first. Then Red giggles.

“If he looks like Chris Hemsworth, why not?”

Yellow adjusts in her chair and says with earnestness:

“If there’s a spark between us… it could be a beautiful experience—spiritually and physically.”

Orange perks up like she’s the authority on the topic:

“Depends if we’ve got separate rooms. If not, well… we know what’s gonna happen.”

Green sighs theatrically:

“I need to feel a soul connection.”

And me? I slide my finger down my thigh and raise an eyebrow.

“Depends if he can kiss.

If he’s a bad kisser, I’m not even taking off my bra.”

Laughter ripples through the audience, even the host coughs out a chuckle.

But not Black.

He stays quiet.

I wonder if it’s because he didn’t expect the honesty—or because now he’s picturing it.

The host announces a commercial break, and after that, the end of the first stage, where Black will eliminate two out of the five contestants.

At the words “commercial break,” the studio lights soften, and the music plays like it’s from a tacky ’90s game show.

Cameras pull away from our faces, the tech crew moves around in the background, and the girls automatically grab water bottles and fix their hair.

I rub my hands together.

Not out of excitement—out of pure, cold satisfaction:

In a few minutes, I’ll get to go home.

No ring, no husband, no month in a house full of cameras.

And maybe, just maybe, with a better offer—

From some producer who knows a face with character sells more makeup than Green’s plastic smile ever could.

On the other side of the stage, Red looks like she’s praying to the goddess of Reality TV, and Orange grips Yellow’s hand with such melodramatic intensity, you could play it in slow-mo with a string quartet in the background.

And me? I sit calmly, legs crossed, ready to hear: “Thank you, Blue, you don’t meet the expectations.”

After all, nothing tastes better than freedom regained after rejection.

The lights dim, and I feel adrenaline slamming straight into my heart. To the left of the stage, there’s a dark booth — that’s where Black is. We can’t see him, we only hear his voice, as if it comes from another world — cold and merciless.

“The decision has been made,” he says, and every syllable lands like a verdict. “Two of you will leave the stage. The rest will stay in the game.”

We sit on pins and needles. Green, Yellow, Orange, Red and me — Blue. I can feel my heart pounding in my chest, but I try to keep a poker face.

Black’s voice booms through the mic, though all we see is the half-light of the booth.

“Green — your emotionality is your strength, but also your curse. You need to learn to master that chaos.”

“Yellow — honesty is beautiful, but indecisiveness is like an open gate for failure.”

After a tense silence, the verdict falls:

“Red and Orange — you’re leaving the stage.”

An audible gasp from the audience — Black fooled everyone, speaking about two of us only to eliminate the other two. Trickier than I thought.

The two eliminated girls disappear behind the curtains, and I feel the air thicken, my heartbeat speeding up. Blue — that’s me — still sitting there, wondering what I said too well, why it couldn’t have been me to leave and end this circus already.

Fuck, it was just a stupid bet, and now it’s gone too far.

Black asks, “What will you do if I choose you?”

Green smiles so wide I worry her face might crack.

“I’ll try to be your support and companion, for better or worse.”

She says it with such confidence I feel sick from the artificial sweetness.

Yellow nods, doing it with the enthusiasm of someone who just passed an emotional driving test:

“I’ll do everything to make our relationship honest and full of trust.”

For a second I wonder if they’ll start singing Kumbaya next.

“I’ll start feeling sorry for you,” I say, and the audience erupts in laughter.

Black, without emotion, tosses the next question:

“And how would you advertise yourself? What makes you worth choosing?”

Green straightens up and says with full conviction:

“I’m warm, loyal, and I know how to build a dependable family.”

I listen and think — great, but where’s the bite?

Yellow chimes in:

“I’ve got personality and a plan for life — together we could create something really cool.”

Fantastic. Cool. Like a discounted chicken ad.

I just shrug.

“I can swear in four languages.”

The audience chuckles a bit, but it sounds more like pity than admiration. Black stays silent for a beat, as if trying to digest that response — probably didn’t expect someone to mock this whole wedding-themed circus.

Green shoots me a look full of disbelief and triumph, while Yellow already seems to be plotting how to distance herself from me so she doesn’t get bad press for being near the ‘unserious competitor’.

I shrug again and think — soon someone will walk out on this whole show, and I’ll be the first to do it. No point in clenching up over a fairytale that was never mine to begin with.

Black throws out another question:

“How do you deal with loneliness when everyone’s looking, but no one really sees you?”

Green beams like loneliness is just a temporary glitch in her perfect life.

“Loneliness? Well, I can fill it with myself and conversation — I’ll never leave you alone, I’ll always be there.”

Yellow nods with a seriousness that stings the eyes:

“Loneliness is time for growth, for facing your own demons. I don’t run from it, because I know it’s part of life.”

I shrug and speak in my own way. “Loneliness? To me, it’s more a state of mind than an emptiness around. When it hits, I just do my thing — a book, some music, or I escape into my thoughts instead of chasing someone’s attention.”

And silence. Black still says nothing, and I hope he’s marked me off his list and will pick someone who actually gives a damn.

Then, that low voice with its unplaceable foreign accent returns: “If you could ask for one thing, what would it be? One wish to a golden fish.”

Green lights up even more, as if she just pictured a world covered in roses. “I’d wish for our love to be eternal and unbreakable — that we’d always stick together, no matter what.”

Yellow shakes her head, eyes serious, like this wish might change her whole world. “I’d wish for strength and courage to face difficulties and never lose myself in a relationship.”

Well then — one golden fish? I’d wish for this evening to end as fast as humanly possible, so I wouldn’t have to pretend I care anymore.

But instead, I just blurt out the first thing that comes to mind: “That people would wise up and stop hurting themselves and each other with stupid decisions.” I say it thinking about that dumb bet I got dragged into, and how I now have to answer stiff questions from some mystery man behind a curtain.

The host tenses like he’s about to fart and starts his usual spiel: “Just a few more questions, and our mysterious Groom will decide which woman is the one. With whom he’ll spend a honeymoon in our cozy island cabin. The prize is sponsored by…”

I stop listening. As he finishes listing the companies funding this circus, Black’s low, calm voice comes from the booth again. He throws out his questions, and I answer whatever comes to mind. Mostly nonsense — either the audience laughs or there’s an awkward silence and the host clears his throat like a pig spotting slop.

The questions end, and Black starts making his choice. He talks about Green, and I listen, trying to catch even a sliver of truth behind those fake words: “Green has something stable about her, someone who’ll make a home out of you, even if that home’s made of cards. Warm, but predictable — and that’s not what I need.”

Then his voice moves to Yellow: “Yellow is fire, energy, but maybe too much. She thinks the world’s her stage and she’s the star — and maybe she’s right. Interesting case, but will she burn out too fast?”

He pauses, and I can feel the decision about to drop. My heart speeds up, even though I don’t want to win this thing.

“Blue… You’re different. You can’t be easily boxed in. You have that spark of chaos that breaks patterns. Sometimes annoying, sometimes fascinating. And that might be a problem — or an advantage.”

He goes silent, and I know what’s coming.

“I choose Blue.”

I hear the host clapping, grinning ear to ear: “After the break, we’ll have a live civil wedding, right here in Las Vegas. Blue and Black will meet at the altar for the first time — may it be love at first sight!”

I stare into space, barely believing what’s happening. I was supposed to be eliminated early. I made it through. I was supposed to drop out in the semifinals — I didn’t. And now this guy in the booth chose ME?

Green and Yellow congratulate me. I want to tell them thanks, they can split him fifty-fifty and keep the win. I don’t want him. It was just a game, a stupid bet.

But I say nothing. I signed every consent form and waiver the show’s organizers shoved in front of me. Including the one that forces me to spend a month with a stranger on some island far away. I signed the paper, and if I bail now, I’ll have to repay the cost of my medical tests, my psych evaluation, and God knows what else.

I’m not the heroine of a rom-com, but I’ll manage. Sometimes you have to play a game you hate just to survive.

Commercial break. The crew changes the set. Some lady drags me backstage for “hair and makeup.” The dress — white and modest like for a virgin — is uncomfortable, and something’s scratching my thigh. I lift the skirt: it’s a piece of plastic from a tag clip. God, this show is cheap — like everything in it.

The stylist gives up on my hair and pulls me back to the stage. Lights dim. A single spotlight shines on the platform where the host waits… and Black — the man in the suit who looks like every inch of him holds a secret. Tall, composed, not even smiling, eyes cold as steel. I scan his appearance: expensive suit, gold cufflinks, black hair trimmed short at the sides, a face so sharply handsome it hurts to look at. Skin tanned, features masculine as hell. His gaze — hawk-like. He looks mid-thirties.

I don’t know who he is, but I know one thing: he’s not here to entertain the viewers. I can feel the atmosphere shift—heavier, more real, less polished.

“Alright then, soul for sale,” I think with an ironic smile. “Now the real fun begins.”

The spotlight hits me—I feel like I’m under a microscope. And he’s just standing there, motionless, with that icy stare that scans me like a laser. Every glance feels like a verdict—or maybe a challenge. His eyes narrow slightly, as if he’s evaluating something, calculating—and then… a barely visible twitch at the corner of his lips. I could call it a smile. But only just. It’s more like: Let’s see what you’ve got.

He doesn’t look away, doesn’t pretend to be interested. He just sizes me up, like he’s trying to figure out if I’m more than just another random face in this circus, spewing dumb answers to his questions. And in that moment, fuck, I know one thing: this guy is not here for fun. He’s serious. Maybe even dangerous, if you step on his toes.

Still, I don’t break eye contact. Just like he’s sizing me up, I do the same to him. No way I’m letting him feel like he’s got the upper hand. I even tilt my head as my gaze travels down his long legs. Shit, I think, he’s actually kind of hot. And that thought instantly puts me on alert: what’s a guy like him doing on this show? Did he lose a bet too? Or is he just a full-blown asshole with a wrecked reputation?

The host, who also happens to be licensed to perform weddings, starts what they call the ceremony. Mendelssohn’s March booms from the speakers—of course it does. The four girls eliminated in the finale stand off to the side as my bridesmaids, all dressed in identical pink dresses. They look like oversized Barbies coated in melted candy. Pure kitsch for the audience.

The crowd sits in silence as the host recites platitudes about the sanctity of marriage, about love between husband and wife. Then comes the vow.

“Do you, Dante Fabrizzio Violanti, take Betty Helen Smith to be your wife and promise to...”

The rest is drowned out by Black’s sudden laughter. Or rather: Dante Fabrizzio Violanti’s. He laughs like he just heard the best joke of his life, then looks at me as if to say, seriously?

The audience rustles like leaves stirred by a breeze. Dante pulls himself together and recites the vow. Doesn’t even stutter, though the corner of his mouth twitches at my name.

Bastard.

Then it’s my turn.

“I, Betty Helen Smith, take you, Dante Fabrizzio Violanti, as my husband, and I vow to love, honor, and be faithful to you all the way to the ninth circle of hell.”

Silence falls. Tense, like the moment before a lightning strike. Somewhere in the back, someone snorts—or tries to hold back laughter. The host blinks, as if caught between his official script and did I hear that right? Dante raises an eyebrow. Says nothing, just smiles faintly. That smile of his is a weapon of mass destruction.

The host finally recovers and finishes:

“By the power vested in me, I now pronounce you husband and wife.”

Applause. Polite, forced. Like someone hit the playback button. Someone yells, “Kiss her!”

Dante freezes, as if unsure whether to kiss me or kick me. I don’t plan to help him out. That’s the officiant’s job.

“And now the groom may kiss the bride.”

Dante cups my face and kisses me. Or rather: pretends to kiss me. Just a press of lips, clenched tight like an asshole during diarrhea. A few “awwws” echo from the crowd, but they sound more like seagulls cackling over a dumpster than genuine sentiment.

When he pulls back, he meets my eyes with a glint of irony. No one notices our lips are drier than a toast without champagne. He grabs my hand, raises it like a trophy, and turns to the crowd.

“Ladies and gentlemen, I give you my wife.” He stresses the last word like he still can’t believe he’s saying it. Like it’s a role he took for money—or to avoid a sentence.

The fake congratulations start rolling in. My pretend bridesmaids elbow each other to hug us for the cameras. Dante stands stiff as a board. I watch his gaze flick over the remaining finalists—the ones he didn’t pick. He locks onto Orange’s massive tits. Then he looks back at me. There’s disappointment in his eyes, but it doesn’t bother me. I’m not here to make him happy.

I boldly stare at his crotch and make a doubtful face. One eyebrow in question, the other in pity. Dante doesn’t flinch, but I see his jaw tighten like steel under skin.

“Congratulations!” squeals one of the girls whose name I can’t even remember. Her lips look like inflatables and she sparkles like a second-hand Christmas tree. She clings to Dante, and he looks like he just touched a live wire.

“Hope you’ll be happy!” adds another, offering me her hand and looking at me like a taxidermied trophy. I shake it as lightly as if I feared catching something.

Orange approaches with a drink, tits presented like an offering. “Too bad you didn’t choose me, Dante. But maybe you’ll change your mind… in a month?” She winks at him, then glances at me. “No offence, sweetie.”

“Offence taken,” I reply sweetly, raising my glass to my lips, though the liquid tastes like windshield fluid.

Dante fixes me with a glare hot enough to light a cigarette. He mutters something in Italian under his breath—probably an insult. I just smile. Tonight, I’ll play the perfect, TV-commercial wife—but only while the cameras are rolling. Once the lights go out... well, that’s when the real show begins.

The host leads us backstage. Just the three of us: Dante, me, and him. No more shark smile on his silicone face. He’s serious, bored, probably thinking about how to get rid of us and move on to something more exciting. Maybe he’s thinking about his next Botox injection.

“Are you ready to proceed to the destination?” he asks, and we both nod in agreement.

The contract with the show’s producers required each finalist to bring no more than two pieces of luggage and the necessary documents. The newlyweds, right after the wedding, board a plane that will take them to the place where a boat will carry them to the final island.

I know my two suitcases were thoroughly inspected: I’m allowed to bring only clothes, prescription medication (in factory-sealed packaging), personal underwear, shoes. No gadgets, not even a private phone. There’s a landline on the island. We’re not even allowed to take photos with our own cameras — only the equipment provided by the reality show’s producers.

We get into a black van with the station’s logo and the show’s title on the side. The host gets in with us, along with three crew members ready to film everything. The drive to the airport is streamed live on TV.

The van glides through the city, a camera mounted on a tripod capturing every move. The host, wearing a calculated smile, fires off questions like he’s hawking cheap wine on promo.

“How does it feel to be officially married now? What does this moment mean to you?”

The contract obliges us to display enthusiasm and joy — we’re the couple that caught feelings the moment we exchanged rings. Our job is to sell that illusion to viewers. And the sponsors.

Dante glances at me, slightly tense, but delivers smoothly: “It’s a new chapter, full of possibilities. I feel like we can conquer the world together.”

I lift my chin just a bit and deliver a perfectly polished line: “It’s an incredible honor. I feel grateful and excited about what lies ahead. Anything is possible when you’ve got the right person by your side.”

The host nods approvingly, and the camera captures us beaming, radiant, practically bursting with hope.

“Betty, Dante, are you thinking about the future? How do you imagine it?”

“Definitely full of love, challenges, and mutual support,” Dante says, looking straight into the lens like he’s trying to punch through the screen with sincerity.

“With joy and openness to whatever life brings,” I add, my version just as polished and camera-ready.

As soon as we arrive at the airport, the cameras catch our every move — getting out of the van, collecting our pre-checked luggage, even the moment I walk through security and hiss quietly because the zipper on my dress scratches my side. All of it live. All of it for the audience.

The flight is on a private jet, sponsored by one of the airlines eager to be seen this season. The fuselage bears the show’s logo like it’s a fucking royal wedding, not a reality soap opera.

The flight attendant — a plastic doll in a corporate suit — smiles like an AI chatbot and offers us cocktails. We’re supposed to sit close, touch “naturally,” smile, and talk about our future together. All, of course, while being filmed.

Out the window, it’s just clouds and blue — the journey lasts a few hours. We land somewhere in the middle of nowhere in Oceania, at one of the auxiliary airports tied to a chain of luxury resorts. The island’s name sounds like a tropical fantasy: Mahana-Kai. It’s the kind of name that markets itself as the place where dreams come true. In reality, it’s a small private archipelago tailored exclusively for this show.

At the port, a fast, sleek motorboat is waiting — painted in the same branding as everything else in this batshit fairytale for the gullible. We board, again on camera, with smiles bright enough to blind. Dante holds my hand — light, like it’s tender, but it’s empty. I lean my head on his shoulder — I know exactly how that plays on screen. A masterclass in illusion.

The engine roars, the boat cuts through emerald waves like a scalpel. The crew keeps filming. Behind us, water. Ahead, an island where anything can happen. Whatever happens, there’s no way back.

The island is about two kilometers long, privately leased for the season just for the show. The name? Aurora Island. Located somewhere between Tonga and French Polynesia, but its coordinates are classified — so viewers don’t try to crash the party. No one around. Just the ocean, the sky, and enough gear to record our every move.

When we finally step onto the wooden dock and walk across the beach toward the villa, it gets quiet. Very quiet. Only the sound of waves and the hum of cicadas. The cameras are there, but hidden. Glossy lenses in the corners, in the trees — like the eyes of some alien species.

We enter the house. Light wood, huge glass panels, modern decor. A living room, kitchen, workout room, a workspace with a laptop (theirs, not ours). All staged and spotless, like we’re here to shoot a mortgage commercial.

The guide shows us every corner. The bedroom — the only real room without cameras. It’s upstairs, behind thick doors carved with cherubs. The bathroom next to it — also off-limits for microphones and lenses. A space to breathe. Or to do other things, if someone’s into hands wandering into someone else’s underwear.

The host quips, “You’ve got everything here. Cameras catch what they need to, but there are limits. The bedroom and bathrooms are private zones. Industry regulations. But the rest… well. The rest is your fifteen minutes. Make them a show people won’t forget.”

He leaves us. The door shuts. Around us — a paradise cage.

I look at Dante. He stands still, staring at me. His two suitcases, identical and black, sit beside him like guard dogs. I don’t know what he’s thinking — his face unreadable, like a cheese grater for the blind.

I grab my suitcases and shrug lightly.

“Well then, husband? Show must go on.”