Hearts On The Wire

The first thing Callum Hayes noticed about the mansion wasn't the chandeliers, though there were too many of those—gaudy crystal things that dripped like wedding cakes, shedding shards of light everywhere in the foyer. It wasn't the staircase, either, though it curved elegantly up with the smug pretty-pretty of a trophy wife showing off her Pilates-honed legs. It wasn't even the confessional booth, tucked away like some kind of altar where contestants would expose their souls to the cameras.

It was the cameras themselves.

Little black eyes. Everywhere. Some brazenly nesting on the edges, their little red eyes blinking like warning lights. Others hiding in plain sight—smoke detectors, books on a shelf, even the glass face of the coffee table. They observed, ever observing, recording, keeping track. The house was not a home. It was a machine, and he was a cog to be worn down to dust.

Callum smiled anyway. He had to. The producers wanted charisma. Energy. That elusive, camera-ready spark that made audiences tweet and binge and invest. Smile, laugh, lean into the chaos. Don’t ever look like you’re thinking too hard.

Except Callum was thinking too hard. Always. Because unlike the rest of them, he wasn’t here to win a cash prize or grab followers for his Instagram empire. He wasn’t even here voluntarily.

A rival network had driven him to this charade. Blackmail, pure and simple. They knew about his debts, his overdue bills, the sordid truth of his sister's treatments. They'd made him a proposition: infiltrate the country's biggest reality giant, House of Hearts, and sabotage it from within. Feed scandal. Cause turmoil. Destroy their top competitor.

Callum had tried to say no. He wasn't a spy. He wasn't cruel. But when they placed his sister's name on the line, when they promised her bills would be covered if he signed—what kind of brother would walk out?

Here he was, then, in the glamour lion's lair, rehearsing lies in his head as he smiled for the camera.

"Smile bigger," said a woman at his ear.

Callum whirled around. A girl was lounging against the arm of a soft couch, one hip cocked out as if she owned the place. Black curly hair was teased in a messy bun, her eyes a pointy brown, and the smile indicated she'd already labeled him as nice.

"Callum, eh? London boy? I'd put you at three days before you cry your eyes out in the confessional."

“Three?” he shot back, adjusting his smile. “What, no faith in me making it to four?”

Her laugh was quick, bright, genuine enough to make heads turn. “Four? Honey, you’ve got nice cheekbones, but that’s not strategy. Cheekbones don’t survive in here.”

Callum smirked, tucking the banter away like a poker chip. Better to be underestimated. People didn’t guard against what they thought was ornamental.

As he gazed about the foyer, he saw the social hierarchy already in place. A cluster of gym-muscled men chest-thumping near the bar cart, loudly arguing protein shakes. Two blondes sharing whispered secrets on the stairs, their nails glinting like talons. A tattooed fellow sulking by the door, arms folded as if already perfecting his villain cut.

And then there was her.

Lena Moretti.

The target.

She perched at the center of the stairs, an elbow on the banister, dark hair loose in a ponytail that could be lazy and deliberate both at once. She wore ripped jeans and a simple white T-shirt that appeared to be demanding more presence than the sequins and plunging necklines that flanked her. She was giggling over something a producer had leaned in to tell her, and the laugh sliced through the din like glass slicing through silk.

Callum had read her file. The rival network had rolled hours of tape in front of him: highlight reels, previous interviews, social media clips where fans called her "the heart of the show." They wanted her dismantled. They'd said the words ruin and expose.

But in person, she was… different.

She did not radiate like the others. She incinerated. Disciplined, effortless, compelling.

Don't look too long," the girl beside him stage-whispered, noticing in which direction he was staring. "That one's untouchable."

"Untouchable?" he said, hiding his interest.

"She's the producers' darling. The viewers lapped her up. You orbit around her, or you bail. Don't tell me I didn't warn you."

Callum shrugged indifferently, even though his chest had tightened. The other network hadn't been exaggerating—she was the anchor. Remove her, and it all fell apart.

The host stepped into the foyer subsequently, tall and beaming, his suit so sharp it might cut glass. "Welcome to House of Hearts!" he boomed, his voice ringing off marble walls.

Contestants cheered and clapped, their enthusiasm foaming like champagne. Callum clapped along, being careful to look excited but not desperate. Too excited, and you were desperate. Not excited enough, and you were a buzzkill.

The host provided his usual sermon: "The cameras are always rolling." "The viewers are watching." "Friendships will be tested, love affairs will burn, and only one of you will walk away a winner."

Callum glanced over at Lena. She wasn't the loudest clapper or widest smiler. She was taking in the room, sharp eyes cataloging responses, already doing math. She wasn't playing games. She was winning.

And for a hair-raising moment, Callum asked himself: What if I do?

The introductions began.

Solo, contestants strutted forward. A giant of a man named Tyler flexed and called himself "alpha material." A woman with glittering eyeliner announced that she was there to "manifest love and money." A nervous-laughing teacher recounted his poor-kid story.

Callum's go. He stepped up, flashing a smile that hovered precariously near the truth. "Callum Hayes, London. I may not necessarily scream the loudest, but you can be sure I'm the one you'll remember."

A ripple of laughter circulated in the room. He withdrew, satisfied.

And then there was Lena.

"Lena Moretti," she replied matter-of-factly. No drama, no spin. Just her name, accompanied by a smirk so confident that Callum's stomach turned over. "And don't fret—I intend to win graciously."

The room laughed along with her, captivated, and Callum immediately understood why she was the network darling.

By evening, the mansion hummed with talk. Contestants stretched out on couches, sat propped at the gleaming kitchen counter, unwound in the backyard under fairy lights. Wine flowed freely, loosening lips. Alliances bloomed in low whispers, coded vows of "I'll have your back if you have mine."

Callum did his job: warm, friendly, but never too revealing. Let them talk. Let them misread him.

Subsequently, sneaking into the pantry to make himself a drink, Callum overtook Lena. She was standing on her toes, trying to retrieve a box from the top shelf.

"Need help?" he asked, stepping closer.

She turned and grinned. "What gave it away—the fact that I'm five feet four, or the fact that I look like I'm going to break my ankle climbing this shelf?"

He retrieved the box for her and handed it over. "Both."

She smiled. "You're quiet. Either smart or suspicious."

"Perhaps both," he answered before he could stop himself.

Her eyes remained on him, bright and hard, as if she could cut through the layers if she looked hard enough. "Be careful," she said finally. "Quiet ones don't last long in here. People start to wonder what you're hiding."

His heart picked up speed, though his face did not change. If only you knew.

Before he could answer, the loudspeaker creaked. The host's voice thundered through the pantry: "Contestants, to the living room for the revelation of your first challenge."

Lena elbowed past him, her perfume faint and sorrowful. Callum breathed out, placing a hand briefly across his forehead.

He didn't have time for distractions. Not now. Ever.

But following her out into the blinding lights of the living room, the thought was gnawing at him:

What if distraction was the only reality that existed here?

The contestants shifted positions on the velvet couches, mutterings buzzing like hornets. The massive screen on the wall sprang to life. The host's grin radiated, wider than ever.

"Welcome to your first twist," he said. "One of you will already be at risk of elimination tonight."

Shouts filled the space.

And across the couch, Lena's eyes locked on Callum's, firm, unflinching.

The game had begun.