Chapter 1
POV: Emma
The heat pressed against my skin the moment I stepped off the transport truck. Dust rose around my boots, dry and golden under the late afternoon sun.
And just like that, reality slammed into me.
What the hell am I doing here?
A reality show. A survival reality show.
It felt insane to even think it, but there I was—standing in the middle of nowhere, cameras already pointing at me, their black lenses sharp and hungry. They weren’t officially recording yet, but part of the “experience” was this very trick: throw us into the chaos before we had time to prepare, catch us off guard, raw and unpolished, and then roll tape.
What I knew—what all of us knew—was simple: we would arrive, meet our fellow contestants, and the games would begin. One grueling test after another. The last person standing would take the crown. Endurance, skill, strategy… survival.
Three judges would decide part of our fate. Their identities were a mystery, whispered about in forums online, hyped up in every promo video. None of us knew who they were yet.
Breathe, Emma. Just breathe.
To them, I was a police officer from a mid-sized city. Strong enough, trained enough, here to prove that someone like me could hold my ground against warriors, athletes, survivalists. To myself… well, I wasn’t ready to unpack that truth yet.
I’d marathoned the last few seasons, scribbling notes, replaying challenges, soaking up every detail I could. But no amount of research prepared me for the knot tightening in my stomach right now.
All around me, the other contestants looked exactly like they’d been handpicked to remind me of my own weaknesses.
A tall man stretched his arms overhead, broad shoulders pulling his t-shirt tight. His dark hair fell just enough into his forehead to soften the hard lines of his face, but the real weapon was his eyes—icy blue, sharp, and alive with confidence. He looked carved out of stone and water at the same time.
When his gaze found me, his mouth tugged into a smile like we were already on camera, like the whole world was watching. Then—just to prove it—he winked.
God.
I wasn’t used to feeling this bare, this exposed. Without my uniform, without my badge, I just felt like… me. Stripped. And I hated how vulnerable that made me.
He closed the space between us, his smile widening. “Hi. Alexander Macforth, former swimmer. And you, beautiful?”
I shifted my pack higher on my shoulder, forcing my voice steady. “Emma. Emma Greene. Police officer.”
His eyebrows flicked up, impressed or curious—I couldn’t tell which—but he nodded. “Nice. I bet you’ve got some fight in you.”
Before I could answer, another presence joined us.
A woman. Compact, sharp-eyed, her posture straight and precise. She moved like someone who had carried a rifle before, every motion economical, every step purposeful. She adjusted her pack without even a grunt, the muscles in her forearms flexing like steel cables.
“Emma, you said?” Her voice was calm, clipped, professional. “Sofia White.”
I nodded back, managing a small smile. “Nice to meet you.”
She gave one in return—barely there, but genuine.
And then there was me.
Not weak, not untrained. But standing between a former pro athlete and an ex-military? Yeah, I felt the weight of their silent assessments. Was a cop enough? Would I be enough?
That little voice tried to whisper doubts, but I shut it down hard. I’d learned a long time ago never to feed it oxygen.
We stashed our packs in the participants’ lounge, where fifteen of us gathered in one restless, buzzing knot. Too many faces to memorize at once, too many names slipping through the cracks already. But Alexander and Sofia stuck close, orbiting near me, and I let them.
Then the air cracked with sound.
A sharp blast, like a gunshot but not.
I flinched before I could stop myself, heart racing. The others stilled, heads swiveling toward the noise.
The show was about to begin.
William stepped into view—the host. I recognized him immediately, all charm and perfect teeth, his easy smile practiced enough to melt an audience of millions. His energy rolled over the group like a wave, but it didn’t soothe the frantic beating of my heart.
“Welcome,” he boomed, arms spread wide. “Fifteen brave souls, ready to face the most brutal edition yet of I Bet You Don’t Survive.”
The crowd of contestants erupted into cheers, some louder than others, all of us swept into the moment.
But me? I stood there, clapping when expected, smiling just enough for the cameras, while my pulse drummed out one truth I couldn’t escape.
This was only the beginning.
And I wasn’t here just to survive.
William’s voice carried over the restless crowd, smooth as honey and twice as slick.
“But before we start the first test,” he said, drawing out the pause for drama, “let me introduce you to our three judges.”
I straightened, heart pounding harder than it should.
“Our first: Clark Abrams! Winner of our last edition!”
The man who’d survived every brutal challenge last season stepped out from the shadows, grin wide, shaking William’s hand like he’d just come home. The audience clapped, a few contestants whistled, but my palms stayed dry at my sides.
“Next,” William went on, “our goddess of endurance, the one and only trainer Alicia Fox!”
The legend herself strode forward, muscles honed, braid whipping down her back, her reputation preceding her. The cheers were deafening this time.
And then—
“And finally,” William’s smile sharpened, “the strongest, the fiercest, the bravest. Our war hero, the youngest to ever earn a gold star in combat—Major Jason Ballard!”
Oh.
My.
Fucking.
God.
You have got to be kidding me.
My jaw nearly hit the dirt, and I swear every drop of blood drained from my face.
Jason Ballard. Major. War hero. The name plastered across military history books. The man worshipped as a symbol of valor. The legend standing right there, taking his place beside the other judges.
And once—the man who filled my entire heart.
My Jason.
No. Not mine. Not anymore.
The crowd roared, applauding, cheering. I couldn’t move. Couldn’t clap. Could barely breathe.
The world saw a savior. I saw something else.
The shadow of the boy who used to press me against the hood of his Jeep, whisper promises hot against my skin. The one who called me muffin and made me laugh until my ribs hurt. The one who kissed me like he could swallow the whole world just to get to me.
The one who left.
He broke up with me with that noble bullshit he wore like armor. Said he couldn’t keep me tied to him when he joined the military, that I deserved to be free, to live college and life fully. He called it love, but to me it had felt like abandonment.
His last words to me, seared in my memory: If God wants us to be together, we’ll find our way back.
Well, apparently God had a twisted sense of humor, because here we were. Him standing like a bronze statue on a raised platform, broad shoulders squared, dark blond hair catching the sun, and those piercing green eyes scanning the crowd with soldier’s precision.
And me—trapped in a reality show where the only thing more dangerous than the challenges was him.
Then his eyes found me.
Clear as day, I saw the recognition hit him. His pupils widened. His breath hitched. His whole body betrayed what his face tried to keep stoic.
My heart slammed against my ribs, heat flooding through me. I held his gaze, locking him in place, silently begging him: Don’t. Don’t say my name. Don’t give us away.
If anyone knew one of the judges had history with me, my game was over. Everything ruined.
So I stood there, clapping just a half-beat late, smile pasted on like a mask, while inside every memory of us clawed back to life.
And just like that, survival wasn’t the only thing on the line.
