LovePlay

Chase

Jared Reed loomed over the coffee table between us. The man looked exactly like what he was, a television executive who’d sell his own mother for a ratings spike.

“Remember, Chase. This isn’t just about taking down LovePlay. It’s about salvaging what’s left of your so-called career.”

I didn’t need the reminder. The silence in my inbox for the past eight months had been reminder enough. The dwindling bank account. The unanswered calls to editors who used to beg for my byline.

“I’m aware of the stakes.” I kept my voice flat, refusing to give him the satisfaction of my desperation. But we both knew he had me by the balls.

I flipped through the contract one more time, scanning for loopholes or traps. Non-disclosure agreement. Exclusive rights to my findings. Fifty thousand dollars upon delivery of usable material. A laughable sum for what he was asking, but more money than I’d seen in a year.

“So I pose as a contestant, infiltrate the show, document the manipulation, and expose how the sausage gets made. Simple enough.” I reached for the pen, hating myself for having to do this. “And you’re sure they won’t background check beyond what we’ve created?”

Jared’s smile reminded me of a shark—all teeth, no warmth. “Logan Rivers, thirty-two, tech entrepreneur from Seattle who recently sold his moderately successful security app. Just restless enough to want adventure, just narcissistic enough to think reality TV is the answer.” He tapped the fake portfolio they’d created. “You’re good. We’ve created Logan Rivers’s digital footprint, feeding enough to the internet. Your socials are loaded with that information. Unless they hire a private investigator, Logan looks like a real person.”

I signed my name—Chase O’Conner—on the dotted line, feeling the weight of the pen like a shackle. The second signature line waited for my alias: Logan Rivers. The name felt foreign as I wrote it, a character I’d have to become for the next six weeks.

“And this is all legal?” I knew the answer, but I needed to hear him say it.

Jared actually laughed. “Legal enough. Just don’t get caught.” He reached into his jacket and pulled out a sleek black phone. “Burner. I’m the only contact. Text me updates, evidence, any dirt you find. But be smart, bathrooms and supply closets are usually camera-free. Check for recording lights.”

I pocketed the phone. “And when this is over? What’s your guarantee I get actual work again?”

Jared’s smile faded. “You deliver the goods, Chase, and I personally guarantee that every major publication gets a crack at you. The journalist who exposed America’s favorite dating show as a complete fraud? People will love that, and they’ll eat that up.”

Finally having a job again. That’s what this was about. It was my one shot at clawing back some semblance of the career I’d torched.

Jared leaned forward. “Are you all in? Because once you’re in that villa, you’re on your own.”

I thought about my empty apartment. The averted eyes of former colleagues when I ran into them. The desperate freelance pieces I’d written under pseudonyms just to keep the lights on.

“I’m all in.”

The LovePlay compound rose from the California coastline like a millionaire’s fever dream: all gleaming glass and infinity pools designed to look good on camera. The production van had collected me and four other male “contestants” from separate hotel rooms.

I’d spent the two-hour drive studying the others, calibrating my approach. Nico Vega sat across from me, designer sunglasses pushed up into his dark hair, talking non-stop about his crypto investments and his followers. Brad something-or-other flexed subtly every time the van hit a bump, his personal trainer persona already in overdrive. A musician named Jake strummed air guitar while humming what I assumed was his band’s latest single, and a quiet guy named Tom stared out the window, already playing the sensitive-soul role.

We were caricatures, not people. I wondered if they were all as fake as I was.

“Alright, gentlemen!” A production assistant with a clipboard and too much energy bounced into the van as we parked. “Welcome to LovePlay! I’m Kelly. We’re going to get you settled in your rooms, then straight into individual confessionals. Remember, no phones, no contact with the outside world from this moment forward!”

Her enthusiasm was unsettling. I shouldered my duffle bag, filled with brand new clothes provided by Jared’s team, and followed the parade of preening men toward the entrance.

The villa was even more ridiculous up close, designed to look Mediterranean but with the sterile perfection of a showroom. Every piece of furniture positioned for optimal camera angles. Every “candid” moment pre-planned for maximum drama. And the cameras… Jesus, they were everywhere. Fixed units in the ceiling corners. Mobile operators trailing us discretely. Even small, nearly invisible lenses embedded in decorative elements.

“This place is insane, bro!” Nico’s voice boomed beside me as we entered the main living area. “Like my vacation in Ibiza but with hotter chicks, am I right?”

I forced a smile. “Can’t wait to see what they’ve got planned for us.”

A round of introductions followed. More contestants emerged from other parts of the compound, all wearing the same glazed look of anticipation and nerves. The women arrived next, each one emerging from a separate limo in a sequence I knew would be edited into slow-motion glamour shots. I played my part, whistling appreciatively when an Instagram model named Angelica made her entrance in a dress that defied gravity.

Kelly herded us through the schedule like caffeinated sheep. Room assignments. House rules. Brief orientation. And then, before I could fully process the surreal nature of it all, I was being shown into a small room lined with black fabric and lit like an interrogation chamber.

The confessional.

“Just be yourself!” A young woman with thick-framed glasses positioned me on a stool. “Well, you know, your best self. Look directly into the camera and answer the questions like you’re talking to a friend.”

I fought the urge to laugh. My best self. Right.

The red light blinked on, and I straightened my shoulders, becoming Logan Rivers.

“So, Logan,” came a disembodied voice from somewhere behind the camera. “Tell us why you’re here at LovePlay.”

I flashed what I hoped was a charming, slightly self-deprecating smile. “Well, I’ve spent the last decade building apps and staring at screens. Figured it was time to look up and maybe, I don’t know, connect with someone in real life.” I ran a hand through my hair, a calculated gesture of vulnerability. “Success is great, but at the end of the day, you’re still alone with your thoughts, right?”

The questions continued, and I walked the line carefully, just authentic enough to seem genuine, just arrogant enough to create drama potential. All the while, I was cataloging everything: the leading questions, the way they asked me to repeat answers with slight variations.

“And what’s your type, Logan? What kind of woman are you hoping to meet here?”

I leaned back, giving them the cocky tech-bro they clearly wanted. “I’m drawn to intelligence and ambition. Someone who challenges me. Physical attraction matters, sure, but I need someone who can keep up mentally.” I paused, adding the hook they were fishing for. “Unfortunately, that combination seems rare these days.”

I felt disgusted: at them, at myself, at this whole charade. I was performing exactly as expected, feeding the machine I’d come to expose.

When the confessional ended, I was escorted back to the main area where drinks were being served. The real filming hadn’t even started, but already the cast was separated into clear archetypes: the villain, the sweetheart, the clown, the heartbreaker. I positioned myself as the cynical outsider with a hidden soft center. Catnip for a certain type of viewer, and I hoped it was the perfect cover for my actual purpose.

I sipped champagne, mentally noting every detail of the production setup. The schedule board visible through an open office door. The walkie-talkies with different colored tape identifying different crew functions. The way certain contestants were clearly being positioned near each other to manufacture early tensions or attractions.

I’d underestimated the scale of the deception. This wasn’t just editing for drama: it was a completely orchestrated environment designed to extract maximum emotional response. The contestants weren’t just participating in a dating show; they were raw materials being processed into entertainment.

“Gentlemen, ladies, gather around please!”

The voice cut through the small talk, and I turned toward its source. A tall woman with a headset was gesturing from the entrance to what looked like a conference room.

“I’m Drea Lane, senior producer. We need you all for a quick briefing on tomorrow’s shooting schedule.”

Everybody shuffled forward, and I positioned myself at the back of the group, maximizing my view of the production area. As we entered the room, I saw a bank of monitors showing different areas of the villa. Behind them sat three people in director-style chairs, reviewing footage and making notes.

That’s when I saw her.

She sat in the center chair, back straight, attention focused entirely on the monitors. Dark hair pulled back in a ponytail. She wore no-nonsense black clothing and had a quiet authority that silenced the room when she finally turned toward us.

Something about her face triggered a memory, but I couldn’t place it. She looked familiar in the way that certain types of beauty create déjà vu, striking but somehow inaccessible.

“Welcome to LovePlay,” she said, her voice clear and controlled. “I’m Dakota Hale, segment director. My job is to make you look good, which means you need to follow instructions and hit your marks.”

The name hit me hard.

Dakota Hale.

Images flashed through my mind. She was the same woman that used to smile on red carpets and magazine covers. And then I remembered the tabloid shots: her tear-streaked face outside a Beverly Hills restaurant. The headline I’d written: “America’s Sweetheart Blindsided: Husband’s Secret Affair Exposed.”

My throat closed as she continued speaking, explaining how the first day’s shooting would work. But I heard nothing beyond the roaring in my ears.

Dakota Hale. The actress whose career and marriage I’d helped destroy two years ago when I was desperate enough to take a tabloid job. The woman whose husband’s affair I’d exposed with such breathless detail that she’d become a national punchline overnight.

And now she was here. Ten feet away from me. Directing the very show I’d come to sabotage.

She turned slightly, and I saw her full face for the first time. The same high cheekbones and expressive eyes, but harder now. Guarded. Once known for her easy smile, she now looked determined and serious as she answered a contestant’s question about phone privileges.

I’d never met her in person during my reporting. I’d staked out her house, interviewed her friends under false pretenses, cultivated sources within her ex-husband’s social circle. But we’d never stood in the same room.

She had no idea who I was.

My instinct was to run. To call Jared and tell him the mission was compromised. But as I watched her command the room, another feeling crept in beneath the panic. Curiosity. This wasn’t the broken woman from the tabloid photos. She’d reinvented herself, moved behind the camera where she controlled the narrative rather than lived it.

“You. In the blue shirt.”

It took me a moment to realize she was addressing me. I straightened, meeting her eyes directly for the first time.

“Yes?”

“You look like you have a question.” Her gaze was evaluating, professional. No emotion, just assessment.

I forced my features into a neutral expression. “Just taking it all in.”

She looked at me a beat longer than necessary, then nodded. “Orientation’s over. You’re free until dinner, when we’ll start preliminary interaction footage.”

The group dispersed, but I remained frozen, watching her turn back to the monitors. The weight of the burner phone in my pocket suddenly felt like a grenade with the pin half-pulled.

I had a choice to make.

I could quit and tell Jared the coincidence was too great, the risk too high. But that would mean surrendering my last chance at a real job, returning to the professional wasteland I’d been struggling to escape.

Or I could continue, knowing that every bit of dirt I uncovered would potentially hurt Dakota all over again when the exposé went live.

The moral calculus should have been simple. But standing there, watching her work, all I could think about was my empty bank account and silent phone. The colleagues who’d abandoned me. The byline I might reclaim.

I told myself it was too late to back out now. That the machine was already in motion. That she was just collateral damage in a story bigger than both of us.

The lie tasted bitter, but I swallowed it anyway.

“Hey man, you coming?” Nico appeared at my elbow, breaking my trance. “They’ve got the pool area open, and Angelica’s already in a bikini.”

I nodded, forcing myself back into character. “Wouldn’t miss it.”

As I followed him outside, I cast one last glance at Dakota. She was leaning forward, pointing at something on a monitor, completely absorbed in her work. Professional. Focused. Unaware that the journalist who’d helped destroy her life was now embedded in her new one.

The guilt sat heavy in my stomach. But I’d signed the contract. Taken the burner phone. Stepped into the role.

Logan Rivers had a job to do, and sentiment couldn’t get in the way.

Even if it meant destroying Dakota Hale all over again.

***

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— Cat