The Ex Test

The problem with a viral breakup wasn’t the public humiliation, the death threats from Elias’s fan club (seriously, the man had a fan club for his woodworking channel), or the fact that a screenshot of my tear-streaked face was now a universally recognized meme for ‘Regret.’

The problem was the silence.

I sat in the plush, blindingly white waiting room, listening to the expensive, non-offensive jazz music, and realized that my life for the past six months had been defined by the gaping, loud lack of Elias.

Elias Vance. My ex-boyfriend. The man whose face I had accidentally broadcast to three million strangers as I told him, mid-live-stream, that I needed to “focus on my brand.”

It had been stupid. It had been selfish. And worst of all, it had been true.

“Ms. Cruz?”

A woman with impeccably tight blonde hair and a headset that screamed ‘minor villain’ slid open the door.

I snapped my spine straight, deploying my signature ‘I am a serious career woman and not a walking YouTube tragedy’ smile. “Yes. Ready.”

I followed her down a hallway that smelled like fear and disinfectant, landing in a small, windowless room dominated by two velvet armchairs and a camera the size of a microwave.

“We’ll just be reviewing your motivations for participating in The Ex Test,” the blonde, whose name I already forgot, droned. “Just speak naturally.”

I settled into the armchair, trying to ignore the heat coming off the camera lens.

“I’m here because I’m ready to move on,” I said, the words practiced until they felt like a lie, which, technically, they were. “Elias and I ended things amicably, despite the… format. I’ve grown, I’ve learned, and I’ve successfully blocked him on all platforms. I believe I have emotionally moved on.”

Please believe me,I prayed internally to the gods of reality TV.I need this million dollars to fix my destroyed streaming career.

The blonde flipped through her notes. “And what about Elias? Do you have any lingering feelings?”

“Zero,” I stated, immediately feeling the need to elaborate, which is always a mistake. “He’s a wonderful person, but we are fundamentally different. I’m an aspiring lifestyle mogul, and he builds custom kitchen cabinets. Our love story has been archived and locked away, thankfully.”

“Excellent, Luna. We appreciate your candor.” She gave a tight, satisfied nod. “And now for a surprise.”

No. I hate surprises.

The door behind the camera opened, and my entire carefully constructed façade of ‘moving on’ shattered into a million tiny, ugly pieces.

He stepped into the light, filling the frame and the room.

Elias Vance.

He hadn’t changed much since I last saw him six months ago, save for the fact that he looked harder. His flannel shirt was gone, replaced by a simple dark grey Henley that stretched across shoulders that should have been illegal. His hair was slightly longer, darker, and he had that same infuriating, unreadable set to his jaw. He looked like he’d just stepped off a mountain ridge or out of a very serious, important construction site.

He looked like the past, and seeing him felt like slamming into a brick wall.

The camera was on, and his eyes, a devastating, deep hazel, fixed on mine.

“Luna,” he said, his voice a low, rough rumble I hadn’t heard in six months. It felt like a punch to the gut and a promise all at once.

My smile withered. “Elias. You… you look well.”

“You don’t,” he replied, the corners of his mouth twitching slightly, not quite a smirk, not quite a frown. It was the look he always gave me when I was lying badly. “Still lying in front of a camera?”

The blonde producer coughed, stepping between us, a sheaf of contracts clutched in her hand.

“Wonderful. The chemistry is already palpable,” she chirped, oblivious. “Welcome, Elias. And welcome back, Luna.”

She tossed a slim, ivory-colored folder onto the coffee table between our chairs.

“The Ex Test isn’t about proving you’ve moved on,” she said, her voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper, a hint of something gleeful and cruel underneath. “That’s just the cover story. The real prize—the ten-million-dollar grand prize—is for the couple who can convince the world they’ve fallen back in love.”

My heart hammered against my ribs. “I’m sorry, what?”

Elias was staring at the folder, his expression unreadable, but I saw the muscles in his forearms tense.

“The greatest reality hook in history is a shocking reunion,” the producer continued, tapping the folder. “For the next six weeks, you aren’t exes. You are the newly reunited, deeply in love, and secretly engaged couple. You are fiancés, Luna. And the more convincing your chemistry, the more the world believes your love is real, the closer you get to that prize.”

I looked at the folder, then at Elias, whose gaze had now locked on mine, challenging, angry, and undeniably intense. The heat in the room was suddenly stifling.

“Sign here,” the producer urged. “Or walk away from the biggest deal of your career.”

I reached for the folder, my hand shaking slightly. I needed the money. I needed the redemption. But most of all, I knew that if I walked away, I’d spend the rest of my life wondering what it would feel like to have his hands on me again, even if it was just for the cameras.

I flipped open the contract. Right there, on the cover sheet, in bold letters, was the first, terrible lie.

COUPLE: LUNA CRUZ & ELIAS VANCESTATUS: ENGAGEDPROJECT DURATION: SIX WEEKS. NO CONTACT CLAUSE VOID.

My fingers tightened around the ivory folder. The heat of the room was definitely not due to the cameras; it was the proximity of Elias, the weight of the contract, and the dizzying, terrifying prospect of ten million dollars.

Ten million dollars. That fixed everything. That bought the professional studio, hired the social media team, and completely erased the memory of that disastrous live-stream from the internet’s collective mind.

“I’m waiting, Luna,” the blonde producer prompted, her voice losing its sugary veneer. “In or out?”

I looked at Elias. His hazel eyes were narrowed, fixed on the contract like it was a viper, but they lifted to mine, and for a split second, I saw a flicker of the intense, possessive heat I used to associate with late nights and whispered promises. Now, it just felt like danger.

He didn’t want this. That much was clear. But if he didn’t want it, why was he here?

“Why did you come, Elias?” I whispered, my voice barely audible above the low whir of the camera.

“Why do you think?” His reply was brutal, delivered in a flat, cold tone. “You ruined my life. I’m here for the collateral damage payout.”

Ouch. But he wasn’t wrong. His woodworking channel views had dipped after our viral catastrophe, and the comments section of every video was a dumpster fire of ‘Team Luna’ versus ‘Team Elias.’

I gripped the pen offered by the producer, whose expression had morphed into pure, satisfied calculation. If we were arguing already, she was winning.

“Fine,” I said, signing my name with a flourish that was entirely too shaky. “We’re engaged.”

Elias sighed—a deep, theatrical sound that pulled at the tight Henley shirt, drawing my attention to the breadth of his chest.

“If you think for one second you’re sleeping in the same room as me, Cruz, you’ve lost your mind.”

The producer clapped her hands, interrupting the mounting tension between us. “Oh, sweeties, don’t worry! We’ve already taken care of the logistics.” She pulled a velvet box from her pocket and placed it on the table. “Elias, for our first official scene, why don’t you put this on your beautiful fiancé?”

He stared at the box, then at the producer, then back at me, a silent war raging behind his eyes.

“You’re really going to force this?” Elias asked the blonde.

“Ten million dollars, Elias. It buys a lot of soundproofing for your shop. Now, places, please!” she hissed, snapping her fingers at the camera operator to get a close-up.

Elias leaned forward, the smell of sawdust and something musky and uniquely him hitting me hard. He snatched the box, flipped it open, and pulled out a glittering, massive diamond ring. It was the size of a small walnut and sparkled with an obscene lack of subtlety.

He didn’t ask. He didn’t hesitate. He took my left hand, his thumb brushing against my wrist, and a shocking jolt of electricity zipped up my arm, making my breath hitch.

His touch was the first real thing that had happened in this room. All the practiced lines about ‘moving on’ and ‘amicable breakups’ vanished beneath the rough pad of his thumb.

“For the camera,” he muttered, his voice dropping low, his gaze still fixed on my hand. “Don’t mistake it for anything else.”

“Never,” I replied, equally low, even as the gold band slid into place, heavy and cold and solid, locking us back together in the cruelest way possible. The ring felt permanent.

He finally looked up, those deep hazel eyes burning. “Good. Because the real test won’t be fooling the world, Luna. It’ll be surviving six weeks of me.”

The producer beamed, walking us to a side door that led to a noisy hallway. “Perfect! That’s a wrap on the confession scene. Welcome to the show! We are taking you straight to the ‘honeymoon suite’ on set. It’s important to establish your domestic bliss immediately.”

“Honeymoon suite?” I repeated, my voice squeaking.

“Just one room, one bed,” the blonde cooed, pushing us into the brightly lit, chaotic corridor. “Authenticity, darling. Now, get moving, fiancés. We start shooting the moving-in montage in T-minus ten minutes.”

Elias shoved his hands deep into the pockets of his jeans, his jaw tight.

“One bed, Elias,” I whispered, panic rising.

He didn’t look at me, just kept walking, pulling me along in his magnetic wake. “I guess that means you’ll be sleeping on the floor, Luna. You’re the one who needs the ten million dollars most.”