“Not like this.”
No.
Not like this.
Because this isn’t performance.
This isn’t a song or a stage or a carefully curated persona.
This is raw.
Unfiltered.
Real.
And people can tell the difference.
The footage cuts again.
Now it’s a split-screen.
On one side—Bron in the arena, standing in the dust, refusing to back down.
On the other?—
Me.
Jesse in my arms.
Watching.
Someone must have captured it from the compound cameras.
I stiffen.
“Oh, that’s not—” I start.
Fenn snorts.
“Too late.”
The commentary picks it up instantly.
“And there—look at that,” Lenny says, his voice rising again. “That’s the woman he was running for. That’s his family.”
My stomach flips.
“That’s not—” I mutter again, but it sounds weak even to me.
Because it is.
Because it’s true.
Rick’s voice follows, steadier.
“Sources confirm that contestant Tilda Robertson has been competing as a single mother. That child?—”
Jesse waves at the screen.
