And for a single, dangerous heartbeat, her mouth almost twitches too.
Almost.
Then it’s gone.
She turns away from me as soon as the photo sequence ends, every line of her body saying exactly what her mouth hasn’t stopped saying all night: no, no, absolutely not.
But I’ve seen her. Really seen her now, up close, angry and alive and impossible under these vicious lights.
And the worst part—the truly catastrophic part—is that the theme announcement, the cameras, the public spectacle, all of it has only made one thing clearer.
I was in trouble before.
Now I am ruined.
CHAPTER 9
TILDA
The reception ends the way public humiliations usually do: with applause, lighting cues, and a smiling man in a white suit acting like he’s handed us all a gift instead of a psychologically targeted weapon.
I would like to throw Captain Photonic into a decorative water feature.
Instead, I stand under the Solarium Hall lights with my shoulders locked, my jaw aching from restraint, and listen to the post-announcement briefing while every relevant system in my body attempts mutiny.
Contestants are clustered in our assigned pairs now, some pretending this is funny, some very obviously calculating legal options, some already fighting in low savage murmurs. Across the room, a woman in red is hissing, “He cheated on me with a spiritual consultant,” while her alleged match keeps saying, “That is not the point right now.” Somewhere else, a man is trying to explain that a six-week affair on a cargo moon should not qualify as a formative romance. Production appears unmoved.
Bron stands beside me at a distance I appreciate and distrust. He has gone quieter since the stage reveal. Not harmless—neverthat—but more watchful. I can feel his attention like heat off a live wire, even when I refuse to look at him.
A production coordinator steps onto a smaller platform below the main stage and projects a holo packet above us.
“Contestants,” she says brightly, with the dead-eyed poise of a woman who has introduced impossible demands to furious people before breakfast, “you’ll now receive the season cooperation framework. Please review carefully. As Captain Photonic announced,Last Chance at Romanceintegrates both challenge performance and relational progression metrics.”
I stare at the screen.
Relational progression metrics.
That phrase alone should be grounds for arrest.
The holo blooms wider, spilling out rules in neat glowing columns.
Paired contestants will be assessed on:
cooperation under pressure,
conflict resolution,
communication,
mutual support,
and demonstrated relationship development as perceived by judges and audience.
I stop breathing for one second.
Then the next line appears.
Audience voting may influence:
