Page 9 of Doctor’s Forbidden Match

Mia and Jaina appear immediately, touching up my hair and powdering my face. Jaina dabs at my T-zone with a blotting sheet while Karyn organizes lunch for the crew, directing catering staff with quiet efficiency.

“You’re doing great,” Mia murmurs as she fixes a piece of hair that’s fallen forward. “Don’t be so hard on yourself.”

Not trusting my voice, I nod. This is exactly what I was afraid of. I’m crippling under pressure, proving I’m not ready for this.

But I nail it on the fifth take.

“Perfect,” Dain says, and I can hear the relief in his voice. “That’s what I wanted.”

As I step back, I catch Jaina and Karyn exchanging a smile. Mia gives me a subtle thumbs-up. It’s small, but it matters because they believe in me.

After lunch, I make my way to the contestants for individual interviews. I haven’t met any of them before because the show keeps competitors isolated until filming begins. My clipboard is tucked under my arm, and my confidence from nailing that earlier shot urges me forward as we film the next scene.

The first couple, Teresa and Christos, both in their forties, are warm and enthusiastic, talking over each other about their plans to restore the home’s original woodwork. The second couple is a different story. Lilia and Mac. I recognize the type immediately. Early thirties, from the city, dressed in expensive casual wear that’s meant to look thrown together, but it’s anything but. They stand with their arms crossed, and when I approach with my hand extended, Lilia barely touches it before letting go.

“So, tell me about your vision for this home,” I say, keeping my smile bright and professional.

“We’re keeping it minimal,” Lilia says, examining her manicured nails. Her tone suggests I should already know this. “You know, clean lines, neutral palette. We’re not trying to preserve some outdated aesthetic.”

My eye twitches at their blatant disregard for the rules. “The show focuses on honoring the historical elements—”

“We’re aware,” Mac interrupts, his tone dismissive. “But we’re here to win, not build a museum.”

I plaster on my best fake smile, the one I’ve perfected over years of auditions and worse dates. “Well, I can’t wait to see what you create.”

The third couple, thankfully, is lovely: a pair of newlyweds who gush about incorporating reclaimed wood and vintage fixtures from Pulse Point Thrift. I interview them, then one more couple, each question blurring into the next as the afternoon wears on.

By the time we wrap the interviews for this round, my jaw aches from talking and smiling. Everyone scatters, crew members heading to catering, contestants disappearing into their homes to keep working.

I head back to my trailer and grab my phone from my purse. Taking a few photos of the set, the homes, and one of me, I send them to my parents and Brooke.

Hannah: Day one down.

Brooke: How’s the hosting life?

Hannah: The town is adorable, but my feet and cheeks hurt so bad.

Brooke: That’s what you get when you’re a host, hun.

I smile and scroll online absently, walking over to the catering tables set up under a white tent away from the construction. Lilia and Mac are still seated at one of the tables, their chairs pushed back casually as they scroll on their phones. As I watch, Lilia stands and walks away without clearing a single item. Mac follows, leaving their wrappers, empty bottles, and dirty napkins spread across the surface like they couldn’t be bothered to walk the few feet to the trash. Something about it irritates me more than it should. Maybe it’s the entitlement of it, the assumption that someone else will clean up after them.

I gather their trash and dump it in the bin. Then I turn and head back toward the trailer for touch-ups before the final two interviews.

I’m texting Brooke back, when I hear it—a loud, aggressive squealing that makes my heart jump into my throat.

I look up and freeze.

A raccoon sits on the bottom step of my trailer, its eyes fixed on me. It’s the size of a small dog, with gray-brown fur and those distinct black markings. It doesn’t move, just stares at me, its small hands against its chest.

I’ve never seen one in real life. In LA, you see coyotes sometimes, but never raccoons.

The raccoon chatters again, louder this time, showing tiny, sharp teeth. My pulse rises. Are they dangerous? Do they bite?

I take a step back, looking around to see if anyone else is near to help.

But I’m all alone. My trailer sits at the far edge of the lot, tucked behind a row of trees for privacy, out of sight from the main street, catering, and the row of crew trailers. No one can see me from here.

He chatters once more before he scurries away, and I quickly get up the metal step to get into my trailer, but my heel catches on the edge. I feel myself falling backward, my arms flapping uselessly, my phone flying from my hand. I twist, trying to catch myself, but my shin cracks against the steel edge of the step with a horrible thud. Pain explodes up my leg as I land hard on the ground, my ankle rolling beneath me at an unnatural angle.