You Get Me Reality TV Set
Eric's POV :
"Where you from, Camille?" I asked, keeping my voice low, like we were the only two people in this house.
She tilted her head a bit, lips curling. "Houston, Texas. Grew up there, but I've spent most of my adult life in LA."
"I could've sworn LA. You've definitely got that vibe."
"Oh yeah? What vibe is that?" she said, smirking.
I leaned back and gave her a slow once-over. "Confident. Polished. Knows exactly what she wants."
"And does that scare you?"
"Not in the slightest. But it definitely intrigues me."
She laughed, soft and light. Around us, the house buzzed with quiet chaos—some housemates lounging by the rooftop pool, others grazing at the kitchen island where someone had laid out a midnight snack spread. The camera lights weren't blinding for once, which made it feel… almost normal. Still, I knew paparazzi were camped outside trying to snag a blurry shot for whatever trashy blog they wrote for. That's the peasant hustle, I guess.
But I couldn't stop watching Camille. Yeah, she's gorgeous—undeniably so—but that's not what pulled me in. It was how she carried herself. Like she didn't need attention to own the room, but somehow got it anyway. Out of all the women in this house, she was the one. Not just for the game, but for the bigger picture. Partnering with her? That's how I turn this from just a reality TV show to a full-blown rebrand. I could finally shake off the "New York's Playboy" crap and step into "Most Eligible Bachelor" territory. That shift? It'd do wonders for my name—and the company's, too.
If you don't know yet, I'm Eric Ross. Only son of Oliver Ross. CEO of Ross Inc. By day, I run my offices. By night? I'm the life of the party.. And yeah, all the ladies love me. I'm enough for all of them, until some get greedy and start trying to make me theirs alone. Then they throw tantrums, spin stories, and hand the media their headlines. I never did anything wrong per se... but hey, the media doesn't care. That's why I'm here. Damage control.
I and Camille sat there a little longer, sipping house wine and bantering about nothing and everything. Phones are banned in here. For three months, we're cut off—blindsided by silence, except when we survive another eviction. That's when you get clarity.
Then she asked, "So… who are you when no one's watching?" Her gaze pierced right through me.
I froze for just a beat. "Wouldn't that ruin the fun of figuring me out?"
She laughed again, this time a little fuller, leaning in. "That sounds like a cop-out."
"Maybe. Or maybe I like to keep a little mystery."
"Well, here's a spoiler," she said, setting her glass down. "Mysteries don't last long in this house. Sooner or later, not just mebut the whole damn world will see who you really are. No one can fake it 24/7 for three months."
I smirked, holding her gaze. "Good. Before they unwrap me, I at least came gift-wrapped. They'll have to hike some mountains to get to the good part."
Elsewhere, Darlington whispered to Tracy, "They're giving main character energy. Producers must be loving this."
Tracy rolled her eyes. "Camille knows exactly what she's doing. None of us are here for love."
"Speak for yourself," Darlington shot back, half-laughing. "I'm here for love… or a brand deal."
Meanwhile, in the studio control room, the producers were glued to the feed.
"They're connecting faster than we expected," one of them muttered.
"Still too early to tell if it's real," another said. "But keep cameras on them. If they crash, it's content. If they fall in love? Jackpot."
Cut to confessional. Camille's sitting there, bathed in soft lighting. Her voice is cool, like she's talking about a chess piece, not a man.
"Eric? Yeah… he's interesting. Most of these dudes came in shirtless and loud. He came in quiet. But there's fire in his eyes. I like that. Doesn't mean anything. But I'm watching him. Closely."
It's time for my own confessional. I plunged down on the couch in a very manly man.
"Camille's smart. Like, very smart. But there's softness there too. I've played the player card before. I'm not playing it this time."
But even as I said it, my smile flickered. Just a crack. Barely there. But it was real.
Because beneath the charm and carefully built mystery, I was still scrambling to fix what was broken. I didn't come here to just flirt and survive, I came to rewrite my damn story. After that Miami scandal, the viral clip where I was fighting with someone's boyfriend, like heck I didn't even know she was with someone; she was the one that came onto me. Surely these people really want to bring me down because I sincerely smell fish.
That bullshit pulled contracts, people branded me a narcissist, a womanizer, and a fraud. This show? It's my last chance. My Hail Mary.
I told myself I could coast on just enough charm to stay, not too much to look thirsty. But Camille… she was messing with the balance. She saw too much.
Later that night, most of the house had gone to bed. Camille stood by the kitchen island, sipping water. The skyline behind her glittered like a painting, floor-to-ceiling windows showcasing the city that never shuts up.
I walked over, quiet. "You always up this late?"
"I like the silence," she said. "Only time this place feels real."
"Yeah," I nodded. "Easy to forget this is all a set."
We stood there in silence. Not awkward. Just… still.
Then she turned slightly and said, "You know, Eric… no one walks into a show like this without a motive. But I've gotta say you're the only one here whose smile doesn't reach their eyes."
I let out a dry chuckle. "That obvious?"
"To me? Yeah."
I turned to face her fully. "Then maybe you're the only one really seeing me."
In the control room, a producer grinned.
"We've got our storyline."