The ghost of Julian’s kiss lingered on Rev’s lips for two full days.
It was a phantom heat, a memory of pressure and desperation that bloomed in her chest whenever she caught his eye across the bustling workshop.
After their raw confession and the frantic, breathless collision in the supply closet, the air between them had changed.
It was no longer just charged with competitive tension; it was thick with a fragile, unspoken thing—a shared secret that was theirs alone.
They moved around each other with a new, careful gravity.
A soft smile when he passed her a roll of floral tape. A lingering glance when she demonstrated a particularly tricky wiring technique to Mateo.
They hadn’t spoken about the kiss. They couldn’t. Not with cameras tracing their every move.
But the silence was a conversation in itself, a promise humming just beneath the surface.
For the first time since arriving, Rev felt a flicker of hope that something real could grow in this artificial garden.
She was anxious to see the episode, to see the moment their truths had spilled out, to have the foundation of their connection validated.
That evening, all the remaining contestants were herded into the communal lounge for the weekly episode viewing.
The air was stale with the smell of microwave popcorn and cheap chardonnay poured into plastic cups. Rev found a spot on the lumpy sofa, leaving a conspicuous space beside her.
A moment later, Julian slid in, his knee brushing hers. The contact sent a jolt straight through her, and she saw him swallow, his own gaze fixed on the large screen.
“Nervous?” he murmured, his voice a low rumble meant only for her.
She managed a small nod. “A little. They have a lot of footage from the supply closet.”
His thumb brushed the back of her hand, a fleeting, reassuring touch. “It was an honest conversation. Maybe it’s good for people to see that side of us.”
Rev wanted to believe him.
She clung to the memory of his vulnerability, the crack in his polished de Courcy facade that had revealed the terrified man beneath.
She remembered her own trembling admission, the weight lifting as she gave her deepest fear a name. The kiss hadn’t been a strategy; it had been a surrender.
The show’s flashy opening sequence began, a montage of wilting roses and tearful confessionals set to a pulsing pop track. The host, Magnifico, appeared on screen, his teeth impossibly white.
“This week,” he boomed, “our florists were asked to bare their souls! But in a competition this fierce, can a secret be a weakness? Or can it be the ultimate weapon?”
The camera cut to a shot of Julian, looking pensive in the confessional booth. The audio played over a slow-motion shot of him watching Rev arrange a spray of delphiniums.
“The de Courcy name… it’s a powerful tool,” his voiceover said. “In a place like this, you have to use every advantage you’ve got.”
Rev froze. That wasn’t what he’d said. Not like that.
He’d been talking about the pressure of his name, the fear of it being all he was. The edit was slick, malicious.
They’d spliced his words, twisting his fear into a cold, calculated statement of intent.
Julian stiffened beside her. She could feel the heat of his anger, or maybe it was shame, radiating from him.
Next, it was her turn. A clip of her, teary-eyed, in the same booth.
“I have to do this for my grandfather… for the shop,” her voice wavered, overlaid on a shot of her glancing at the prize money placard.
“Everything is riding on this. I can’t afford to lose.”
They had stripped all the love from her words, all the fear of letting her hero down, and left only the raw, grasping ambition.
They made her sound desperate. Mercenary.
Across the room, Seraphina arched a perfectly sculpted eyebrow, a smug little smile playing on her lips.
The episode continued its brutal narrative. It showed them in the workshop, working on their arrangement.
Every encouraging word Julian offered was framed as a strategic whisper.
Every time Rev helped him with a difficult stem, the editors inserted a dramatic swoosh sound effect, as if a secret pact were being sealed.
Their genuine collaboration was painted as a clandestine alliance.
Then came the supply closet.
They didn’t show the heart of their conversation. They didn’t show the trembling hands or the shared moment of understanding.
Instead, a dramatic, string-heavy score swelled as the narrator’s voice dripped with insinuation.
“With the pressure mounting, two of our top contenders realize they might be stronger together,” the voice purred. “In a moment of strategic genius, a new power couple is born.”
The screen showed Julian’s hand finding hers. It cut to Rev’s face, her expression of emotional release now looking like one of cunning realization.
They sliced together Julian’s line, “We have to be smart about this,” with her response from an entirely different conversation: “I’ll do whatever it takes.”
And then, the kiss.
Stripped of its context, it was unrecognizable. The producers had chosen the most savage, desperate moments—the tangle of fingers in hair, the bruising press of lips, the sharp inhale of breath.
They slowed it down, replayed it from three different angles, and overlaid it with a breathy, saccharine pop song about secret lovers.
It wasn’t intimate; it was lurid. It wasn’t a moment of vulnerable connection; it was a transaction.
The room was silent, save for the blaring television. Rev felt a hundred pairs of eyes on her—the crew, the other contestants.
Her face was burning, a hot, creeping flush of humiliation that started in her chest and spread to the tips of her ears.
They had taken something pure and private and twisted it into a cheap, tawdry spectacle for ratings.
They had stolen it from her. From them.
She chanced a look at Julian. His face was a mask of stone, but his jaw was clenched so tightly a muscle jumped in his cheek.
His eyes, when they met hers, were filled with a horrified disbelief that mirrored her own. The fragile, hopeful thing that had existed between them moments ago shattered.
In its place was a gaping chasm of exposure and shame.
When the credits rolled, no one spoke. The spell was broken by Mateo, who offered her a quiet, sympathetic look. “That was… harsh, Rev. They really did a number on you two.”
Rev couldn’t form words. She just shook her head, stood on trembling legs, and fled the room, the sound of Seraphina’s faint, venomous tittering following her down the hall.
Back in the sterile quiet of her room, she sank onto her bed, the producers’ narrative echoing in her head.
Strategic genius. Power couple. A new alliance.
It was all a lie, but it was a lie broadcast to millions.
Her phone, forgotten on the nightstand, buzzed to life. Then it buzzed again, and again, a relentless, insistent vibration.
With a sense of dread, she picked it up. The screen was a nightmare kaleidoscope of notifications.
Twitter, Instagram, texts from friends back home. The hashtag #JuliRev was trending.
She clicked on it, her thumb shaking.
“Ugh, another fake reality TV romance. So predictable. #MagnificoFlori”
“I really thought Rev was different, but she’s just playing the game. Disappointed. #Showmance”
“Can’t believe Julian de Courcy is using a small-town girl for screen time. Classic rich boy move. He’s just trying to secure his win. #JuliRev”
“Is it just me or does that ‘showmance’ kiss look totally staged? So cringe. #TheProducersCut”
Each comment was a fresh stab of humiliation. They hadn’t seen the truth.
They had seen the producers’ cut, a grotesque caricature of her and Julian. They saw her as a calculating user and him as a manipulative snob.
The public, the faceless jury she had so desperately wanted to win over with her talent, was devouring the lie.
She thought of her grandfather, watching at home in his worn armchair, the pride in his eyes dimming as he saw his granddaughter portrayed as some conniving schemer.
The thought was a physical blow, knocking the air from her lungs. This was her worst fear realized.
She wasn’t just letting him down; she was disgracing the name of their shop, the legacy he had built with his own two hands.
A soft knock came at her door. She knew it was Julian. Her heart ached with the desire to open it, to fall into his arms and find solace in their shared misery.
But what would they even say? The thing between them had been born in a moment of secret truth.
Now, it was a public lie. It felt tainted, dirty. His reputation, the de Courcy name he was so terrified of failing, was being dragged through the digital mud right alongside hers.
Was he here to comfort her, or to strategize? The producers had planted a seed of doubt, and it was already taking root.
Her phone buzzed again. A text from him.
Julian: Are you okay?
She stared at the words on the screen. Three simple words that should have been a comfort.
But all she could think was, Is he asking about me, or is he asking about us—this ‘alliance’ they think we’ve made?
The shame was too great. The exposure was too raw. She couldn’t face him.
Not now. Not when the beautiful, fragile thing they had shared was being picked apart by strangers, reduced to nothing more than a plot point.
Rev turned off her phone, plunging the room into silence.
She curled into a ball on her bed, pulling the thin blanket over her head. But there was no hiding from the feeling of being utterly, completely exposed.
The camera’s lens had become the world’s eye, and it had judged them without mercy.
And in the cold, lonely dark, Rev felt the first, sharp pang of heartbreak.