The air in Rev’s sterile, temporary apartment was thick with a silence that felt heavier than sound.
On the television, the slick, upbeat intro to Floral Factions played—a jaunty tune that felt like a personal insult tonight
She sat cross-legged on the floor, a bottle of lukewarm water sweating in her hand, her stomach a tight knot of dread. She’d been telling herself all day that it didn’t matter.
It was just TV. A heavily edited, dramatized version of reality meant to sell commercial space between segments.
But it did matter. Her grandfather was watching.
The episode began, recapping the previous week with a voiceover that dripped with manufactured drama. Then came their segment.
It started innocently enough, with shots of her and Julian in the studio, sketching separately. The narrator’s voice was smooth, conspiratorial.
“Two titans of their craft, with two very different philosophies. Julian Chase, the architect of elegance, for whom every petal has its place. And Reverie ‘Rev’ Shaw, the wild heart of Detroit, who believes beauty blooms from chaos.”
Rev winced.
Wild heart? It sounded like they were describing a stray animal.
Then came the footage of their first planning session. The camera zoomed in on Julian’s face, his expression calm and focused as he explained his concept of structural integrity.
“The foundation has to be flawless,” his voice said, sounding crisp and reasonable.
But the producers had layered a tense, ticking score underneath, making his careful explanation sound like a condescending lecture.
Then they cut to her. “But it needs to breathe, Julian! It feels like you’re putting the flowers in a straitjacket.” The shot was tight on her face, her brows furrowed in frustration.
They’d cut the part where she’d calmly laid out her counter-argument, the part where she’d explained how a looser composition could create more dynamic movement.
Instead, they spliced in a clip of her throwing her hands up from a completely different conversation twenty minutes later. The effect was jarring.
She looked petulant, emotional, unreasonable.
The “Beauty vs. the Beast” narrative unfolded with brutal efficiency.
Every time Julian spoke, he was framed by clean lines and soft lighting, making him look like a stoic genius.
Every time Rev spoke, the camera was handheld, slightly shaky, emphasizing her gesticulations and capturing the stray lock of hair that had fallen across her face.
They showed him meticulously wiring a stem; they showed her ripping thorns off a rose with her bare fingers. He was the composed artist; she was the feral upstart.
The climax was their main argument.
Julian: “This is undisciplined, Reverie. There’s no logic to this placement.” (The edit made him sound like ice.)
Rev: “My logic is in the feeling! Your logic is a cage!” (The edit made her sound like she was shouting, though she remembered her voice being strained, not hysterical.)
They cut out his moment of concession, the flicker of understanding in his eyes. They cut out her attempt to find a middle ground.
They just showed the conflict, raw and ugly, leaving the audience with a simple, digestible story: the rigid perfectionist and the uncooperative nightmare.
When the segment ended with the judges’ lukewarm critique of their discordant creation, Rev felt sick. She clicked the TV off, plunging the room back into silence.
The screen reflected her own pale, horrified face. They hadn’t just shown their failure; they had authored it, given it a name and a villain.
And the villain was her.
Her phone buzzed on the coffee table, the screen lighting up with a picture of a smiling, silver-haired man holding a ridiculously large sunflower.
Grandpa Joe.
Her heart plummeted. She took a deep breath and answered. “Hey, Grandpa.”
“Rev, baby. You okay?” His voice was gentle, but laced with a current of concern that twisted the knot in her stomach tighter.
“Yeah, I’m fine. It’s just TV, you know? They ham it up for the cameras.” She tried to sound breezy, unbothered.
“I know, I know. But you just looked… so angry on that show. So unhappy. That’s not my girl. The girl I know coaxes flowers to life, she doesn’t fight with them. Or with people.”
The implicit question hung in the air: What are you doing, Rev? Is this what I sent you out there for?
Guilt washed over her, hot and suffocating. He was the reason she was here. She was supposed to be making him proud, showcasing the legacy of Shaw’s Petals, not becoming a primetime harpy.
“It was a stressful day, Grandpa. The pressure… it’s a lot.” Her voice was small.
“I know it is, sweet girl. I just… I worry. Don’t let them turn you into someone you’re not.”
“They won’t,” she promised, the words feeling like ash in her mouth. “I love you.”
“I love you more. Now get some rest. And remember what the hydrangeas teach us: stand strong, but be graceful.”
She hung up, the phone slipping from her trembling hand. She felt utterly, completely alone.
***
Across the hall, in an apartment identical in its corporate blandness, Julian Chase stared at his own dark television screen.
His phone was pressed to his ear, the voice on the other end devoid of any of Grandpa Joe’s warmth.
“Julian.” His father didn’t bother with pleasantries. “I saw the program.”
Julian’s spine went rigid. He’d been expecting the call, dreading it with a familiar, hollow ache. “Father.”
“Unbecoming,” was the single, clipped word that followed.
“Frankly, it was embarrassing. A Chase does not air their disputes in such a common fashion. You came across as rigid, incapable of collaboration. You looked inept.”
Each word was a perfectly aimed dart, striking the very heart of his insecurities.
Inept. It was the one thing he’d spent his entire life trying not to be.
He’d built his career, his entire persona, on a foundation of flawless execution and unimpeachable control.
The show was supposed to be the ultimate validation of that—a national stage to prove he was more than just his family’s money and name.
“It was a creative disagreement, Father. The producers chose to highlight the conflict.”
“The producers work with what you give them,” his father retorted, his voice like chipping stone.
“Your grandfather built an empire on vision and diplomacy. He would never have allowed himself to be portrayed as a petty tyrant, unable to manage a single employee. This little television venture of yours was meant to elevate the family name, not drag it through the mud of reality television.”
There it is, Julian thought, a bitter taste in his mouth. It was never about him.
It was always about the name. The legacy. The empire.
He was just a steward, and he was failing.
“I understand,” Julian said, his voice flat, devoid of the emotion churning in his gut.
“See that you do. Rectify it.” The line went dead.
Julian slowly lowered the phone. He felt the suffocating weight of his father’s disappointment settle over him, a familiar shroud.
He had come on this show to escape, to prove he was his own man. And in one forty-five-minute episode, he had only managed to prove his father’s worst fears about him right.
He was a failure, a blemish on the Chase legacy, and he’d done it all on national television.
He felt a desperate need for air. The pristine apartment felt like a tomb.
He grabbed his key card and walked out, heading for the one place that felt like neutral ground: the rooftop terrace.
The night air was cool, a welcome shock to his system. He walked to the edge, gripping the cool metal railing and staring out at the sprawling, indifferent lights of the city.
He was so lost in his own bleak thoughts that he didn’t hear the door open behind him.
“Well, if it isn’t the Beauty,” a voice said, laced with a weary sarcasm that was missing its usual bite.
Julian turned.
Rev stood there, silhouetted against the light from the hallway, her arms crossed over her chest. Her hair was a mess, and in the dim light, he could see the strain around her eyes.
“And the Beast, I presume,” he replied, his voice quieter than he intended.
She gave a short, mirthless laugh and walked over to stand beside him, leaving a respectable distance between them. “My grandfather called. He’s worried I’m turning into an angry, joyless person.”
Julian stared straight ahead. “My father called. He’s disappointed I’m an inept, petty tyrant.”
A beat of silence passed between them, thick with the shared weight of their respective conversations.
“They really did a number on us, didn’t they?” Rev said, her voice dropping the sarcasm and picking up a thread of genuine disbelief. “They made you look like a robot and me like a lunatic.”
“They cut out the part where you explained your concept for the moss,” Julian found himself admitting. “The part that actually made sense. They just kept the shot of you saying it needed to ‘feel alive.’”
Rev looked at him, surprised. “They cut out the part where you agreed to try my idea with the foxgloves. They just showed you shaking your head, with that god-awful ticking clock sound effect.”
They looked at each other then, and for the first time, the animosity was gone. In its place was a dawning, mutual horror. They weren’t adversaries. They were exhibits in a freak show.
“The narrative,” Julian said, the pieces clicking into place with cold, hard clarity. “It’s a story. ‘Beauty vs. the Beast.’ It’s simple. It sells.”
“And we’re the villains of the week,” Rev finished, kicking lightly at the base of the railing. “We were so busy fighting each other, we didn’t see who was actually pulling the strings.”
He thought of the producer, a slick man named Marcus with a perpetually encouraging smile, who had pulled him aside to ask leading questions.
“Does it frustrate you when your vision isn’t respected, Julian?” He thought of the cameraman who had zoomed in on Rev’s face every time her brow creased.
They hadn’t been documenting a competition; they had been harvesting conflict.
“They’re not telling our story, Julian,” Rev said, her voice low and intense. “They’re telling theirs. We’re just the props.”
He finally turned to face her fully, the city lights illuminating the fierce intelligence in her eyes. The anger he’d felt toward his father, toward himself, began to morph, to sharpen, to point in a new direction.
She was right. They had been played, expertly and ruthlessly.
The frustration, the exhaustion, the miscommunication in the studio—it had all been fodder for a narrative they had no control over.
Until now.
A quiet understanding passed between them, more potent than any truce they’d managed in the studio.
Their problem wasn’t their opposing styles. Their problem wasn’t a lack of respect. Their problem was an enemy they hadn’t even realized they shared.
“So,” Julian said, a new, unfamiliar resolve hardening his voice. “What do we do about it?”
Rev looked from his eyes to the glittering cityscape and then back again. A slow, dangerous smile touched her lips. It was the first genuine smile he’d seen from her, and it was breathtaking.
“We give them a new story,” she said. “One they can’t twist.”