Chapter 2: The Masked Bride’s Ultimatum

The set for ‘Countdown to Heartbeat’ was a private estate on the edge of town—a mansion with a long, winding drive and a gate that looked like it could keep out an army.

It was the kind of place you only saw in glossy magazines—gated driveway, lawns cut so neat it hurt your eyes, the whole nine yards. The air smelled thick with honeysuckle and old money.

When we got there, all the guests had to wear custom masks that covered everything but our eyes and the lower halves of our faces. Didn’t matter—I still spotted two faces I’d know anywhere, mask or not.

The masks were supposed to make us anonymous, but some things are impossible to hide. The way Miles stood, the tilt of Jenna’s chin—I’d recognize them in my sleep.

Miles and Jenna.

Of course they were here. It was like fate just couldn’t resist twisting the knife one more time.

Even with masks, the way they looked at each other—their body language, the way their hands brushed—made it obvious to everyone that the rest of us were just extras in their story.

They moved together like they’d rehearsed it, every step perfectly matched. I felt invisible, a ghost haunting my own show.

There was another couple, too—supposedly the hot new TV pair. On camera, they sizzled, but anyone with eyes could see it was all for show.

They laughed too loud, barely touched. I knew the signs—two people faking it, hoping nobody noticed the cracks.

When it came time to pair off, I got matched with a tall woman.

She stood out—posture straight, unflinching. There was a gravity to her, like she owned the room without even trying.

She wore a jet-black mask, only her deep, cold eyes showing—her whole vibe gave off a chill that made people steer clear.

Those eyes were sharp, sizing me up like she could see straight through the mask and into my bones. I shivered.

During introductions, everyone talked, but she said nothing about herself.

She just stood there, silent, letting everyone else fill the air with nervous babble. Her silence was more commanding than any speech.

Those eyes behind the mask scanned me, inch by inch, head to toe.

I could feel her gaze linger on my hands, my shoulders, my face. It was like being weighed and measured, and I had no clue if I’d passed.

Her stare made my skin crawl, and I looked away.

I tried to focus on the floor, tracing the marble pattern—anything but those eyes. But I could still feel her watching, and my heart started to race.

Suddenly, she stepped forward and reached out her hand.

Her movement was smooth, deliberate, and before I could react, she was right in front of me. The air between us seemed to buzz.

Her fingers were cool as she gently straightened my slightly crooked mask.

Her touch was light but steady, careful in a way that felt weirdly intimate. I held my breath, not sure what to do.

Her finger brushed lightly against my ear.

A jolt shot through me—fear, maybe, or curiosity. I made myself stay still.

"Wear it right."

Her voice was low, steady, with just a hint of command. The kind of voice you just don’t argue with.

She nodded, satisfied, like she was checking her own handiwork. "Much better."

There was a flicker of a smile in her eyes, a flash of amusement that disappeared as fast as it came. I couldn’t help but wonder who she really was under that mask.

Miles strutted over then, yanking off part of his mask to show his sharp, too-perfect face.

He made a show of it, wanting all eyes on him. The crowd’s attention snapped to him, just how he liked it.

"Noah, man, you don’t waste any time, huh? But it’s all for the cameras, right? Don’t forget—you’re marrying into the Hawthornes in my place, not yours."

His words dripped arrogance, like I should be grateful for whatever scraps he tossed my way.

I didn’t want to bite.

I clenched my jaw, refusing to rise to the bait. I’d danced to his tune long enough.

But the woman next to me spoke up, her voice cool and steady: "So what’s so bad about the Hawthornes’ daughter?"

Her tone was casual, almost bored, but there was steel underneath. The whole room went silent, holding its breath.

Miles sneered, pure disdain on his face: "Come on, everybody knows Ivy Hawthorne’s a psycho. Total nutcase. Noah marrying her? Might as well be taking out the trash."

He spat the words out, loud enough for everyone to hear. My fists clenched at my sides.

He barely finished before he suddenly stumbled, crashing forward. His mask hit the floor with a metallic clang, and his forehead scraped, blood welling up.

The sound echoed through the room, followed by a collective gasp. For a second, nobody moved.

"Miles!" Jenna shrieked, darting to cradle him, her face twisted with worry. "Noah, did you push him?"

She glared at me, her eyes wild and accusing. I could see the panic—her perfect world was slipping away, fast.

Heat rushed to my face.

My hands were at my sides, palms open. I hadn’t touched him, but nobody cared about the truth.

I hadn’t moved an inch.

I wanted to shout it, but the words stuck in my throat. Didn’t matter—people would believe what they wanted.

Jenna shot me a look full of venom. After fussing over Miles, she suddenly snatched a paring knife off the snack table.

Her moves were jerky, desperate. The knife flashed under the lights, and sweat broke cold on my neck.

"Noah, have I been too easy on you? You hurt Miles in front of everyone? Here—cut your face. Call it an apology."

Her voice was sharp, brittle, bouncing off the marble walls. The demand was so nuts it took a second to sink in.

"If anything happens to him, his career’s toast. As for you…" She caught herself, biting back the rest.

The threat just hung there, heavy and obvious. I knew exactly what she meant—my future meant nothing to her now.

Still acting, even now—what a joke.

I almost laughed at how ridiculous it all was. She was still performing, still pretending, even as she tried to tear me down.

I knew what she was getting at. For me, it didn’t matter if my face got trashed. I was marrying into the Hawthornes, anyway.

I pictured the rumors, the whispers, the way people would stare. But none of it mattered—my fate was locked in.

The Hawthorne daughter was supposed to be hideous—she wouldn’t care if I was, too.

It was almost poetic, in a twisted way. Two outcasts, thrown together by everyone else’s choices.

Before I could even react, Jenna shoved the knife at me.

The blade glinted, cold and sharp. Instinct took over—I stepped back.

The other couple had already gone pale and shrunk away.

Nobody wanted to get mixed up in this. They hovered at the edge, eyes wide with fear and morbid curiosity.

The production crew acted like nothing was wrong, cameras locked on us, hungry for drama.

I could feel the red light from the camera burning into me, capturing every second. The producers must have been drooling—this was reality TV gold.

I refused to just stand there and take it.

My back hit the wall, but I stayed put. I wasn’t letting her win—not this time.

Jenna lost it and lunged at me with the knife. Just as she closed in, someone else got there first.

It happened in a flash—a streak of black, a sharp move, the sound of air whooshing past my ear.

Thud!

The woman in black kicked Jenna square in the stomach. Jenna gasped, stumbling backward as the knife clattered to the floor.

The sound rang out, sharp and final. For a second, nobody moved. Jenna doubled over, clutching her stomach, her face twisted with shock.

The woman stepped in front of me, shielding me, staring Jenna down.

She stood tall, radiating authority. Weirdly, I felt safe—like nothing could touch me while she was there.

"He’s mine now."

Her words rang out, clear as a bell. No one dared argue.

She paused, then turned her gaze to Miles, still whining on the floor. Her tone was flat, with just a hint of mockery:

"That was me, too."

There was a flicker of satisfaction in her voice, like she enjoyed putting them in their place. I caught a hint of a smile under her mask.

The best suite in the mansion was blazing with light, its private garden quiet as a grave.

The night air outside was cool, the garden bathed in silver moonlight. Inside, the suite glowed warm and inviting—a world away from the chaos we’d just left.

The woman grabbed my wrist and led me straight inside.

Her grip was steady but gentle, her touch grounding. I let her lead me; I was too tired to fight it.

Behind us, Miles’s furious shouts echoed:

"Why? That suite’s supposed to be by lottery! Hey, Director—come on!"

His voice was shrill, desperate. You could hear the frustration in every word—the sound of a guy used to getting his way.

Someone from the crew tried to shush him: "Mr. Callahan, we really can’t cross her…" Miles went silent.

The words hung there, final. Even Miles knew when he’d lost.

The suite was decked out in good taste, the air carrying a subtle, expensive scent.

Plush rugs, warm lighting, art on the walls I’d only seen in glossy magazines. It felt like stepping into a different world—one I almost belonged to.

"They said we can take off our masks after we’re paired."

I tried to grab hold of something, anything, to feel in control.

My voice sounded tiny in the huge room, but I made myself stand tall, pretending I wasn’t terrified.

The woman let go of my hand but didn’t take off her mask.

She stood by the window, her back to the light. I watched her, waiting, not sure what she’d do next.

Her dark eyes studied me from behind the mask, like she was sizing up something rare and interesting.

There was an intensity in her stare that sent a chill through me. I wondered what she saw—just another pawn, or something more?

"Which room are you sleeping in?" I asked.

The words slipped out before I could stop them. I tried to play it cool, but my voice shook.

The suite had two floors and plenty of rooms.

I glanced around, counting doors, trying to guess which one she’d pick. The silence stretched.

But then she closed the gap between us so fast I caught the crisp, sweet scent she wore.

Her presence filled the space, overwhelming. My heart stuttered in my chest.

"Room?" She gave a soft, teasing laugh. "I don’t want a room."

Her laugh was low, almost musical. Goosebumps raced up my arms.

She paused, her gaze burning into me, and spoke each word clear as day:

"I want to sleep with you."

The words hung between us, bold and unmistakable. For the first time all night, I felt the ground shift under my feet. This wasn’t a script, wasn’t a stunt—this was real, and I had no idea what would happen next.