Tropes & Themes:

• Enemies-to-lovers

• Workplace forbidden romance

• "You forgot me? I’ll make you remember."

• Reality TV satire

• Forced proximity

• Power dynamics & subversion

Sariah Vale was still wearing last night’s eyeliner when the call came. Her mascara had migrated halfway to her cheekbone, and the cardigan draped over her shoulders reeked of spilled tequila and poor decisions. She hadn’t moved from her spot on the couch for the past eleven hours. Her feet were buried beneath a heating pad, a pint of half-melted chocolate ice cream was sweating into the armrest, and her favorite crime podcaster played in the background. 

The peel of her ringtone sent a sharp throb of anxiety down her spine. She looked over at the black screen with an unknown number. 

She debated letting it die. 

Then again, she’d already rage-quit her job, ended a three month situationship with a man who thought kombucha was a personality, and told her mother she was “probably going off-grid.” It’s not like things could get much worse. 

She answered with a groan. “If you’re calling about my car warranty, I hope you fall into a hole.”

“Sariah Vale? This is Lisa from Stranded.” 

Static filled her living room as the words landed in her brain like an atomic bomb. She blinked through her confusion, sitting up slightly mumbling a non-answer. 

“We had a last-minute drop from the cast. One of our contestants suffered an ankle injury—surfing incident. Very tragic. They can’t join us in Fiji. We need a replacement who’s cleared, experienced, and can fly out in less than forty-eight hours.” 

Another beat of silence. She stared at the television as the podcaster’s orange cat filled the screen during a brief paid promotion for kitty litter. 

“You want me to be on the show?”

“Just one season. You’ve been on enough pre-game scouting teams that you’re cleared for background. It’s not ideal, but you were flagged as a possible alt. You even did an audition tape two years ago, remember?”

She did remember. Mostly because she was drunk when she filmed it and made at least two jokes about using immunity idols as sex toys. She cringed inwardly at the memory. 

“You’d be doing us a huge favor,” Lisa added. “And you’d be paid like a real contestant. You could win the whole thing.” 

Sariah looked at her goopy ice cream, at the crime podcast, and her life. 

“Fine.” 

She hung up, wishing it were still the days of flip phones where she could at least satisfyingly snap it closed. And that was how, forty-two hours later, Sariah Vale was standing fresh-faced on a dock in Fiji, about to meet twenty strangers, one smug host, and the biggest mistake she had ever, ever made.