You Get Me – Reality Set (Eric's POV)
It's been two months in this gilded cage, and boredom has officially sunk its claws into me. Most of the interesting contestants have been evicted. First went the silencer, so socially withdrawn she could suck the life out of a party just by blinking.
She left with her partner, who, frankly, looked relieved. He probably hoped pairing up with a livelier girl would boost his shot at being America's sweetheart. Poor bastard miscalculated.
The pretense is exhausting. Especially now that Camille is head-over-heels for me. I didn't mean to lead her on. Well, not entirely, but the longer we play this game, the more obvious it becomes: I'm done. Done with the house, done with the masks, and definitely done with Camille.
If Zack gets evicted this week, I'll pull the plug and get out, cameras be damned. I've already mined this place for all the exposure I need to push my business ten steps ahead.
Speaking of which—my companies. Being out of control this long is unnatural. I miss the precision, the power.
God help whoever's messed anything up while I've been stuck here playing house with fame-hungry strangers. They'll wish death came sooner.
"Baby, what's wrong?" Camille's voice drips sugar, but it doesn't stick. "You've been so quiet lately. We might get evicted at this rate."
I don't look at her. "Is that all you care about? Ratings?"
She laughs nervously. "Of course not! I care about you. I just know how much you want to win."
My smile is cool, measured. "Have you even considered that maybe my goals have changed? Or is this about your victory parade, not ours?"
"What? Where's all this coming from?" Her voice pitches up, defensive. "If something's wrong, just tell me. Don't project on me."
"Camille," I say, voice even, soft but firm. "I don't have the energy to project anything onto you. Please, give me space."
Internally? I'm screaming. This girl is a walking PR risk. How I've managed to not explode on national television is a miracle. And worse? She thinks submission is weakness when it's actually an art. A woman should wield softness like a weapon—disarm, not dominate.
She leans in close, whispers, "If you think you'll ruin my shot at this bag of greens with your selfish little crisis…" She chuckles. "You've got another thing coming."
Her voice is sweet, but the mic is live. And just like that—checkmate. The viewers heard everything. I might finally have my way out without being labeled the villain.
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Later that evening, I'm by the pool with Zack and his girl, Jasmine. They're the only two people who make this circus bearable. And watching them? Damn, it's refreshing.
The speakers play Hold My Hand by Akon and MJ. Props to the DJ—his timing is impeccable. Music's been the only thing keeping my mood remotely intact.
"So, Jasmine," I say, slapping Zack's shoulder, "besides marrying this stallion once we're out of here, what's next for you?"
She grins. "Fashion, obviously. I want to deepen my knowledge, expand my line. Bigger and better."
"You know," I say, swirling my drink, "if you pivot slightly and drop a killer menswear collection—with backing—you'd dominate. I'll back it. No jokes."
Jasmine beams. She's officially the little sister I never had. Protective instincts kick in every time I look at her. Weird.
She nudges Zack. "And what about you, Mr. Golf Pro?"
He smiles at her. "First, travel the world with my baby girl. Then we'll see."
"You two are nauseating," I mutter, reaching for the water gun. "Which is why it's time for war."
Water splashes. Jasmine squeals. Zack launches a surprise attack. I'm choking on chlorine and laughter. For a moment, it feels like freedom.
Camille, noticeably absent. Good.
After the splash war, I towel off and step inside. Camille is curled up on the couch.
"Why aren't you out there?" I ask casually.
"I don't want to talk about it," she mumbles.
"Suit yourself."
She snaps. "That's the problem, Eric. You never talk. You just—"
I raise a brow. "What's the problem, Camille?" My voice doesn't rise. It never needs to. "Use your words. You're good at those."
I feel like shit saying it. She deserves some honesty at this point.
"I didn't want to say this, but I'm done. With us. I've been hoping we'd get evicted, and it's not happening. I can't pretend anymore."
She blinks, stunned.
"I don't know if you want this relationship or the attention, but either way—let's stop lying."
Camille exhales slowly, wiping away a single tear. "You could've said that weeks ago."
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We got evicted that Sunday.
At the after-party, Camille and I were civil, but I wanted to at least compensate her for the trouble. So I instructed my team to wire $300K into her account after the event. She earned it. She'll be fine.
The party itself? Chaos.
Masked strippers spinning on poles, fog machines coughing smoke into the air, every VIP table a chemical experiment of pills and potions. Colleagues from the house were dancing like we'd all just gotten out of prison. Maybe we had.
I planned to leave in fifteen minutes, but of course, high-heeled trouble found me.
"Hiiiii Eric," said the blonde. Her two friends flanked her like bodyguards. "You're even hotter in real life."
Another chimed in, "Weeee are here to make your night unforgettable."
I smiled. Charming. Drunk. Predictable.
"Well then," I said, voice silk and stone, "get yourselves comfortable. Let me grab us something stronger." I gave the lead girl a playful smack on the ass.
She squealed. "We're yours tonight, baby!"
I turned to Camille, planning to extract her. But she was already flirting with a guy in locs, laughing like I'd never existed.
Fine by me.
When I got home- masion to most. I stepped out of the car and let the staff take over.
I stripped in the bathroom like the clothes offended me and stepped under the rain of hot water. Let it hit. Let it drown the noise.
I had it all. Power. Fame. Women. Jets. And yet… there was that goddamn emptiness again. That ache that doesn't come with pain, just silence.
Work. Party. Repeat. It's a carousel. One I can't get off.
After the shower, I did the most gangster thing possible: cake and ice cream. Don't judge. No one ever sees this side. And they never will.
I turned on my laptop, mindlessly scrolling, hoping for sleep to sneak up on me.
Then I saw it.
A YouTube thumbnail with my face. A woman's profile. Millions of views.
Curious, I clicked.
My Bluetooth headphones snapped on. Her voice spilled through. Sweet. Sharp. Dangerous.
She was dragging me.
What the hell?
I scrubbed through her channel. She wasn't even big before this. She built her empire—off me. The audacity.
I should've laughed. Should've shrugged it off.
Instead, I reached for my phone.
"Jude," I said coldly when my executive assistant answered. "Why the hell am I just now hearing about the girl dragging my name on YouTube?"
"I—I'm sorry, Sir," he stammered. "We tried to bury it with fan meetups and influencer pushes, but it only made her more popular—"
"You tried?" My voice stayed calm, lethal. "You sent bullies instead of lawyers?"
"We couldn't file anything without your go-ahead, Sir."
"You mean to tell me, with all the money we burn weekly you couldn't shut this girl down?"
"I'm sorry, Sir. I—"
"You will be. Tomorrow. In my office. Before I walk in. Or pack your desk."
"Yes, Sir."
I hung up. No laughter this time. Just fire. And one thought.
This girl—whoever she is—will pay for using my name the wrong way to rise. She picked the wrong man to play with.
Then I scrolled back to the video, hit replay.
Her voice. Her smile. The way her eyes lit up. I wanted to strip it all away.
God help me, I was intrigued again, after such a long time.