Chapter 27: The Winners - Trial 2
The path away from the beach was a dark tunnel of crushed coral and overhanging palms, the raucous applause fading behind Briv like a receding tide. He didn’t know where he was going, only that he had to get away from the sight of Alya’s lips on Thomas’s, then Valentina’s, from the sound of that perfect ten ringing in his ears. Each step was a jolt up his spine. He felt sick, hollowed out. The image of Fatima on her knees, the wet, hungry sounds, it was all just a different version of the same brutal game. A game he was losing. Badly.
A hand on his arm made him flinch. He spun around, expecting Alya, ready to unleash the torrent of anger and hurt boiling inside him.
It was Nicoleta.
Her dark eyes, lined with kohl, assessed him coolly in the dim light filtering from the beach. She leaned against a thick palm trunk, her posture effortlessly dominant, the tattoos on her arms stark against her pale skin. “Running away so fast, skinny boy? You look like you just watched your dog get run over.”
“What do you want, Nicoleta?” he snapped, his voice tighter than he intended.
She smirked, a slow, knowing curve of her lips. “Just observing the carnage. Your little actress… she put on quite a show, didn’t she? Thomas is good. He gets them to open up, makes them feel… understood. Then he fucks them. It’s his thing.” She pushed off the tree and took a step closer, the scent of her perfume—something dark and smoky—wrapping around him. “You’re sitting on one point, Briv. One. You’re basically furniture. You think moping in the dark is going to change that?”
Before he could retort, Chris McLean’s voice, amplified and brimming with theatrical glee, cut through the night, calling everyone back to the main fire pit. “Gather ‘round, you beautiful, backstabbing serpents! Time for the numbers that really matter!”
Nicoleta’s smirk widened. “Showtime. Try not to look so pathetic.” She turned and walked back towards the light, her big, fat round ass swaying with a confidence that felt like a personal insult.
Briv stood frozen for a moment, the urge to flee warring with a masochistic need to hear the verdict. He followed slowly, hanging back at the edge of the circle as the others settled on logs and cushions around the roaring fire. Alya was already there, sitting between Carmen and Nicola. She didn’t look at him. Thomas was a few feet away, chatting amiably with Valentina, who was preening under the residual attention. Fatima looked like a queen holding court, receiving congratulations for her ten.
Chris stood before them, a cocktail in hand, his smile blinding. “What a night! We’ve seen passion, we’ve seen power, we’ve seen… well, we’ve seen a lot of things I’ll be billing my therapist for. But now, it’s time for the cold, hard math. The updated standings!”
A hush fell, thick and anticipatory. Briv felt his stomach clench.
“In tenth place, with a big, fat zero points… Kim, Andre, and Jim. Gentlemen, might I suggest a more… proactive strategy?”
Jim just grinned goofily, seemingly oblivious, while Andre’s stoic expression darkened. Kim maintained a placid smile, but his eyes were calculating.
“Ninth place,” Chris continued, “tied with one paltry point each… Diletta, Briv, Elena, and Kofi. A truly illustrious group. Try to keep up.”
Briv’s face burned. One point. Furniture. He caught a glimpse of Alya glancing his way, her expression unreadable, before she quickly looked back at Chris.
“Eighth place, with two points… Nicola, Sean, and Logan.”
Sean grunted, unimpressed. Logan just gave a slow, measured nod, as if storing the information for later use.
“Seventh place, a trio of points… Dariana, Bianca, and our dramatic duo from the last performance, Alya and Thomas.”
Alya’s shoulders slumped slightly. Three points. For that? Thomas just gave a modest shrug, but Briv saw the flicker of annoyance in his eyes. It wasn’t enough for him.
“Sixth place, with six points… Naseer, Raze, and Revan.”
Fatima’s triumphant smile slipped a little. Her perfect ten had only bumped her to sixth? She shot a look at Raze and Revan, who seemed equally confused.
“Fifth place, seven points each… Nicoleta and Valentina.”
Valentina squealed with delight, clapping her hands. Nicoleta just nodded, a satisfied glint in her eye.
“Fourth place, tied with ten points… the clever Emilia and the stunning Patricia!”
Emilia offered a small, harmless smile that didn’t reach her clever eyes. Patricia waved, her doll-like face beaming.
“Now for our podium!” Chris paused, milking the moment. “In third place, with eleven points… Carmen!”
The tall, pale woman looked genuinely shocked, her hand flying to her mouth. “Oh my god!” she squeaked, and Nicola hugged her tightly.
“In second place, a formidable force with sixteen points… Fatima!”
There was a ripple of confusion. Fatima was already listed in sixth. Chris chuckled. “Ah, my mistake, a typo in my notes! Correction for sixth place: Naseer, Raze, and Revan with six points. Fatima soars alone in second!” The correction did little to soothe the growing tension. The math was brutal and arbitrary.
“And your winner, the undisputed leader of this game of temptation…” Chris’s voice dropped to a dramatic whisper. “With a truly dominant thirty-one points… Joaquin!”
The Spanish macho-man threw his head back and let out a loud, triumphant laugh, pumping his fist in the air. “Si! This is how it is done!” He grabbed a nearby Diletta and planted a loud, possessive kiss on her cheek, which she tolerated with a strained smile.
Thirty-one points. The number hung in the air, a monument to Joaquin’s relentless, pervy flirtation. It was more than double Fatima’s score. It was an insurmountable canyon between him and Briv’s single, pathetic point.
Briv stared at the ground, the firelight dancing on the sand between his feet. The standings were a public indictment of his failure. He was an afterthought. Alya had three points, earned from kissing another man and a woman on international television. And he had one.
He finally looked up and met Alya’s gaze across the fire. This time, she didn’t look away. Her brown eyes were wide, filled with a complex mix of defiance and fear. In that silent, charged moment, with the host’s voice echoing the brutal hierarchy and Joaquin’s laughter ringing in his ears, Briv understood the only thing that mattered anymore. The game wasn't about love. It was about points. And he needed to start scoring.
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The fire seemed to suck the oxygen from the air, leaving Briv lightheaded. Thirty-one points. The number was a physical weight on his chest. Joaquin’s victory laugh scraped against his raw nerves, a sound of pure, unadulterated conquest. Alya was still looking at him, her expression a silent plea he couldn’t begin to decipher.
He needed to start scoring. Now.
“But wait!” Chris’s voice cut through the celebratory chaos, a sharp, theatrical blade. “The fun isn’t over yet. As Joaquin and Fatima were our MVPs this trial, they’ll have to make some cabin changes!”
A fresh wave of tension rippled through the group. This was where the game got real, where the producers engineered proximity and conflict. Fatima stepped forward first, a cool, calculating look on her face as she scanned the women.
“Bianca,” she said, her voice smooth as glass. “You’re a sweetheart. But I think your cabin could use a little more… discipline. I’m swapping you with Logan.”
Bianca’s friendly smile faltered, a flicker of hurt in her dark eyes before she masked it. Logan, the ex-trainer, gave a single, grim nod, his muscular frame seeming to absorb the firelight. He was a predator being moved into a new pen.
Then it was Joaquin’s turn. He swaggered into the center of the circle, his dark green eyes scanning the crowd until they landed squarely on Briv. A slow, predatory smirk spread across his face, the trimmed beard around his lips twisting with malice.
“Oh, this is easy,” Joaquin said, his accent thick with smug satisfaction. “Briv, my friend. You look so lonely in your cabin. You need some better company. I am swapping Alya…” He paused, letting the name hang in the air like a threat. “With Raze.”
The world narrowed to a pinpoint. Briv felt the ground tilt under his feet. Raze, the pale, pervy competitor who had just been serviced by Fatima on a rock. And Alya would be moving into Joaquin’s cabin. With him. With the Spanish macho-man who had just crowned himself king of the island.
“After the changes,” Chris chimed in, his voice dripping with faux sympathy, “Alya will stay in the same cabin with Joaquin, Diletta, and Emilia.”
Joaquin. Diletta, the stunning Spanish TV hostess. And Emilia, the smart, strategic psychologist who knew how to play people. It was a den of sharks, and Alya was being thrown into the water, bleeding.
Briv’s gaze snapped to Alya. Her angelic face was pale, her brown eyes wide with a genuine, unscripted fear. She looked from Joaquin’s gloating face to Briv’s, a silent scream trapped in her throat. This wasn’t part of the game she had signed up for. This was punishment.
Joaquin clapped a heavy hand on Raze’s shoulder, pulling him into the circle. “Welcome, amigo! We will have much fun, yes?” Raze, ever the opportunist, just smirked and shrugged, his eyes already appraising his new cabinmates.
The dismissal was a blur. People began to move, to gather their things for the forced migration. Briv stood rooted to the spot, the heat from the fire suddenly feeling like an assault. He watched as Alya slowly stood, her movements wooden. Joaquin was already at her side, leaning in to murmur something in her ear that made her flinch.
“Tough break, skinny boy.”
Nicoleta’s voice was a dark melody beside him. She hadn’t moved, observing the entire spectacle with her arms crossed, emphasizing the curve of her tattooed shoulders. Her goth aesthetic was a stark, beautiful rebellion against the tropical backdrop.
Briv didn’t answer. He just watched Alya walk away, Joaquin’s hand a possessive brand on the small of her back.
“He’s going to work on her all night,” Nicoleta stated, not with malice, but with a chilling certainty. “And that Emilia? She’ll be in her ear, dissecting every one of your insecurities. You’re down to your last play.”
Briv finally turned to look at her. The insecurity and love that had defined him were being burned away, leaving something colder and harder in their place. The points. The cabin swap. It was all a message.
“What play is that?” he asked, his voice low and rough.
Nicoleta’s dark eyes glinted, reflecting the flames. She reached out and ran a single, black-painted fingernail down his chest, a light, teasing scratch that felt like a claim. “You stop being furniture. You come with me.”