Chapter 1: The Rose Ceremony Surprise
The sand was cool beneath his feet until he reached the circle of torchlight. There, it held the day’s residual heat, a faint warmth that contrasted with the chill salt air brushing his skin. Brandon stood by the absurdly ornate altar, its white marble strewn with deep red rose petals that shuddered in the breeze. He could feel the cameras, their unblinking black eyes positioned in the palms of the production crew, a silent audience to whatever happened next.
This was the fantasy, right? Two incredible women. One final choice under the moon.
He’d replayed the script in his head a hundred times. The heartfelt confession. The tender kiss. The perfect, televised happiness.
“Nervous?” Dakota’s voice was a low thrum beside him. She appeared without sound, her platinum hair a beacon in the flickering light. She wore a simple slip of emerald silk that did nothing to hide the lean strength of her body.
“Why would I be?” Brandon said, offering her the easy smile that had charmed America for nine weeks. He reached out, tracing the line of her jaw with his thumb. “It’s just you and me and the ocean.”
“And Marissa,” Dakota said flatly, her amber eyes not leaving his. She didn’t pull away from his touch, but she didn’t lean into it either. “Don’t forget her. She’s probably picking out her wedding china back at the suite.”
He laughed, the sound swallowed by the crash of a wave. “She’s sweet.”
“She’s a sniper with a library card,” Dakota muttered, just as the final tiki torch was lit, framing Marissa’s approach.
Marissa moved like a sigh. Her copper hair was down, a river of fire over her shoulders, contrasting with the pale, demure lace of her dress. Her emerald eyes were wide, taking in the scene: Brandon, Dakota, the intimate space between them.
“It’s so beautiful out here,” Marissa breathed, arriving at Brandon’s other side. She slipped her hand into his, her fingers cool and slight. “It feels like a dream.”
“Yeah,” Brandon said, squeezing her hand. He felt the familiar, pleasing tension straighten his spine. This was the validation. The choosing. His eyes flicked between them—the wild, unpredictable force of Dakota and the serene, steady promise of Marissa.
The producer gave a subtle hand signal from the shadows. Time.
Brandon took a breath, launching into the speech he’d practiced. “These last weeks… you’ve both shown me pieces of what real connection could be. Dakota, your passion, your honesty… it challenges me. It wakes me up.” He turned. “Marissa, your kindness, your grace… it feels like coming home. This is the hardest decision I’ve ever had to make.”
He saw Dakota’s jaw tighten. Saw Marissa’s lashes glisten with manufactured tears.
“But my heart,” he said, the words tasting like ash and script, “leads me to…”
“Oh, for God’s sake, Brandon.”
Dakota’s interruption was a crack of lightning. The crew stiffened; a producer’s hand flew up in a hold gesture.
“What?” Brandon asked, his charming facade slipping for a second.
“Your ‘heart’?” Dakota took a step forward, the torchlight carving defiant lines into her face. “You don’t talk about your heart. You talk about feelings. You talk about connections. You use words that don’t mean anything. What do you actually want? Right now?”
The air vanished. This wasn’t in the run-down. Marissa’s hand went limp in his.
Brandon stared at Dakota, her challenge hanging in the salt air. He’d spent a career, a life, crafting the right answer. But under her relentless gaze, the script evaporated. All that was left was the heat, the two women, and a raw, unspoken hunger he was never supposed to show.
“I…” he began, but no sound came.
Then, Marissa moved.
She dropped his hand. Not with anger, but with a quiet, terrifying purpose. She didn’t look at Dakota’s triumph or Brandon’s shock. She simply sank to her knees in the sand before him, the lace of her dress pooling around her like melting cream.
The world telescoped to the touch of her hands on his hips, to the whisper of her hair against his bare thighs as she leaned forward. Her breath was warm through the thin fabric of his trousers. He couldn’t move, couldn’t breathe. A camera whirred closer, a silent, approving witness.
Her tongue traced a slow, wet path up the tense plane of his stomach, over the defined ridges the viewers loved, until her lips were at his sternum, her eyes looking up at him through a curtain of red hair.
“I know what you really want,” she whispered, a secret just for him, though the microphone pinned to his lapel would catch every syllable.
Behind her, Dakota watched. A flush spread from her chest to her throat. Her earlier defiance melted into something else—confusion, fascination, a dark intrigue. Her hand, almost of its own volition, slid down the front of her own body, over the silk, a taunting mimicry or a desperate echo, Brandon couldn’t tell.
Marissa didn’t turn around. She kept her eyes locked on Brandon’s stunned face, a faint, knowing smile on her lips. Then, with a grace that stole the remaining oxygen from the night, she turned her head.
She reached back, her fingers finding Dakota’s wrist, and pulled.
Dakota stumbled forward, off-balance, until she was kneeling beside Marissa, their faces inches apart in the golden light. Brandon could see the pulse hammering in Dakota’s throat, could see the war in her eyes.
Marissa closed the distance.
The kiss wasn’t gentle. It was a claim. Marissa’s hand came up to cup Dakota’s cheek, holding her there as her other arm snaked around her waist. Dakota gasped against Marissa’s mouth, a sound of pure shock that dissolved into something weaker, a soft moan as her body went pliant. Her own hands came up, tangling in Marissa’s fiery hair, pulling her closer.
Brandon stood over them, utterly forgotten. The visceral ache of arousal was a sharp, hot wire in his gut, but it was tangled with a dizzying vertigo. He was the prize. He was the bachelor. This wasn’t how the story went.
He watched, breathless and hard, as Marissa finally broke the kiss. A thin strand of saliva glistened between their lips for a second before snapping. Dakota’s eyes were glazed, her chest heaving. Marissa, however, was perfectly composed. She turned her face back, pressing her cheek against Brandon’s thigh, her eyes sliding up to meet his.
Her smile was no longer sweet. It was victorious.
“See?” she whispered, her voice a low hum he felt in his bones. “No decision required.”
The torches guttered in a sudden wind. The producer was frantically signaling, but no one moved. The script was in ashes at their feet. Brandon could only stare at the two women at his knees, bound by a secret he hadn’t understood, and feel the terrifying, thrilling certainty that he had never been in control at all.