The Fallen Queen's Dating Show Comeback

Catalina slowly lowered the water bottle to the marble kitchen counter. She took a deep, shuddering breath, her chest expanding as she prepared herself for whatever was waiting on that screen. She walked over to the rug, her bare feet silent against the floorboards. She bent down and picked up the black phone. Her thumb hovered over the play button next to Brogan's voice note. She pressed it. The phone's speaker emitted a faint, static hiss as the file loaded. Catalina subconsciously held her breath, her lungs burning. Brogan's voice exploded into the quiet room. It was incredibly deep, thick with sleep, and raspy. He sounded like he was lying flat on his back in bed. "Dress was heavy. Brain was empty. Changing your fate might be easier than changing the group name, stutterer." The audio cut off. The words hung in the air, dripping with that signature, toxic American sarcasm he perfected. But it was the last word that did it. Stutterer. It was a childhood nickname from when she was seven and couldn't pronounce her R's when she was nervous. He was the only one who ever called her that. The sound of it shattered the last remaining thread of Catalina's sanity. All the blood in her body rushed straight to her head. Her ears rang. Her jaw clamped shut so hard her teeth ground together. Her thumb flew to the top right corner of the screen. She didn't type a response. She refused to give him the satisfaction of a single punctuation mark. She tapped the group settings. She scrolled straight to the bottom. Her finger hovered over the bright red text that read Leave Group. She slammed her thumb down on it. The system threw up a warning box: Are you sure you want to leave this encrypted group? She stabbed the Confirm button. The screen instantly snapped back to her empty chat list. The group was gone. A vicious, hot surge of vindictive pleasure rushed through her veins. She reared her arm back and hurled the phone violently into the deep cushions of the sofa. Before she could even exhale, the muffled phone shrieked. It was her custom ringtone for incoming calls. Catalina's eyes narrowed. She assumed Brogan was calling to scream at her for leaving the chat. She lunged across the coffee table like a feral cat, digging her hands into the cushions to retrieve the phone. She was ready to scream until her throat bled. She yanked the phone out and glared at the screen. The fire in her veins instantly turned to ice water. The caller ID flashing on the screen didn't say Brogan. It said Saul Grandpa. Brogan's grandfather. The patriarch of the Cohen family. The man who had practically raised her alongside Brogan during their summers in the Hamptons. Catalina swallowed hard. Her throat was bone dry. She frantically cleared her throat, trying to dislodge the panic. She forced her facial muscles to relax, painting on a mask of pure innocence even though he couldn't see her. She swiped the green accept button and pressed the phone to her ear. "Good evening, Grandpa Saul," Catalina answered. Her voice was sickeningly sweet. It was soft, melodic, and completely unrecognizable from the woman who was just screaming into a voice note. A booming, hearty laugh echoed through the earpiece. "Caty, my girl! Congratulations on the globe! I knew you'd take it home," Saul's strong voice vibrated with genuine pride. "Thank you so much, Grandpa," Catalina murmured, her stomach tying itself into a painful knot. Please don't mention the internet. Please don't mention the internet, she chanted in her head. "I saw the news," Saul pivoted seamlessly, his tone dropping into a teasing lilt. "Looks like my idiot grandson finally learned how to act like a gentleman in public." Catalina's cheeks burned hot. She forced a hollow, awkward laugh. "Oh, that. It was just a coincidence. My heel got stuck," she lied smoothly, trying to brush past it. Saul didn't let her. "Coincidence or not, it's a cause for celebration," Saul declared, his voice leaving absolutely no room for argument. "I'm hosting a family dinner this weekend at the Hamptons estate. You are coming." Catalina's eyes widened in horror. "Grandpa, I would love to, but I can't," she lied frantically, her mind racing. "I'm about to go into production for my new indie film. My schedule is completely packed." She needed to avoid the Hamptons at all costs. Going there meant seeing Brogan. It was a suicide mission. Saul let out a sharp, dismissive snort. "Don't bullshit an old man, Caty," Saul said ruthlessly. "I played eighteen holes with your producer this morning. I know the production is suspended." The lie shattered. Catalina's face flushed a deep, humiliating crimson. Her palms began to sweat, making the phone slip slightly in her grip. Saul softened his voice, deploying his ultimate weapon. "My heart hasn't been doing too well lately, sweetheart," Saul sighed heavily. "I haven't seen you in months. Just come for dinner." The guilt hit her like a physical blow to the stomach. This man had treated her like blood. He had funded her first acting classes when her own parents refused. Her psychological defenses crumbled entirely. She squeezed her eyes shut. Her shoulders slumped in total defeat. "Okay," she whispered through gritted teeth. "I'll be there." Saul laughed triumphantly. "Excellent. I'll send the Gulfstream to LAX to pick you up on Friday. Don't be late," he ordered, instantly locking down the logistics so she couldn't back out. The line clicked dead. The dial tone hummed in her ear. Catalina let her arm drop. Her knees buckled, and she slid down the side of the sofa, hitting the rug with a soft thud. She buried her hands in her hair, gripping the roots until her scalp stung. She knew exactly what this weekend was going to be. It was a trap. A perfectly executed, inescapable trap. She looked out the massive floor-to-ceiling windows at the dark Los Angeles skyline. She grabbed her physical planner off the coffee table, uncapped a black Sharpie, and drew a massive, thick black skull and crossbones over the upcoming weekend.