The Fallen Queen's Dating Show Comeback

Night fell over the Hamptons, casting deep shadows across the manicured lawns.

Inside the grand formal dining room, a massive crystal chandelier poured warm, golden light over the long mahogany table.

Silent, uniformed staff moved seamlessly around the room, placing plates of perfectly seared beef Wellington in front of them.

Saul sat at the head of the table. He picked up his crystal glass filled with vintage Château Lafite.

"To Catalina," Saul beamed, raising the glass. "Our very own Golden Globe winner."

Catalina, who had changed into a modest, elegant silk slip dress, forced a bright, flawless smile. She raised her own glass.

"Thank you, Grandpa," she said softly, taking a sip. The wine tasted like ash in her mouth.

Brogan sat directly across from her.

He was slouched back in his chair, exuding a lazy, arrogant energy. He picked up his silver knife and fork. The metal scraped against the fine porcelain plate with a sharp, grating sound.

He didn't look at her, but out of the corner of his eye, he caught the rigid tension in her jaw. His lips twitched into a faint, mocking sneer.

Saul took a slow sip of his wine. He set the glass down onto the table with a definitive thud.

He cleared his throat.

"My investment fund is fully financing a new S-tier sci-fi blockbuster," Saul announced casually, as if talking about the weather. "The director is Nolan-level."

Catalina's knife stopped moving.

Her professional instincts flared to life. Her eyes widened slightly. A project like that was a guaranteed Oscar contender. It was the kind of role actresses killed for.

Saul leaned forward, resting his forearms on the table. He looked back and forth between the two of them.

"The only condition," Saul said, his voice dropping into a tone of absolute authority, "is that the two of you co-star as the leads."

The dining room went dead silent. The air pressure in the room seemed to drop. Even the staff standing by the walls stopped breathing.

Catalina and Brogan both dropped their silverware. The heavy silver clattered loudly against the plates.

"Absolutely not," they said in perfect, aggressive unison.

Their voices echoed off the high ceiling.

Catalina turned to Saul, her eyes wide with panic.

"Grandpa, I can't," she lied rapidly, her voice tight. "My schedule is completely locked for the next two years. I couldn't possibly take on a project of this scale."

Brogan leaned back, crossing his massive arms over his chest. His posture was a physical fortress of rejection.

"Saul, don't joke around. You know I despise mixing work with family," Brogan said coldly. He shifted his dark gaze to Catalina, his lips curling into a taunting smirk. "What, looking for a shortcut just because you won a shiny new award?"

Catalina's head snapped toward him. Their eyes locked across the table. The air between them practically sparked with hostility.

Under the long, heavy tablecloth, Catalina shifted her leg. She aimed carefully and kicked Brogan's shin as hard as she could with her bare foot.

Brogan didn't even blink. His face remained a mask of bored indifference.

But beneath the table, his long, muscular leg moved with terrifying speed.

Before Catalina could pull her foot back, Brogan's calves clamped down on her ankle like a steel vice.

She gasped quietly, trying to yank her leg free. It was useless. He had her completely pinned. The heat of his skin burned against hers. Her face flushed a deep, angry red as she glared daggers at him.

Saul, sitting at the head of the table, watched the subtle jerking of their shoulders. His eyes crinkled with secret amusement.

He waved his hand dismissively at the staff to clear the plates.

"Just think about it," Saul said mildly, diffusing the bomb he had just dropped. "No pressure."

The rest of the dinner was agonizing. The second dessert was cleared, Catalina muttered an excuse about jet lag and practically sprinted out of the room, fleeing to her guest suite on the first floor.

Brogan stood up, his face dark, and walked up the grand staircase to his master bedroom.

He stepped inside and slammed the heavy oak door shut. He twisted the deadbolt until it clicked loudly.

He ripped the silk tie from his neck and threw it onto the king-sized bed. His chest heaved with unexplained frustration.

He reached into his tailored slacks and pulled out a silver custom lighter. He didn't smoke often, but the mechanical click grounded him. He flipped it open and shut. Click. Click. Click. He stared at the light spilling from Catalina's window. His jaw was as tight as coiled steel. The thought of her sitting in that room, reading those toxic comments, made a dark, violent anger twist in his gut. He wanted to march down there and shake some sense into her, to tell her to stop fighting him.

But he knew she would only bite back harder. She was a feral cat backed into a corner.

He walked over to the mahogany bar cart, poured two fingers of neat scotch into a crystal glass, and downed it in one smooth swallow. The alcohol burned a hot trail down his throat, but it did nothing to extinguish the fire in his veins. He tossed the empty glass onto the desk. He stared at his own cold, hard reflection in the windowpane, gripping the edge of the sill until his knuckles turned white, and cursed under his breath.