Chapter 3

The noise was deafening.

"Child abuser!" a voice screamed from the left.

"Go back to rehab, you psycho!" another yelled from the right.

Cecile kept her chin tucked, her uninjured arm wrapped like a steel band around the grey bundle against her chest. She pushed her shoulder forward, using her body as a battering ram through the suffocating crowd.

A hand shot out from the mass of bodies. A man with a rabid look in his eyes grabbed the edge of the sweatshirt covering Damien's head, trying to rip it away.

Cecile's eyes went dead. She didn't hesitate. Her free hand snapped out like a viper. She grabbed the man's wrist, her thumb pressing hard into the nerve, and twisted sharply downward.

The man shrieked, his knees buckling as he stumbled backward into the crowd.

The brutal, efficient movement sent a shockwave through the paparazzi. The aggressive pushing stopped. The crowd instinctively parted, leaving a narrow, two-foot path to the glass doors of the VIP terminal.

Cecile didn't look back. She carried Damien through the sliding doors, leaving the chaos behind.

The heavy glass doors slid shut, muffling the roar of the crowd to a distant, angry hum. The relative quiet of the VIP lounge felt like a sanctuary. Cecile walked to a secluded corner, sat down, and gently pulled the sweatshirt back.

Damien blinked against the soft lighting. His breathing was still fast, but he wasn't crying. He looked at her arm, then at her face.

"Flight's boarding," a producer called out.

Cecile stood up, keeping a firm grip on Damien's hand. They walked down the jet bridge and stepped into the luxurious cabin of the private charter.

The three other families were already seated. The moment Cecile stepped in, the air pressure in the cabin seemed to drop.

Hayleigh Owen, a former pop star with a spray tan and a permanent sneer, let out a loud, theatrical scoff. "Wow. I can't believe they actually let you on the plane. Don't you have a liquor store to rob?"

Hayleigh's son, Jaxon, giggled loudly and pulled a grotesque, mocking face at Damien.

Damien's amber eyes darkened. He instinctively shrank further behind his mother's leg, his small hand gripping the fabric of her leggings tighter. The woman's loud, ugly voice made his head hurt, and the sudden noise triggered a familiar, suffocating panic deep in his chest. He squeezed his eyes shut, wishing he could just disappear into the floorboards rather than face another screaming adult.

Before he could pull away, Cecile's hand squeezed his shoulder. A gentle, grounding pressure.

Cecile didn't even look at Hayleigh. She kept her eyes fixed straight ahead, walking past the pop star as if she were a piece of ugly furniture. She guided Damien to the very last row of the plane and sat down in silence.

Hayleigh's face burned dark red. Her insult hung awkwardly in the air, completely ignored. She slumped back into her leather seat, fuming.

A few rows up, Sloane Adler, an A-list actress, lowered her sunglasses and watched Cecile with a flicker of genuine surprise.

Then, the rustle of fabric signaled movement. Abbey White stood up. She smoothed down her pristine pastel cardigan and picked up a glass of warm milk from the flight attendant's tray. She walked down the aisle, a camera operator trailing right behind her.

Abbey stopped at Cecile's row. Her face was a mask of pure, angelic concern.

"Cecile, honey," Abbey cooed, her voice soft enough to sound intimate, but loud enough for the microphone to catch. "I saw the news about the van. Is your arm okay?"

Before Cecile could answer, Abbey turned her glowing smile to Damien. She held out the glass of milk. "Here, sweetie. Warm milk helps calm the nerves. You must be so scared."

Damien stared at the white liquid. He didn't reach for it. Instead, he leaned his body weight entirely against Cecile's side, pressing his face into her ribs. It was a blatant, physical rejection.

Abbey's hand hovered in the air. A micro-expression of pure irritation twitched at the corner of her left eye, but she quickly forced a sad, understanding smile. "Oh, he's just shy."

"He's lactose intolerant," Cecile said. Her voice was flat, devoid of any emotion.

The silence in the cabin was absolute.

Cecile looked up at Abbey. "It's in the basic medical file the producers sent to all of us. Did you not read it before you decided to play savior for the cameras?"

Abbey's face drained of color. The glass of milk trembled slightly in her hand. Her perfect facade cracked, exposing the frantic calculation underneath. She had no response.

Behind the monitor in the front galley, Director Octavia's eyes lit up with greedy excitement. This was television gold.

Two hours later, the plane touched down on a cracked, weed-infested runway.

The doors opened, and a blast of freezing wind carrying grit and dust hit the passengers. The celebrities groaned, pulling their designer coats tighter. Cecile didn't flinch.

Cody Mason, the rugged local guide hired by the production, stood on the tarmac. "Welcome to Rust Creek," he barked. "Get on the bus."

The ride into town was brutal. The rusted bus hit every pothole on the dirt road. Damien's face turned a sickly shade of green. He gripped his stomach, fighting the urge to vomit.

Cecile reached over. Her fingers found the pressure point on the inside of his wrist, right below the palm. She pressed her thumb down, massaging in slow, firm circles. Within minutes, the color slowly returned to Damien's cheeks. He leaned his head against the rattling window, breathing easier.

The bus stopped at a barren dirt square in the center of the town. A large chalkboard stood in the middle, displaying five photographs of houses. House 1 was a decent cabin. House 3 was a massive, modern luxury villa. House 5 was a collapsed mud shack with a hole in the roof.

Octavia stepped up with a wooden box. "Draw your lots. This determines where you live for the next week."

Hayleigh practically sprinted forward. She pulled a stick. "House 2!" she cheered.

Abbey nudged her stepson, Brayan. The boy walked up obediently and pulled a stick. "House 3." he read quietly. Abbey clapped her hands in delight, kissing his cheek for the cameras.

Cecile walked up last. There were two sticks left in the box. As she reached her hand in, her fingers brushed the bottom. She felt a thick layer of double-sided tape holding one stick firmly in place.

The draw was rigged.

Cecile didn't pause. She didn't complain. She pulled the only loose stick available. She flipped it over.

A bright red number 5 stared back at her.