Chapter Five: Screens and Shadows
The production team's latest twist was nothing short of devilish.
Instead of another physical challenge or sugary mission, they dimmed the villa's lights and ushered the contestants into a private cinema. The air was heavy with velvet darkness until the massive screen lit up—an enormous eye staring back at them, ready to replay every delicate move, every glance, every slip they had thought belonged only to the moment.
A highlight reel. With commentary.
Not the screaming chaos of live comments either, but a carefully curated stream of sharp, witty, almost surgical remarks from the audience. Words that could both praise and wound.
The opening scene: Violet's arrival at the villa. She descended the marble steps in a sweeping dress, haloed by golden sunlight.
[Queen's entrance! Her aura is killing me!]
[Is this face… actually real?]
Violet tilted her head as her younger self glided across the screen. She looked impossibly untouchable, like someone who had walked straight out of a dream. In the theater, the real Violet reclined languidly in her plush chair, as though she were watching a stranger.
The next clip: the moment of random grouping. The draw had landed Violet beside Nolan, the icy, unreadable man.
[Why him? Iceberg vibes… can't decode this move.]
[Strategy. It's pure strategy.]
The screen cut to the cliffside task. Nolan's arm wrapped firmly around her waist as the rope swayed dangerously. The footage slowed—every frame sharpening the intensity of their brief embrace.
[Oh god the tension… the sexual tension!]
[Cold&Calm CP is getting addictive.]
Then the poolside scene: Violet leaning into the shadow where Nolan lingered, lips brushing close to his ear as she whispered something inaudible, then pivoting with practiced ease to share a drink with Rily.
[Wait WHAT? My back just cracked watching that move]
[Violet the water-balancer!]
[Did Rily just blush??]
The theater erupted in low laughter. On-screen, Louis's moment of raw disappointment was replayed, his loud protest magnified.
[Golden retriever sulking]
"Augh!" Louis groaned loudly in the dark, burying his face in his hands. "My image! Totally ruined!"
Beside him, Giselle pursed her lips into a pout—her lack of screen time glaring in its silence. Rily, however, sat with a faint blush warming her cheeks, trying not to smile too obviously as comments about her and Violet scrolled by.
And Nolan? He remained a statue. Eyes locked on the screen, face cut in shadow and light, not a flicker of expression betraying what he thought. Only the faint glow shifting across his irises gave away that he was, in fact, watching.
The final montage faded out. The lights rose slowly, pulling them back into reality.
Rily's voice broke the hush, warm and composed. "Looks like we've captured quite a bit of attention." Her eyes flickered briefly toward Violet, as if testing whether the superstar cared.
Louis bounced back instantly, grinning as though nothing could dent his confidence. "Of course! It means we're doing great. Especially me. I must be the fan-favorite!"
"Delusional," Giselle muttered, crossing her arms.
Nolan stood without a word, his tall frame cutting a silhouette against the aisle. Without glancing at anyone, he strode out first, the sharp lines of his back unbending, his aura unshaken.
Violet lingered, her lips curved into a slow, enigmatic smile. The audience's gaze had been like floodlights, dissecting every micro-expression, every brush of her hand. Strangely, she enjoyed it. The voyeurism only made the game feel sharper, more alive.
The villa sank into quiet as night settled.
Moonlight spilled through sheer curtains in Violet's bedroom, silvering the polished floor and the silk folds of her robe. She lounged against the headboard, leafing idly through the prose collection Rily had given her. Her fingers traced the edges of the delicate pages, the faint sweetness of Giselle's chosen lavender incense curling in the air.
The chaos of the day dissolved, leaving only stillness. Yet beneath the silence, an invisible current ran through the villa—a tension coiled tight, waiting to snap.
Knock, knock.
The sound was soft but deliberate, pulling her head up.
Violet arched a brow. At this hour? She slid gracefully from the bed, her bare feet soundless against the floor. She stopped before the door but didn't open it immediately.
"Who is it?"
A pause. Then a low, steady voice, edged with a hesitation so rare it caught her off guard.
"It's me. Nolan."
For a heartbeat she froze. The iceberg… making a midnight call? That was far more unexpected than Louis's puppy-like enthusiasm or Giselle's brazen teasing.
She unlatched the door.
Nolan stood there, still in his crisp shirt and trousers from the day, though his collar was loosened, the top button undone. The dim hallway light sharpened his features into hard planes and shadow. In one hand, he held a compact medical kit.
"What is it?" Violet leaned lightly against the frame, her posture lazy but her gaze keen. She made no move to invite him in.
His eyes swept over her once—her silk robe catching the light, her hair loose against her shoulders—before locking back on hers. His tone was controlled, but there was a faint quickness to his words.
"During the cliff task… your right wrist. When you grabbed the rope for leverage, it rubbed against you. It isn't serious, but it should be treated. To avoid infection."
Violet blinked. She hadn't even noticed. Only now, raising her wrist to the light, did she see the faint pink mark.
"You pay close attention."
"Risk assessment," he replied curtly, extending the kit. "Disinfectant and ointment. Use them."
He did not step forward. He didn't force entry. He held himself like a soldier guarding the line, courteous and distant. And somehow, that made his care all the more piercing.
Violet didn't take the kit. Instead, her lips curved. "Since you were the one who spotted the 'risk,' shouldn't you handle it? Mr. Nolan?" Her tone was playful, edged with provocation. She shifted sideways, leaving the doorway open. "I'm not particularly skilled with first aid."
An unmistakable invitation. A test. How far would the iceberg bend before it cracked?
For a split second, his frame went rigid. His gaze flicked past her, into the room that pulsed faintly with her scent and warmth. The air between them seemed to crystallize.
Seconds stretched. His throat bobbed once as he swallowed. Then—
"…Fine." His voice was lower now, rougher.
He stepped inside. The door clicked softly shut behind him.
The space seemed to shrink around them. His tall figure dominated the room, at once out of place and yet commanding.
Violet perched at the edge of the bed, extending her wrist. Nolan knelt, opening the kit with practiced hands. Cotton, antiseptic spray, ointment. His movements were brisk, precise—almost too precise, as if precision itself were armor.
The cold mist touched her skin. She flinched lightly.
"Does it hurt?" His eyes flicked up instantly.
"Just… cold," she murmured, gaze lingering on the line of his lashes, the shadow they cast across his cheekbones. In this softer light, the severity of his face seemed almost fragile.
He didn't answer. But his hands grew gentler, deliberate. He dabbed ointment onto the mark, careful, almost reverent. His fingers brushed her skin now and then, searingly warm, betraying his outward cool.
Neither spoke. Only their breaths mingled, quiet but heavy. The silence grew thick, intimate. It was not the orchestrated closeness of the day but something rawer, heavier.
To Violet, it felt like being studied, like he was handling a rare artifact—fragile, priceless, irreplaceable. His scent—clean, edged with cedar—slid through the sweetness of her room, embedding itself in the air.
When it was done, he closed the kit with a sharp click and stood. "Finished." His voice was even, but his eyes darted, skimming her room, then to the half-closed door.
"Thank you." She lifted her wrist, testing the coolness. "Didn't expect you to be so… attentive."
"Just my duty." His tone was clipped, retreat already in his posture. He moved swiftly to the door. "Goodnight."
His hand had already brushed the handle when her voice stopped him.
"Nolan."
He froze.
"Tonight's 'risk,'" she said lazily, a smile curving her lips. "What's your assessment?"
A pause. The silence stretched. Then, his reply came, low and gravelly, each word heavy enough to anchor itself in the room:
"Risk level… extremely high."
And then he was gone, slipping into the corridor, his footsteps vanishing into the night.
Violet watched the closed door, amusement blooming across her face. She touched her wrist gently, where the ointment cooled her skin. Beneath the iceberg, the lava ran hotter than she'd imagined.
But she wasn't the only witness to his midnight visit.
At the far end of the hall, Louis emerged from the game room, hair tousled, rubbing at his temples. He looked up just in time to catch Nolan's retreating back—straight from Violet's room.
Louis froze, eyes wide. Shock and disbelief etched across his face.
And in the velvet dark of the villa, the game stirred again, sharper than ever.