In the glare of the spotlight, love isn’t just blind—it’s potentially fatal.
Writer’s Prompt
The neon studio lights felt like a heat lamp over a crime scene. I sat on a velvet stool that smelled of industrial cleaner and desperation, my sequins digging into my ribs like a dull knife.
“Contestant Number One,” the host purred into the camera, his smile a row of bleached tombstones. “Tell Jen why you’re the man of her dreams.”
The three silhouettes behind the frosted glass screen shifted. One was a soft-spoken architect with a voice like velvet over gravel. The second was a high-stakes gambler who laughed like he’d never lost a hand. The third was a marathon runner who spoke of endurance and “the thrill of the hunt.”
I felt the host lean in, his breath smelling of expensive gin and cheap secrets. He didn’t turn off his mic, but he shielded it with a manicured hand.
“Choose carefully, Jen,” he whispered, his eyes glinting with a televised malice. “The network wanted a spike in the ratings. So, we let a little wolf into the fold. One of those men spent ten years in Sing Sing for a triple homicide. He’s looking for a fresh start… or a fresh finish.”
My heart hammered against my ribs—a prisoner trying to escape its cage. The audience cheered, a mindless roar for blood draped in romance. I looked at the three shadows. One offered a night on the town; one offered a life of crime; and one offered a shallow grave. The producer signaled thirty seconds to the break. I had to pick my poison.