Page 2 of Saving Saul

But instead of boring this poor girl with my jaded philosophies on love and men, I nod and follow her around a corner until it opens into a big, beautiful room with floor-to-ceiling windows, built-in bookcases filled with books, and soft couches.

So, it’s pretty much heaven.

After a beat, the room’s scent overwhelms my allergies, and I sneeze. The cocktail of perfumes is so potent it could knock out a mule.

Once I can breathe again, I take in all the women milling about. They are glossy, like pages torn straight from a fashion magazine, unnervingly perfect. The kind of beautiful that makes you wonder if you've accidentally stumbled into an alternate reality where every human flaw has been airbrushed away. I’m grateful I chose a silk magenta halter top and matching wide-legged pants instead of my usual casual fare.

I, a NOLA native and beignet enthusiast, stick out like a sore thumb because I’m not tall, lean, or blonde. But at least Escada came through on this outfit.

Lord, why did I ever audition for this?

Maybe, subconsciously, a combination of no sex life with a heavy dose of mama issues drove me to it. According to my therapist, the latter left me with a profound fear of abandonment and severe rejection issues.

She irritates my soul.

I was two years old when my mother vanished without a backward glance, leaving me in the care of my daddy. Charles Baptiste—his name still carries a tune in New Orleans, a beloved jazz musician whose life was a melody until his liver surrendered to one too many liquid encores. Raised by his love, a decent stepmother, and the bitter taste of whiskey kisses, I learned early that dreams have a cost.

Now, here I am, years later, as an out-of-work actress-my dreams of acting as stalled as rush-hour traffic. Bookings come sporadically, like the Louisiana rain I miss—torrential one second, nonexistent the next.

I've got more ambition than money, and that's saying something. Culinary school was my safety net, a quiet passion for baking simmering beneath the roaring fire of the stage. But even that feels like admitting defeat.

"Make it big or bust," Daddy used to say. So, I packed my life and chased stardom to Los Angeles, only to watch as every door I knocked on stayed shut, each audition another note in a requiem for my aspirations. When Daddy's final curtain call came, I lost more than a parent—I lost my champion.

Love, Unmaskedisn't just another gig; it's my last shot before the shame of retreat becomes a reality, and I slink back to New Orleans and Selene's disappointed yet loving gaze. My architect sister always planted her feet firmly while I reached for the stars that seemed to dodge my grasp. She didn’t show up in my life until later; she was a product of one of Daddy’s many affairs. My stepmother hated her, but Daddy and I loved her. She’s bossy but my lifeline, nonetheless.

So, no. I’m not here to find love. Being a contestant on this show is only a last-ditch for exposure, a desperate dive for industry connections that might finally lift me from obscurity. If I’m a star, I won’t be forgotten, and I’ve been an afterthought one too many times in my life. The thought alone is enough to twist my insides, a silent plea that this chance won't slip through my fingers like so many before it.

I’m lost in my thoughts when the showrunner, Gavin Turner, strides over. He’s all business and broadcaster charm. His dark hair is artfully tousled as if he’s walked straight out of a glossy prime-time drama. His eyes are a shade of sea moss that likely spellbinds a good portion of the female population. Clipboard inhand, he offers a smile that's meant to disarm. "Tessa Baptiste?" he asks, confirming what he already knows.

"Guilty as charged," I quip, hoping the tremor doesn't show in my voice. My attempt at a casual stance feels as stiff as a Mardi Gras float out of season. The man is too handsome for his own good, and I've always been wary of those who know it—who use it like a tool in their kit.

"Welcome toLove, Unmasked," he says, extending a hand. His grip is firm, which means business, but lingers just a beat longer than necessary. "I'm here to make sure you shine."

"I hope you brought a hefty supply of polish then," I shoot back, laughter bubbling up to mask my nerves. My mind races—how do I play this? Charming, aloof, desperate? But who am I kidding? My desperation to be on this show—any show—is a stench no amount of perfume can cover.

"Let's walk and talk," Gavin suggests, motioning down the corridor. His professional demeanor never slips, but there's an edge to him, something that whispers he's seen every card ever played on reality TV.

He dives into the show's format, explaining how the Hubs aim to foster genuine connections. "It's about the conversation, the emotional bond," he says with a conviction that nearly makes me believe him.

"Real love, huh?" I muse aloud, a hint of skepticism threading through my words. My gaze shifts to his face, looking for the telltale sign of a sales pitch. Instead, I discover earnestness, which tugs at something deep inside me.

"Sometimes," he admits, and there's a weight to that single word that captures my attention. "The publicity seekers are easy to spot. But every once in a while..." He trails off, and there’s a glimmer in his eyes that hooks me and draws me in.

"Every once in a while?” I prompt him, leaning in despite myself.

"Someone finds something real. And those are the moments we live for." Gavin's sincerity worms its way through my defenses, and for a fleeting second, I let myself hope.

"Sounds like a fairytale," I say, but my scoff is softer than intended. The idea of love, of finding someone who sees past the camera lights and the layers of makeup, is a nice thought—a dangerous one.

"Maybe," he acknowledges with a smile that doesn't quite meet his eyes. "But everyone deserves a shot at their happily ever after, don't they?"

"I guess we'll find out," I reply, my heart hitching up into my throat. Even with my cynicism and understanding of the game, I want to believe him. There may be a sliver of truth among the scripted lines and staged kisses.

"Exactly," Gavin says, and there's a finality to it that seals our unspoken pact. We both know the score, but we're playing the game anyway.

And isn't that what we all in this city of dreams are doing? Pretending until the pretending feels like something real.

Gavin gestures forward, silently inviting me to follow him down the corridor. My heels click against the concrete like a metronome, keeping time with a nervous heartbeat. The harsh overhead lights shift to a softer glow as we approach the hub area. It's like stepping into a different world that feels personal in a place that's anything but.

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