Page 97 of The Love Dare
Winnie retreats back to her room, and stays there most of the following day after Cynthia leaves for her date, until production physically forces her into the common area with Victoria. The cameras watch them relentlessly, waiting for a blowup, a spectacle, any bit of drama to feed the hungry fans. The tension is there, that’s for sure. It’s ripe, pressing in from all sides. With no television or books or even music to distract them, the animosity filling the air is practically tangible—just as the crew intends. But if there’s even a chance that Winnie accidentally hurt Victoria as much as Victoria hurt her, she doesn’t want tocause any more damage. If this was Nina’s big plan, then she’s out of luck, because Winnie refuses to give in.
The hours pass painfully slowly. Victoria starts to resemble her old smug self more and more as the seconds tick by, revealing Winnie’s own discomfort. As dinner approaches, she’s more than ready to fling herself into the comfort of Cynthia’s arms.
Except Cynthia never comes.
Not at dinner.
Not after.
Not any time during the night.
When Winnie wakes up, her friend is still gone. A bad feeling tightens her lungs, the act of drawing breath growing more and more difficult as the wait extends.
Because, well, where is she?
Not with Tyler, Winnie knows that much. She believes it in her heart, trusts him entirely. He would never spend a night with another woman after the night they shared.
Nina is up to something. Winnie just isn’t sure what. They couldn’t have sent Cynthia home. Her stuff is still here. Which means this is just another game the producers are playing to mess with Winnie’s head, with her emotions, to push her to the brink and pray she takes that final step over the edge.
Just after breakfast, Cynthia finally reappears. Winnie rushes to the door and pulls her into a hug.
“Oh my god, I was worried about you!” she gushes, holding her friend tight.
“Worried?” Cynthia laughs, squeezing her back.
“I know. It’s silly. I mean, it’s not like the producers were going to hurt you or anything, but?—”
“The producers? What about the producers?” Cynthia asks, pulling back. “I was just on my date.”
“Huh?” Winnie frowns, her brows stitching together.
“The dream suite, silly.” Cynthia laughs again, but now that Winnie is looking into her eyes, she can sense something is different. Off. The soul staring back is hard, cold, someone she doesn’t recognize. “Aren’t you going to ask about my night? I asked about yours. Got every last, sordid little detail.”
“I—” Winnie cuts off, swallows, not sure what to say. Her pulse quickens as her stomach churns with an odd sense of foreboding. She blinks, trying to clear the sensation away. This is her friend. Herfriend. She wouldn’t— Winnie shakes her head, dispelling the doubts. “What do you mean?”
“We had a great time,” Cynthia purrs, sounding nothing like the girl Winnie thought she knew. “I mean, not as good assomepeople. We didn’t sleep together, if you were wondering.” Then she huffs, a cruel smirk playing over her lips. “Actually, we didn’t sleep much at all.”
Cynthia studies Winnie’s face, as if searching for a wound.
But Winnie still doesn’t understand, still doesn’t believe this is real, not until Cynthia parades past her and slouches off her sweatshirt, revealing the seemingly simple white crop top underneath.
My shirt.
Winnie sucks in a sharp breath.
My missing shirt.
Like dominoes, the pieces fall, banging into each other, one after another after another, leaving a trail for her thoughts to follow. The writing on the mirror. The notes in her suitcase. The missing clothes. The cruel, terrible, twisted pranks all meant to get in her head and completely fuck her up. Winnie just assumed Nina was working with Victoria, giving her access whenever Winnie’s back was turned. But it wasn’t them.
It was Cynthia all along.
The worst, most awful acts against her were all carried out by someone she mistakenly called a friend.
“Why?” Winnie asks, struggling to find her voice as the hurt winds itself around her heart, a boa constrictor on the hunt.
“Because I knew the second you walked in the mansion that none of us had a shot in hell of winning, so I decided that if I was going to lose anyway, I’d be the worst damn loser this show has ever seen.” Cynthia leans in close, lowering her voice. “Infamy is better than anonymity. I can’t go back to being a no one from nowhere. I won’t.”
She eases back onto her heels.
