Tom Marchetti's Arc

Chapter 1 of 1

Tom Marchetti had eleven cast members signed for Island Stranded, and not one of them could carry the finale he needed. He watched their audition tapes again in his office. They smiled too much. They apologized. They forgave each other. Tom wanted the most-watched broadcast in Marshwood Island's history, and you don't break records with people who play nice. He needed someone who would burn the whole set down on camera and mean it. He found her by accident. A clip on his phone, forwarded by a casting scout. A young woman sets up her own ring light, holds up screenshots of her boyfriend's texts, and reads them out flat. His name stayed in the frame the whole time. A million views in two days. No tears. Just a girl deciding to end someone in public. Her name was Reginae Jasper. Tom drove to meet her himself. She was already sitting when he walked into the diner. A tanned Pomeranian sat in her lap, fur puffed like a small cloud. She didn't stand. "You produce Island Stranded," she said. "Season four had a storm. Cameras stayed dry the whole time. Odd." Tom sat down slowly. Nobody had ever said that to him. He kept his face still. "I have a concept," he said. "A twist. Bigger than anything on television." "Everybody says that." She scratched the dog's ear. "Ezekiel said he'd change too." "I'm not asking you to trust me. I'm asking you to be yourself on camera. That's the whole job." Reginae looked at him. Her eyes didn't move for a long time. "People clip me. They crop me. They make me the villain for their numbers." Her voice dropped, went quieter and harder. "I'm not doing that for free." Tom slid a folder across the table. Inside sat a deed, printed on heavy cream paper, edged with a painted palm. A luxury beach villa. Her name already typed into the owner line. She read it once. She didn't touch it. "You want a reaction," she said. "You're paying a lot for one." "I'm paying for the best one alive." Reginae set the dog on the seat beside her. She picked up the deed and read the parcel number out loud, slow, like she was memorizing it. Then she looked up. "I'll do your show," she said. "But I keep every text. Every name. If someone crosses me, it goes public. Same as last time." "That's exactly what I want," Tom said. She almost smiled. "Then you don't know what you just bought." Tom drove home along the coast with the signed contract on the passenger seat. He had his volatile lead. His tame lineup finally had a match to strike against them. He should have felt only the win. But she'd known about the storm. Off one dry camera and a hunch. And now she was inside his show, keeping receipts.