Then Things Went Dark, page 9
Kalpana: Oh, this is going to be excellent.
“Well…” Jerome looks so affronted he’s struggling for words. But when he finds them, he puffs his chest out with bravado. “First of all, I disagree that Araminta is the most successful. I’ve made more money than anyone else here.”
“Money isn’t our metric of success; it’s yours,” Kalpana interrupts.
Kalpana: I’m so sick and tired of these rich bitches thinking their wealth is proof of their success and not their privilege and luck.
“Besides, isn’t what matters most who still has trajectory, not who’s peaked?” Theo muses almost innocently, with a curious expression and tilted head, but of course Kalpana seizes what he has teed up for her.
“And when you’ve stolen nearly everything from your business partner, can you even say you’ve peaked?”
Jerome blinks twice, almost comically.
“You motherfucker! Do you really think you can say a thing like that on live TV and not have me sue the ever-loving shit out of you?”
Rhys quirks an eyebrow. “Well, that’s certainly not a denial.”
“Of course it’s a denial,” Jerome hisses. “Thanks to Jobs and Gates, everyone thinks every charismatic tech CEO must have screwed over their coding partner. They all think that partner did all the work too—as if getting investors and pitching products isn’t every bit as grueling. I bought Alistair out, plain and simple. A tidy sum for him to launch his next venture.”
“Is that why he’s suing you?” Kalpana asks.
“I…what?”
Kalpana: The news broke yesterday, but I don’t want to throw Theo under. Besides, better for Jerome to think I have some insider source.
“A brilliant decision to come on a show like this,” she pushes. “You’ve made what would be a footnote in a tech magazine into a trending topic.”
“Jerome,” Araminta says tightly, “what is she talking about?”
“It’s nothing, really,” he insists. “There’s absolutely no way it will go anywhere. And I really can’t discuss it further without violating—”
“What about the girls?” Kalpana asks quietly.
Jerome turns to her, his panicked anger intensifying. “What are you talking about?”
“Denial didn’t work last time, did it?” Kalpana points out. “I’m a feminist activist, Jerome. I’ve been involved in the class-action lawsuit on behalf of Soltek victims for the last year.”
Something she assumes the producers knew when they decided to put them both on this damn island.
Kalpana: Ridiculous, isn’t it, that this wasn’t enough? That Theo had to come in with another lawsuit to make anyone pay attention to the women he’s hurt.
“Victims?” Araminta clutches her arms across her chest. “How are there victims of a dating app?”
Kalpana rolls her eyes. “Honestly, where the hell have you been?”
Araminta isn’t prepared for Kalpana’s vitriol directed at her, especially with her newfound power as leader. It bites. Besides, it does not matter that Araminta never wanted a simple kiss to become anything serious—that Kalpana didn’t either has cut deep. And this is salt in the wound.
“DateRate,” Kalpana scoffs. “Like a sexist app wasn’t enough—”
“Sexist?” Jerome sputters. “I created the app to protect women—so they could rate the men they date and ensure they’re safe for the next girl.”
Isko’s eyes dart back and forth, a slight smile on his face, though whether it’s in enjoyment of the drama or relief that it’s not being directed at him is anyone’s guess.
“Sure, and didn’t that just backfire to men rating women with ‘Take her swimming on a first date. She’s only a three, and she didn’t even put out.’ You enabled the most horrific, misogynistic reviews and turned dating into even more of a cesspool than it already was—women having to perform the perfect girl just so they don’t get review bombed.”
“But he’s not being sued for that, surely,” Araminta pushes.
Rhys: Why does Araminta care so much?
“No, he’s being sued because there was an issue of people reviewing matches they hadn’t actually met up with.”
“So?” Araminta asks, because Jerome has gone quiet. He’s simply staring with narrowed, burning eyes, fingers curling around the table.
“So how did you fix that problem, Jerome?”
“Fuck you,” he growls.
“Still not sounding like a denial,” Rhys quips almost jovially.
“He made a Bluetooth link between the apps, so your phones had to be near each other to prove you’d met. Which meant people had to rate each other while actually on the dates. Men could literally see their rating and get violent, or intimidate their dates into a better ranking so they could get to the next girl. But even that wasn’t enough, was it, Jerome? Because there was a technical error. Or were you just cutting corners? Or do you just have no clue what you’re doing, and with an app so large, have no way to properly safeguard it? Either way users were given the technology to track each other’s phones. And now several women who were stalked by their dates are suing him into the dirt. Soltek isn’t going to survive this.”
“I’m going to sue you for so much slander—”
“With what money, Jerome? Because we’re going to take all of yours.”
And mine, Araminta thinks with a quiet solemnity. That’s what she took when she left everything behind—some social media accounts, a small six-bedroom flat in Kensington, a few suitcases of out-of-season designer clothes, and the stock in Soltek that she’d been given five years ago on her eighteenth birthday, convincing herself that as a gift, the money was hers. And when it comes to income, it’s seventy percent of hers.
Did the producers know that too, when they stuck her on this island with the rest of them?
Dear god, she needs that prize money. She needs to win. And so does Jerome. And now it all means something, to two of them at least.
“So we’re happy to vote for Jerome, then?” Kalpana asks.
“No,” Araminta says too quickly.
Kalpana jumps to her feet as she turns to her. “What?”
Everyone looks shocked—except for Rhys, whose eyes are creased with amusement.
“Theo’s right,” she says. “This is about who has potential, and Jerome could still crawl his way out of this. And frankly, if he doesn’t, I want to see him crash and burn in person.”
She tries to inflect a degree of vitriol into her words, which isn’t difficult. She’s furious he’s put both her income on the line and her reputation in having to come to his rescue. But whatever he’s on this show for—to increase his profile, attract investors, or gain public favor for a second chance—she needs him to do it. Her survival depends on his.
“So who are we voting out?” Isko asks.
Araminta realizes what she has to do and it’s like a guillotine slamming down—cutting off a newly budding thing.
Isko is too valuable an ally to her, Jerome needs to stay, Theo and Kalpana will never turn on each other and are too riled up to push them further; she needs to turn their rage on someone else—and neither particularly likes the remaining option much anyway. No matter how much she’s starting to.
“Rhys,” she says—and it’s difficult to get those words out. Even harder to meet his eyes, and when she does he seems, if possible, even more entertained, like he’s thrilled by this twist of events. “The rest of us at least have a foundation—we’ve made steps toward where we want to be. But Rhys, I’m sorry but you’ve only had bit parts. I…I really don’t want to, but if we have to choose, I think that’s who we need to pick.”
“Seconded,” Jerome rushes, unable to believe his own luck.
Jerome: It was tough; he’s probably my favorite person on the island. But it’s a dog-eat-dog world.
Isko shrugs. “I’m bored now. Whatever brings this absurdity to an end. I vote for Rhys too.”
Rhys: Et tu, Brute?
“This is ridiculous,” Kalpana says, seething. “Jerome is—”
“Fourth,” Theo says with a nod. Keeping Jerome on after all this works in his favor; what better distraction from his own problems?
They turn to Kalpana, tense. If anyone was to raise their chin in defiance, ready to be the lone voice of dissent, it’s her.
But if she did, she could be the one they all vote for instead.
“Fine, yes, fine,” she says quickly. “But only because he was my second choice anyway and I believe in the power of the majority. I vote for Rhys.”
Rhys arches a cool eyebrow.
The screen flickers back to life. “Wow, contestants, that was really something! And a result I’m sure none of us saw coming!”
They can barely look at Eloise. Araminta shuffles to the side of the plinth so they can see her better, but that just brings her closer to Rhys, and she can feel her whole body flushing.
“Congratulations on winning the popularity vote, Araminta. Your prize is…well, popularity is its own prize, isn’t it? Adversity, however…”
The music that hums beneath her words suddenly jolts louder, a jarring, edgy thing.
“How do you feel, Rhys? About being voted off the show?”
Rhys turns to the others like he’s buying some time to consider his answer. “I’d be upset to leave the show under any circumstances. I really am here to rise to a challenge and prove myself. But to leave like this?” He glances at Araminta with the perfect expression of wistfulness, like she and not the show is the real chance he’s missing out on. “I’m devastated.”
Eloise nods sympathetically. “Sometimes that’s all it takes, isn’t it?”
“All what takes?” Kalpana mutters, unable to bite her tongue at Rhys’s performance of sadness for a moment longer.
Eloise beams. “Why, to become an icon, of course. A motivation. Something to overcome. Your real lesson tonight, contestants, is that we all love an underdog. Icons don’t let being down for the count stop them, and most of our heroes hit some real lows. Which is why Rhys, not only will you not be leaving the island, you’ll be taking this evening’s prize.”
“What?” Kalpana hisses.
A slow grin unfurls on Rhys’s face until he reaches outright glee, eyes lit with sheer delight.
Rhys: Incredible. Utterly incredible.
“While we clear away this courtroom, we’re going to be setting up something special in its place. A luxury spa for you and one other contestant. You’ll have all of tomorrow morning to spend with whoever you pick!”
Jerome: This is ridiculous. The prize should have been mine—I was clearly the one they wanted to vote for.
“These traitors?” Rhys asks wryly. The cameras eat it up, this gorgeous man smiling in the face of betrayal, that alluring joviality like all of life might be a little funnier with him by your side.
He turns to Araminta. “It’s like I said; I only really care about making it up to you. And evidently, I have some work to do. Care to join me?”
She gives him a flirtatious smile, like choosing him was just an effort to play hard to get. Then a shrug, like she doesn’t care all that much anyway, like all this was little more than vapid, glib little @AramintaYaxleyC. “Sure.”
The others are bemused, or irritated, or disinterested—perhaps some mix of the three.
But when they’re inside again, locked away behind those villa doors as the crew get to work disassembling the set, they can hardly compose themselves.
The challenge has them riled, wound too tight, ready to burst—all that was unearthed on Jerome—for nothing? All the turning, the allegiances, the speed with which they would set aside their morals for the sake of survival.
And Rhys and Araminta—he for coming out of it victorious, and Araminta for the false veneer of popularity now ricocheting back at her.
Conversation is terse, smiles frosty.
Araminta and Rhys end up perched on the kitchen countertops, ostracized together.
“They’re unbearable,” Araminta mutters as much to her drink as to Rhys.
“They’re jealous.”
“Of course they are, but for what? They stuck a target on my back and now they’re mad it’s there.”
“At least they didn’t fire at it,” he accuses.
Araminta blanches at the reminder of all she’s done, and with it, she realizes she must seize this moment. She needs to reset this, needs to do the sort of dramatic thing that will have everyone rooting for them despite her betrayal. She needs the fact she turned on him not merely forgotten but turned into a part of the story.
And she needs a distraction, needs everyone so focused on what she’s doing, no one will think to look too closely at her own financial records. She does not need Jerome dragging her down.
She touches Rhys’s arm, just a brush, but intentional and weighty, and he blinks, thick, dark eyelashes fluttering.
“I’m sorry.” She’s using that tone again, vulnerable but commanding, begging him to just go with it. “You’re the last person I’d want to hurt like that.”
Do they even realize they’re closing the distance between them?
And then their lips are touching, small and sweet and barely a brush.
Araminta is going to win this damn competition, she decides. And she’ll ignore the little jump in her stomach as she does so—the feeling of something flickering to life, a sparkling flame finally catching light.
Rhys draws away with aching slowness, lips pressed into a slight smile, like he’s treasuring the moment. “Apology very much accepted.”
@awkwardartist
OH MY GOD just seen that BET-RITE are listing odds on which characters are going to bang and when. Rhys and Araminta have the best odds, obviously but I’m quite liking Rhys and Theo too—all that tension every time they argue is so damn homoerotic. Use my code for a free £10 bet betrite.com/Iconic #Iconic
@OrlaSaysStuff
YESSSS OMG!!! YESSSS! ARHYS IS GO!!! #Iconic
@MaisieRicardo
“I’m scared to go on my phone. I read the fine print of every app I download. I’m putting myself at more risk now because I can’t bear to carry a cell phone with me”—Exclusive interview with the women suing #Iconic star Jerome Francis and Soltek www.attheforefront.com/soltek-lawsuit-victims -speak-out
Isko stares at the wall of the interrogation room, eyes wide, like he’s still watching something else. If Kennard didn’t know any better, he might think it was shock. But he’s seen enough clips to know these people don’t wear the truth across their faces.
“Mr. Andrada, thank you for being here today,” he says. Like he had much of a choice. They’re all under contract with AHX, after all, and if AHX wants to air that episode, it’d better look like it collaborated with the police. They’ll be able to hold their hands up and say “Look, we paid for hotels for the witnesses and transport to the station—who cares that it was only for a few days?”
Isko nods. “Of course, whatever helps. You think someone did this to Rhys? That it wasn’t an accident?”
“We’re still trying to form a picture of what happened on that island. What we do know is that you attacked Rhys the day he died.”
Isko glances down at his hands like he’s surprised to see them in such a state: dark purple bruising, split knuckles, slender fingers warped by swelling.
“I’ve never hit anyone before,” he says softly.
“I believe you,” Kennard says. It’s one of the few things he can believe; he’s seen the footage, seen the clumsy form of Isko’s fist. “We’re waiting on the autopsy, but if it confirms any sort of internal bleeding prior to his death—something that might have made him dizzy enough to topple right over the cliff, for instance, well, you can see how that would implicate you.”
“You think me hitting him killed him? Are you serious?” His demeanor slips, icy disdain shuttering across him.
“One punch can kill, Isko.”
“Yeah, so can alcohol and cliff edges,” Isko snaps. “Rhys was wasted when I saw him.”
But he wasn’t. So is Isko lying? Or was Rhys pretending to be drunk to manipulate them all?
“We’ll probably be able to prove it,” Kennard tells him. “But even if we can’t—a tiny if—the footage is out there. Unless we find who really did this, plenty of people will think it was you. So it would be mutually beneficial if you were to help us out.”
Isko glares at him, vein pulsing in his forehead. He glances away, and when his eyes return there’s a coldness there unlike anything Kennard’s seen before.
“Is it true they’re going to air the final episode?”
“Where did you hear that?”
“Everyone is talking about it. That’s why you wouldn’t let us have our phones back, right? So they wouldn’t mislead us in the case? But the case is in your very halls. Funny, I thought this place would be better soundproofed.”
“You heard it from an officer?”
Isko laughs and says something Kennard will later translate as “Every single person here is talking about it: the local cops, the cleaners, the hoteliers, the drivers—but of course none of you Interpol pigs speak Portuguese.”
Kennard doesn’t want to lose the thread of the conversation. “Yes, Mr. Andrada, they’re going to air the episode in two days’ time. An actual, real death televised as entertainment. If everyone weren’t already speculating about whether you killed him—accidentally or not—they will be then. Unless we prove it was a crime, that someone on that island maliciously, and intentionally, killed him.”
“All right,” Isko says, finally relenting. “I don’t want that episode to air either. So what do you want to know?”
“There were cameras all over that island. I want you to talk to me about blind spots.”
Season 1, Episode 5
On the beach, a white-canvased tent has been erected, and soft, artificial candles flicker inside. Two padded tables lie next to each other, a whole shelf lined with massage oils. Foot soaks bubble, creams and mud treatments lie in wait, crystal rollers form a rainbow on a bamboo tray, and scented steamers fill the air with a soft haze.
