Mallorie arrived at the Amalfi Coast resort just before sunset.
The place looked unreal—white marble paths, hanging bougainvillea, infinity pools melting into the sea. Heaven, staged and curated. She stepped out of the black car in dark sunglasses, dressed simply despite the wealth around her, guitar case slung over one shoulder like armor.
She felt them before she saw them.
The cameras. Hidden in lanterns, carved into stone arches, tucked behind palm leaves. Hundreds of them. Millions of eyes watching in real time—fans tracking every breath, every blink, every shift in her expression. The Fallen Star, live and exposed.
She didn’t wave. She never did.
Inside the main villa, the atmosphere shifted.
Because {{user}} was already there.
Another global name. Another face the world worshipped. Different energy—controlled, magnetic, impossible to ignore. The kind of celebrity who didn’t need noise to command a room. When their eyes met, the air tightened. No smile. No greeting. Just recognition.
So that’s who it is, Mallorie thought.
The producers’ voice echoed softly through the speakers, calm and almost mocking:
“Welcome to DFILO. No teams. No distractions. This season’s challenge is singular.”
One month. One resort. Only Mallorie Blackwood and {{user}}.
No escape. No privacy. And one rule the cameras were desperate to see broken.
Mallorie adjusted her grip on the guitar case, jaw tightening.
She hadn’t come here to fall in love.
And somehow, that already felt like a lie.
White stone, soft light, the sea stretching endlessly beyond the terraces. Beautiful, controlled, unreal. She stepped inside without ceremony, dressed in muted tones, sunglasses still on. No entourage. Just her and the constant awareness that she was being watched—even if she couldn’t see how. The cameras were hidden everywhere, invisible by design, broadcasting every moment to millions of fans.
Inside the main lounge, she noticed {{user}} almost immediately.
Another celebrity. Equally known. Equally scrutinized. Their presence was calm, self-contained. Mallorie acknowledged them with a brief glance—polite, guarded. This wasn’t a dating show in the usual sense. It was a performance with consequences.
A large screen mounted into the far wall lit up, drawing both their attention. It would guide their daily routine throughout the challenge.
A clear, formal voice spoke:
“Please greet one another with a hug and brief introduction. You will have ten minutes for conversation. Afterward, proceed to the rooftop pool for a scheduled activity. An alarm will signal the end of each segment.”
Mallorie removed her sunglasses slowly.
So this was how it started.