Chapter 4: Rejection and Rising Stakes

As a Sinclair Group brand ambassador, it’s no surprise Natalie Brooks has Carter Sinclair’s business number.

That sort of access is as standard as a VIP pass in her line of work. She played it like she was the only one in the world with that privilege.

Soon, the call connected.

A gentle male voice answered on the other end—definitely not Carter Sinclair.

[Miss Brooks, hello. How can I help you?]

It was crisp, polite, with just a hint of Midwest courtesy. I recognized the voice: Carter Sinclair’s assistant.

Natalie explained she was on a reality show, but the reply came quickly: [Sorry, Mr. Sinclair is in a meeting and can’t come over.]

The call ended.

No extra explanation, no apology. Just click. In Hollywood terms, that’s a hard pass.

Natalie hadn’t put the call on speaker, so only those present heard the curt response.

Her expression barely faltered, but you could see the tiniest twitch at her jawline. She was trained for this, but the little break in her smile gave her away.

After being rejected, she kept her composure, though she looked a bit embarrassed. She pouted to the host, “He’s too busy, in a meeting, can’t make it.”

She tried to sound playful, but the disappointment was hard to miss. You could almost hear the hearts breaking in the comments.

The comments swept in:

[Comment: The rumors are true, she really is with the young heir!]

[Comment: The young heir’s body is amazing, Natalie is so lucky—imagine touching those abs!]

[Comment: Great body and great family—Natalie is the luckiest actress around!]

The thirst was real. Twitter would probably go down if Carter ever posted a shirtless selfie again.

The host tried to smooth things over: “That’s a shame. Who will Natalie invite next?”

Natalie tilted her head, playing cute: “Let me think~ There are so many options.”

She dragged out the moment, basking in the attention. The host leaned in, grinning, as if this was all part of some elaborate soap opera.

While she was ‘thinking,’ the host took the chance to let me draw my own task.

The box was covered in fake gold leaf, and the cards inside still smelled like a chain bookstore. I reached in, not expecting much.

Unfortunately, I drew the same one as Natalie.

The host clearly didn’t care about a nobody like me. Her smile was stiff and perfunctory: “Who do you plan to invite, Aubrey? A friend in the industry?”

I caught the way her eyes slid past me, already moving on in her mind. I felt smaller than the parsley garnish.

Her tone was as flat as yesterday’s Diet Coke.

I shook my head. “Not someone in the industry.”

My voice came out a little quieter than I meant, but there was no taking it back.

The host pressed, “So, a friend or a family member?”

I hesitated, then nodded.

She asked, “Can you tell us who?”

I thought of my jealous boyfriend at home… The show requires the guest to come in person. If I invite anyone else, he’ll definitely throw a fit…

I could picture him right now, phone in hand, eyes narrowed at the screen, ready to call me the second I stepped out of line.

So I just said his name: “Carter Sinclair.”

A hush fell. For a split second, it felt like even the chat had stopped.

The host’s smile froze, like she’d just bitten into a lemon.

Her teeth showed in a grimace that could cut glass. It was a split-second, but I caught it. Then she tried to recover, but the tension was obvious.

Instantly, the comments erupted.

[Comment: What’s with this Aubrey?]

[Comment: So shameless, inviting someone else’s fiancé?]

[Comment: Just trying to chase clout—this nobody is desperate!]

They came for me, fast and mean. My phone buzzed with every new insult. I wanted to shrink into my hoodie, but there was nowhere to hide—not with a hundred thousand people watching.

The production team was both thrilled and worried.

You could see them in the corner, whispering into their headsets, eyes wide. The ratings were spiking, but so was the drama meter. Some producer was probably lighting a prayer candle to keep the network lawyers away.

Thrilled because my bombshell doubled the livestream’s viewership—everyone was tuning in for the drama.

Worried because the comments were getting vicious; Natalie’s fans were cursing me out, and the team was afraid the livestream might get reported.

The host, undeterred, said, “Can you show everyone how you have Mr. Sinclair saved in your phone?”

She tried to keep it light, but her voice shook just enough to give her away. I could feel the pressure—like a game of chicken with the whole internet watching.

I glanced at the camera, hesitated, and shook my head. “That number can’t be shown on air.”

It’s Carter Sinclair’s private number—no way I’m making that public.

If I flashed his contact info, I’d have the Sinclair lawyers at my door in ten minutes flat.

The comments booed.

[Comment: She’s just making it up!]

[Comment: Like she’d have the young heir’s number—what a liar.]

It was like watching a digital mob gather torches. I pressed my lips together and stared at my hands.

Only a few comments spoke up for me:

[Comment: She has a point—if a private number got leaked, it’d be chaos…]

But those rational voices were quickly drowned out by a flood of insults.

It was like being pelted with snowballs at a Minnesota winter carnival—no escape, just grit your teeth and hope it passes.

Natalie’s face turned sour, her tone dripping with sarcasm: “Some people should know their place. If you try to ride the wave, you’ll just get dragged under.”

She flicked her hair like she was starring in a shampoo commercial, but her words could’ve iced over the Pacific.

I couldn’t be bothered with her, and dialed the number on my phone.

The studio fell quiet. Even the crew stopped fidgeting, all eyes on me.