Chapter 1

She woke with a dreadful hangover, her head pounding, mouth dry and sour. Life as an influencer was hard—or so Louise Jones liked to tell herself. She lay in bed staring out the single window of her studio apartment as weak sunlight filtered through the blinds. Rent was due soon. Her bank account was almost empty.

She fancied herself a model. Realistically, she knew she was a leech. Good looks had carried her through school and well into her early twenties, but the act was wearing thin. A small handful of loyal followers sent her money every month—barely enough to scrape by—and she had overdone it last night. Champagne in the VIP section of The Club, paid for with money she didn’t really have.

What to do?

She had been considering her options for months. OnlyFans was one; she was certain she could make serious money if she wanted to. Still, the idea of degrading herself online for strangers unsettled her. A regular job was out of the question. She was lazy, and she knew it. Worse, she didn’t feel guilty about it. The thought of clocking in every day like the rest of the population made her feel vaguely nauseous.

At twenty-seven, Louise was running out of options.

She dragged herself out of bed, showered, and collapsed back onto the mattress with her phone. Instagram first. In her mind, her 17,000 followers were very respectable. She scrolled for a while, checking comments, checking her Patreon.

Nothing.

No new victims.

She had already spent next month’s rent the night before, showing off champagne bottles and duck-face selfies online. The same few sad men liked and commented, as predictable as ever. It never went anywhere.

Occasionally she promoted some product or a mediocre “boutique hotel,” but that only ever resulted in freebies. Freebies didn’t pay rent. She needed cash—real cash—and she needed it soon.

She went to the gym, came home, watched television for hours, ordered takeaway, and eventually drifted off to sleep on the couch.

The next day was identical.

Gym. Phone. Boredom.

Messages from the same men, all desperate, all interchangeable. Her glamorous lifestyle was beginning to feel just as monotonous as a nine-to-five. She smirked at the irony.

Then she noticed something new in her inbox.

An offer.

Hi Louise,

My name is Rachel, and I’m talent scouting for a new reality web series that will be starting soon. Filming will take place over the next few months.

The show will consist of eight contestants—all women—who will share a luxury villa together. The series will focus on challenges and the interactions between contestants.

Contestants will come from different backgrounds and will remain in the house together for a minimum of six months, longer if all challenges are not completed. Food and all necessities will be provided.

There will be access to the internet and streaming services in a read-only capacity. Contestants will not be able to post on social media or interact with the outside world in any way.

Each contestant will be paid monthly for their participation, with a substantial cash prize for the overall winner. Payment will be made to contestants’ bank accounts once they have entered the house.

Please note: once you enter the house, it will be impossible to leave until all challenges have been completed.

If you are interested, please contact me on the number below.

Kind regards,
Rachel

Louise blinked and read the message again.

Finally, she thought. My hard work is paying off.

She rang the number immediately. Rachel suggested meeting for lunch later in the week and casually mentioned she had booked Gordon Ramsay’s new restaurant in the city. Louise squealed when she hung up. This was it. This was her break.

She kept up her gym-eat-sleep routine until the meeting.

Rachel turned out to be a middle-aged woman, noticeably overweight, though dressed expensively enough to disguise it at first glance. Louise clocked it immediately. The rounded face, the soft arms, the way the fabric pulled slightly at the waist. She hid her reaction behind a smile, but privately she felt a flicker of smug satisfaction.

That’s what letting yourself go looks like, she thought. Comfortable. Settled. Done trying.

Rachel was warm and friendly, almost excessively so. Louise found herself liking her despite the obvious physical decline. The food was incredible, and Louise made a point of enjoying every bite, vaguely aware of how closely Rachel watched her eat.

Rachel explained the show in detail. A twist on Big Brother, called Big Sister. There would be challenges decided by public vote, live-streamed footage alongside edited episodes, and constant audience engagement—though the contestants themselves would be completely cut off.

Six months minimum in a luxury villa. Longer if challenges weren’t completed.

Everything would be provided. Food. Entertainment. Internet access, though strictly read-only. No posting. No outside contact.

The pay was €10,000 per month. The grand prize: €500,000.

Louise nodded along, but her eyes kept drifting back to Rachel’s hands, her jawline, the faint swell beneath her chin. This is what happens when you stop caring, she thought. Probably married. Probably boring.

Rachel mentioned that a handler could be arranged free of charge to manage Louise’s social media and apartment while she was away. Exposure would be massive. Careers would be made in that house.

Filming would begin in a week. Everything was ready. They were simply finalising contestants. If Louise wanted the spot, she would need to sign the contract that day.

She didn’t hesitate.

She was broke and on the verge of eviction. She signed without reading past the first page.

Rachel took her bank details and explained that Louise would receive her first month’s payment when they picked her up at the end of the week. They shook hands. Rachel paid the bill and arranged a car to take Louise home.

Louise floated the entire way back.

Her problems were over.

After rent, she’d still have plenty left over each month. If she won, she’d never have to worry again. She told herself she liked Rachel—professional, confident—but silently promised she would never end up like that.

I really hope they have a gym in the house, she thought. No way I’m coming out of this fat.

She posted the news on Instagram and basked in the surge of likes and comments, even picking up a few new followers.

I’m already growing, she told herself.

She cleaned her apartment, packed her favourite outfits, and waited for the weekend.