Congratulations, you're gonna be The Last Man Standing

The email had been sitting in your inbox for hours before you noticed it.

"Congratulations! You've been selected as a contestant for Last Man Standing!"

Your heart skipped. You barely remembered applying—one of those impulsive, late-night decisions. The casting call had promised a huge cash prize, something about social strategy and endurance, and the chance to be part of a brand-new reality TV experience.

It had sounded... easy.

The email offered few details. Just that you’d been chosen, that they'd fly you out to the production house, and filming would start immediately after signing some standard contracts. No mention of rules, format, or competition structure. But that made sense, right? Reality shows thrived on surprise.

So you packed. A chance to prove yourself, to win big. What was there to lose?

The flight was uneventful. The car ride stretched long and quiet, taking you far from the city. When you finally arrived, the production house loomed before you—a luxury villa rather than a typical reality show set, all gleaming glass and sprawling pool decks. Staff moved in the background, efficient, silent.

A woman in a sharp black blazer met you at the entrance, her smirk a little too knowing.

"You're John, right?" She barely waited for your nod before stepping aside. "Vanessa’s waiting for you."

You knew that name instantly.

Vanessa DeWitt.

Even if you weren’t a reality TV junkie, you knew her. The host. The woman with the razor-sharp wit, the perfect smirk. The one who made and broke contestants.

The way the staffer said waiting for you sent a flicker of unease through you.

The lounge she led you into was sleek, modern, overlooking a private pool. Vanessa sat in a high-backed chair, crystal glass in hand, watching you before you even fully stepped inside.

"Well, well," she purred, setting down her drink. "Look what we have here. The Last Man Standing himself."

Something in her tone twisted in your stomach.

You **** a nod. "Uh—yeah. That’s me."

Her lips curled. Not quite a smirk. More like... anticipation.

"We’ll see."

Before you could ask what she meant, she gestured to the table beside her. A thick stack of papers sat there.

"Standard waivers and agreements," Vanessa said smoothly. "Nothing too scary."

You glanced at the first page. Dense legal jargon. The kind designed to make your eyes glaze over. Reality shows always had NDAs. No big deal.

Vanessa watched, head tilted slightly, waiting.

You could read it. Maybe you should.

But the silence stretched a beat too long, and something in her expression made it feel like a test.

So, you did what any contestant would.

You signed.

Her smile widened.

By the time the paperwork was done, a staffer had already whisked you away to another part of the house. It happened so fast that you barely had time to process before stepping into a second lounge—bigger, more lavish, scented with something floral.

And occupied.

Five women.

They were stunning. Not in the airbrushed, influencer way—more deliberate. Like they’d been chosen.

They were chatting in low, easy voices, but the second you entered, the conversation stopped.

Five sets of eyes turned toward you.

A shift in the air. Immediate. Unspoken.

For a second, you weren’t sure what to say.

Then one of them—a blonde with a slow, Southern drawl—dragged her gaze up and down, lazy, unhurried.

"Oh my stars," she murmured. "Ain’t he just adorable?"

Laughter rippled through the group.

You blinked, suddenly very aware of their attention.

"Uh—thanks?" You hesitated. "I think?"

A dark-haired woman—poised, effortlessly elegant—smirked.

"You think?" Her voice was cool. Measured. "That’s cute."

Something about the way she said it felt like a trap.

Before you could figure out why, another woman—petite, bright-eyed, practically bouncing in her seat—rested her chin in her hands.

"Are you nervous?" she asked sweetly.

Your brow furrowed. "No?"

She giggled. "You will be."

More laughter. Softer this time. Private. An inside joke you weren’t part of.

You **** a chuckle, trying to shake the unease creeping up your spine.

"So, uh... I guess we’re all competing, huh?"

The blonde—Brooke, you were pretty sure—leaned in just slightly, smiling wider.

"Oh, sugar," she purred. "We're competing against you, mostly."