Intermission: Best Girl Poll (Round 3)

Sunrise, so often the enemy of secrets, barely grazed the surface of the eastern balcony. Even here—high above the private beach, at the gentle elbow of the resort—most mornings were not so much born as revealed, like a page turned by the sea’s patient hand. Arabella considered this as she stepped onto the cold marble, her heels whispering nothing against the stone, the ocean’s hush rising from the cliffs below.

She wore blue. Technically: a midnight sheath, tailored close at the hips, the color shifting like ink when she breathed. She complemented it with a thin gold necklace, the chain so fine it looked like a seam in the skin, and matching earrings that glimmered in the weak light. Her hair (deep auburn, not red, never red) fell in disciplined waves to her shoulders. All but one lock, which had rebelled in the humid breeze, and which she flicked back with a practiced, forgiving touch.

The set was perfect, except for the watering can. It sat on the ledge, battered and white, beading with dew. Arabella studied it, and the water it contained. It had traveled far. She left it where it was.

On the other side of the volcano, the resort still slept. The lanterns behind Arabella had not been snuffed, and in their pale glow, her shadow stretched—taller, thinner, regal. She smoothed the skirt over her thighs and drew a single long breath. At the bottom of it, she caught the very thing she never admitted to having: anticipation. It stung, like the click of a lighter.

She had five seconds to kill before the broadcast. She flexed her toes in the shoes (navy, the only pair she would ever admit to loving), adjusted her posture, and re-checked the angle of the sunrise to ensure the right lighting. She adjusted the sun slightly, making sure its rays were flattering as they fell upon the balcony. The color was perfect now. She allowed herself a single, secret smile—then, at 6:01, let the Host emerge.

“Good morning, dear viewers across the worlds.” Her voice, when she gave it fully, could cut ice or pour honey. She’d opted for the latter today, soft and warm and a shade amused, as if only she and her audience knew how the story would end. She glanced sideways, not at the camera (there was no camera, not in any way a human would understand it), but at the point in the air where the viewers always were. “It is another beautiful day on the island. The weather has seen fit to gift us with another sunrise, the ocean is behaving, and—” her lips twitched, almost undetectable, “—the volcano has not misbehaved even once.”

A beat, just long enough for her viewers to wonder what sort of volcano could misbehave. Then: “Before the day of the Third Challenge begins, I am delighted to announce the opening of this round’s Best Girl Poll.” A shift of the hands, palms folding at the lap, a gesture learned from priests and queens. “As always, your votes will determine which of our spirited contestants receives coveted Bonus Points. More importantly—” and here, the first real Arabella surfaced, eyes narrowing a fraction, “—it is a chance for you, the audience, to celebrate the courage, wit, and, yes, the occasional charming misstep of those competing. The poll will remain open until Tuesday, October 14, at which point the standings will be finalized and the Bonus Points delivered.”

She lifted one shoulder, the barest suggestion of a shrug, and her smile turned conspiratorial. “Remember: this is not merely a contest of popularity. Here, every vote is an act of hope. Some of these girls are fighting for more than themselves. Some are fighting for you.”

The line wasn’t in the script, but it fit, and she let it land.

Arabella straightened. Her hand rose, fingers catching the morning light as she tucked the stray curl behind her ear. The gesture was unstudied, almost ****. She looked, for a moment, like a woman who could be reached, or wounded. Then the Host reasserted herself.

“We look forward to seeing which of our contestants will claim the title of Best Girl. Until then, enjoy the view.” She swept a glance to the east, where the sun finally breached the far line of the sea, and her face was gilded for a heartbeat.

The broadcast winked out, and with it, the strict hold of posture and presence.

Alone again, Arabella allowed the tension to melt from her shoulders. She walked to the edge of the balcony, reached for the watering can, and tested its weight. Still full.

For now, she watched the horizon. The blue of her dress darkened as the sun lifted, but her eyes—emerald, lucid—never lost their color. Arabella was already rehearsing her next line, her next move, but in this suspended second, there was no mask, no audience. Just a woman, and the day, and the certainty that every sunrise brought more than it revealed.

Anna’s head peeked out of the door. “Ready, Ara?” With a smile, Arabella lifted the watering can and walked back inside.

Voting for the Best Girl poll for Week 3 is now open! You can vote until 5,59pm CET, Tuesday, October 14.

Poll closed. Thank you!