The Buzzkill Wife Who Signed Their Paychecks

The card in my son's hand said the best thing I'd ever done for this family was leave the frame.

He read it into the live mic, sixteen years old, smiling for the cameras.

My husband leaned into his shoulder and added that next season they'd come back "as a new kind of family."

Eleven years I cooked in that kitchen, paid Grant's three-hundred-forty-thousand-dollar debt in one night, signed every bill nobody filmed.

The editors cut all of it.

They kept my tired face and called it the buzzkill.

Carmen taught my son to surf on camera, sipped wine with my husband, and the live chat crowned her the real lady of the house.

The producers cued the sad music and waited for me to cry toward the exit.

I walked the other way.

Past the cameras, through the booth door, and I lifted the EP's headset off the desk.

"Attention all units. This is your executive producer."

The music stopped mid-swell.

The screen behind my husband flipped to a corporate chart, and his eager signature sat at the bottom of a ten-year contract he never read.

The production company.

The platform's second-largest shareholder.

The owner of his face for the next decade.

All of it traced back to one name, and it wasn't his.

***

The studio spotlights burned hot against my skin, blinding me to the thousands of people in the live audience.

Theo ripped the gold-foil seal on the elimination envelope. He stared directly into the nearest camera lens.

"Mom, the best thing you've ever done for this family is step out of the picture," my son said.

He flipped the card around so the camera could see the words printed in bold black ink.

"It's nothing personal," Theo added, his voice smooth. "But the fans voted. Ninety-two percent of the audience wants you gone. We have to respect the polls."

I stared at the eighteen-year-old boy standing ten feet away from me. I bought the custom charcoal suit he was wearing. I stayed up for three nights straight helping him memorize his lines for the pilot episode.

"You're reading that on live television," I said.

"I'm giving a performance," Theo corrected. "It's what the people want. You always said I should follow Dad's footsteps. I'm just securing my future."

Grant stepped up beside him. He placed a heavy hand on Theo's shoulder, squeezing it to play the part of the proud father. He offered the camera his signature, perfectly practiced smile.

"Next season, we want to come back in a new kind of family dynamic," Grant announced.

The crowd erupted into cheers. A few sympathetic sounds rippled through the front rows, playing right into the narrative Grant wanted.

"A new dynamic," I repeated, keeping my tone flat.

Grant closed the distance between us. He grabbed my elbow. His fingers dug into my joint, hard enough to leave bruises. He kept his smile pinned in place, but his eyes were entirely dead.

"It's just television, Vivian," Grant muttered, barely moving his lips so the boom mic wouldn't pick it up. "Don't make a scene. Take the exit."

"You wrote that card," I said.

"The producers wrote it. I just approved it."

"You approved humiliating your wife in front of four million viewers."

"You're not a star, Vivian. You're a placeholder." Grant's grip tightened. "Now do the graceful thing and walk away before you embarrass yourself."

I pressed my fingernails into the metal edge of my father's old corporate ID badge hidden inside my jacket pocket. Eleven years ago, I gave up the Lattimer empire. I took the fake name Vivian Foster and hid my assets to marry Grant, a struggling sports commentator who couldn't even afford a decent apartment. This tarnished piece of plastic and metal was the only piece of my old life I kept.

"Three hundred and forty thousand dollars," I whispered back.

Grant's grip loosened for a split second. "What?"

"That's how much you owed three years ago. I forged my own signature on a private trust document to bail you out."

"Keep your voice down," he hissed, glancing at the nearest camera.

"You told me it was a bad broadcasting investment. It was gambling debts."

"You're delusional," Grant snapped. "You don't have that kind of money."

"The wire transfer receipt is still locked in my floor safe."

Theo rolled his eyes. He stepped closer, blocking the camera's view of my face.

"Oh, come on," Theo whispered, his tone thick with teenage arrogance. "Dad needs someone younger, someone the audience actually likes. Chloe is going to be amazing on camera."

Chloe. The twenty-two-year-old makeup assistant.

"So that's the new family dynamic," I said.

"She's moving in tomorrow," Grant said, his smile never wavering for the cameras. "We're making the announcement next week. Now get off my stage."

A slow, mournful piano melody pumped through the studio monitors. The classic elimination track.

A camera operator circled me, zooming in tight. They wanted tears. They wanted the devastated, discarded mother stumbling toward the neon EXIT sign on stage left.

I laughed.

It was a short, sharp sound. The cameraman flinched. Grant's smile faltered for a fraction of a second.

"What are you doing?" Theo hissed. "Cry and leave."

I released my grip on the badge in my pocket, letting my muscles relax. The sharp pain in my palm grounded me.

"I don't think I will," I said.

"Vivian, do not push me," Grant warned. His fingers dug into Theo's shoulder again. "Walk off the stage right now. You are legally contracted to follow the script."

"The contract is in Vivian Foster's name," I said.

Grant frowned, clearly missing the point. "That is your name. Stop acting crazy."

I yanked my arm out of his grasp. I turned my back on the exit. I turned my back on the cameras, my husband, and my son.

"Vivian! The exit is the other way!" Grant shouted, breaking his television persona.

I ignored him. My flat shoes made no sound on the polished stage floor. The audience muttered, a low wave of confusion washing over the stands. The sentimental music swelled, clashing horribly with my steady march toward the director's booth.

"Cut her mic!" Grant yelled.

The speakers popped. My microphone went dead.

I kept walking. The metal badge warmed against my skin. I slipped it out of my pocket, gripping it tight in my fist.

A floor manager named Paul ran in front of me. He held his clipboard up like a shield.

"Vivian, you need to leave the set," he said.

"Get out of my way, Paul," I said.

"I have a job to do. Please. I'll call security."

"Call them," I challenged.

I shoved past him, knocking the clipboard to the floor. The heavy stage curtains parted as I walked into the backstage corridor.

The hallway behind the stage smelled of ozone and burnt dust. I marched straight for the heavy steel door at the end of the corridor.

A bright red sign read: STAFF ONLY.

Two security guards jogged down the hall toward me.

"Hey! Stop right there!" the taller guard shouted.

I didn't stop. I shoved the steel door open with both hands.

The control room was a chaos of flashing screens and screaming producers. Twenty monitors displayed Grant and Theo looking confused on stage.

Marcus, the executive producer, threw his headset onto the console.

"What the hell is she doing?" Marcus screamed at a technician.

He turned and saw me.

"Get out of my control room!" Marcus yelled.

I walked toward the main console.

"Security!" Marcus yelled. "Grab her!"

The two guards rushed into the room, but they hesitated when I didn't back down.

I didn't look at them. I kept my eyes on the master control board. The switchboard controlling every mic, camera, and broadcast feed in the building.

"You're done in this industry, Vivian," Marcus sneered, stepping into my path. "You're a washed-up nobody. Grant is the talent. You're just the trash we took out."

I stopped in front of the console.

"Move, Marcus," I said.

"You are trespassing. Your contract is terminated."

"I am going to speak to the audience," I said.

"Your mic is dead. You have no voice here," Marcus said.

My arm stretched forward. My hand hovered directly over the master EP headset resting on the soundboard.

Marcus lunged forward. "Don't you dare touch that!"

My fingertip stopped exactly one inch away from the heavy plastic earpiece.