Page 74 of Doctor’s Forbidden Match

Thankfully, I nail the practice run.

“Good,” Dain calls out. “Let’s do this for real. Rolling in five.”

I’m shocked by his praise.

The interview with Jessa and Kejuan goes smoothly, both glowing with excitement, dressed casually in jeans, white t-shirts, and work boots. They talk enthusiastically about their vision for the natural farmhouse aesthetic as they hold hands and finish each other’s sentences, and I can’t help but smile.

But then we move to Lilia and Mac’s house, and my stomach sinks. I’m dreading this interview.

Their house is modern, with concrete, glass, and stark-white touches. It looks like a minimalist architecture magazine, not something to be featured on a show about approachable home renovation in a mid-town neighborhood.

Both stand with their arms crossed, expressions somewhere between bored and actively annoyed. Lilia keeps checking her Apple Watch, while Mac won’t quite meet my eyes.

The crew shifts uncomfortably. Even the camera operator, who’s usually calm, looks tense.

“You’re ahead with the kitchen renovations,” I begin, reading from my prepared questions. “Why do you think that is?”

“We understand time management,” Mac says flatly. “We stick to a schedule and refuse to accept anything less. Unlike some people.”

According to what the girls told me this morning while doing my hair, they’re already on their third carpenter because they fired the first two. The first one had a family emergency. The second one’s supplier delayed a shipment.

“Do you expect any problems with your current carpenter?”

“There weren’t problems with the last two,” Lilia snaps, her boot tapping impatiently against the concrete. “They just didn’t follow the schedule. They knew what was expected, said they could do it, and failed. We don’t have time for incompetence.”

I blink, staying very still, feeling the sting of her attitude even though it’s not directed at me.

I can feel the crew’s discomfort rippling through the space too. Someone coughs. I want to argue that unforeseen circumstances happen, that construction delays aren’t always about incompetence, that maybe their timeline was unrealistic to begin with. But this is my first segment back, Dain is already watching me closely, and picking a fight with the homeowner on camera isn’t the way to prove I belong here.

“What’s the overall vision for the kitchen?”

Lilia’s tapping intensifies, like I’m personally ruining their timeline just by existing. Mac’s arms tighten across his chest, face pinched, a vein pulsing in his temple. “We’re keeping it modern and sophisticated, but that’s all I’ll say.”

The temperature in the room feels like it’s dropped. I can see Dain out of the corner of my eye, nodding approvingly at their answer—drama is good for ratings.

But something in me rebels. Pulse Point isn’t about cold minimalism. It’s about preserving character while updating functionality. It’s about homes that feel warm and lived-in, not like display homes. And these two are completely missing that.

Before I can stop myself, I ask, “Do you think that’s a good choice for this area?”

Silence.

Lilia’s boot stops tapping. Mac’s eyes finally meet mine. I can see Zac straightening in my peripheral vision, his posture alert.

“Cut!” Dain yells across the set.

My heart drops, palms instantly sweaty against the scooter’s handles.

Storming up to me, Dain’s face is red, that vein in his forehead pulsing. The crew parts, everyone suddenly very interested in their equipment. Lilia and Mac seize the opportunity to escape, walking briskly back toward their house without a backward glance.

“What was that?” Dain demands, stopping inches from me, close enough that I have to tilt my head back to maintain eye contact. “That wasn’t in the script.”

My hands grip the scooter tighter, but I lift my chin anyway. “I know. But it was a valid question. Their house isn’t really Pulse Point style. It’s completely modern and cold in a neighborhood that’s all about historic charm. The whole point of the show is renovating with respect for the area’s character, and they’re building something that looks like it belongs in downtown LA, not—”

“I don’t care what you think,” Dain interrupts. “You follow the script. That’s your job. You’re here to ask the questions we give you and look pretty doing it. That’s it.”

Anger rises in my chest. I open my mouth to respond, but then I feel Zac’s presence. He’s moving closer, just off to my right, not interfering, but making his presence known.

Dain notices too, his eyes flicking to Zac, then back to me. Some of the aggression drains from his posture, but his expression remains hard.