The Wild Card contest was a last-minute idea, something the producers thought would make the show stand out by opening it up to a random contestant who didn't have to go through the same rigorous screening process as the rest of the women. Sure, they'd make sure that she was a legal U.S. resident, had no criminal record, was over eighteen and all the other legalese stuff, but they didn't have to go through three sets of casting agents just to get on what's supposed to be reality TV.

Only, there's nothing real about it.

That's because most, if not all, contestants on reality TV shows are screened—first to make sure they're photogenic, and two, that they've got some sort of personality that will either gel with me or in the case of the women, create some conflict that would be great on camera. At least, that's what I heard from my assistant, Sean, whom the studio assigned to follow me around for the duration of the show.

The bigger the personality, the bigger the drama potential.

Great. The last thing I need in my life is drama, but I've signed the contract so there's no turning back. The only reason I agreed to do the show was to raise awareness for one of my favorite charities.

And already, there is drama for the Wild Card contestant is a week late, and the seven women she was supposed to join has been whittled down to four. According to Les, they're already at at each others' throats although you can never tell through their broad smiles, each one doing whatever they can to make me choose them—except for one, Marilyn. She actually doesn't care whether she wins or loses, and I have a suspicion she's more into my resort manager, Archer. But she makes me laugh and so I don't mind her quirks. She tells the crudest jokes off-camera and has the mouth of a sailor. Too bad Les Wiltern, the show's host, told me yesterday that Marilyn's time is up and he insists she's got to be the next one I send home during the next flower crown ceremony in three days, hopefully along with the Wild Card contestant, Daniela Simmons.

If only she'd made it here on time, then she'd have had a two-week run before you send her home, Les told me the other day after talking to one of the studio executives in Los Angeles. As it stands, she'll only have four days, tops, and then you have to send her home. That way, we can focus on the frontrunners for the last week and a half.

Les said that the production had to make some accommodations to get her to the island all the way from Seattle, Washington. It makes me nervous because I wonder what accommodations she must have demanded from them. No one's telling me anything, probably waiting to see my reaction when she arrives. Is something wrong with her? A prima donna, perhaps? I remember how she sounded bored when I spoke to her on the phone although there was someone squealing excitedly in the background.

"So what do you think of Bianca?" Les asks, breaking through my thoughts. We're on the patio of my family's resort hotel, the Aida in Saint Lucia and in front of us, the views are breathtaking. Cameras are rolling and I have to remind myself not to frown, the way I do whenever I'm trying to remember something—or someone—like Bianca.

Bianca must have been the last woman I'd just talked to on one of the gazebos in my resort. Blonde, leggy, absolutely stunning... and so not my type. She hates the outdoors and only emerges outside if it involves taking a selfie before running back in to talk about shoes and the latest fashions.

But then, how do I even know my type these days? Since the show started, I wouldn't know my type if she came up to me and smacked me upside the head. With cameras recording our every move, no one is who they really are. Everyone is wearing a mask—even me—and I hate it.

It's gotten so confusing that I can't even tell if the women are really interested in me or my money, or whether they're really interested in everything I do—like mountain climbing. Even I'm not sure who I am anymore, especially when everything I say and do is edited to suit the show's view of what they want me to be, some guy who's dashing and perfect. I'm really just a regular guy who likes being outdoors and managed to make that work for him in the business world. Thank God, this will only last for two more weeks before everyone packs up and leaves. Honestly, I'd rather make a bid to climb Mount Everest than be here. Then I remember that I made a promise to Mother never to do that again. One brush with death was enough for her heart.

I also remind myself that I'm doing this to raise awareness about my friend's non-profit, the World Reach Trust, a network of first-responders with expertise in rebuilding communities affected by natural disasters. So I need to be on my best behavior, like right now as Les waits for me to answer his question. But wait, what question?

Oh, right. Bianca.

"She's beautiful," I say, flashing my best grin the way Sean taught me. "Bianca is very passionate." About shoes, mostly, but I keep that part to myself.

Remember, you love all of them, Sean had told me a few weeks earlier, when filming began. And you'll love all of them until you hand the girl you're sending home the flower crown.

And how I dread handing those women their flower crowns. I've already sent five women packing their bags since filming began four weeks ago. But true to showbiz and that adage that you can't trust everything you see, the women are really staying at a resort across the bay, probably enjoying their mimosas until the show is over.

"Okay, guys, take a break," Les says to the crew, waving them away. It only means one thing: he needs to talk to me off-camera. Lately, it's to tell me who the fan favorite is for that day or that hour. It changes, although the top favorites for the past two weeks are Bianca and Camille. Sometimes they suggest who I should "hook up" with as well. I haven't hooked up with any of the women—not if one can call a chaste kiss a hook-up—but in the online forums ran by the production company, it's a whole different story. I can only imagine the fun they all must be having in the editing room, splicing scenes and dialogue together to make me say things I never said in the first place.

"So have you decided who you're going to choose?" Les asks. "Final show is in less than two weeks."

I shake my head. "No, but there's also the Wild Card, remember? I want to meet her first."

They'd almost scrapped the Wild Card idea after she failed to arrive on schedule, but Les said it wouldn't have looked good if they did, though he said that was the beauty about last-minute add-ins to spice up the show. They can still be scrapped in post-production.

"Yeah, but come on, Tyler. Get real. The Wild Card's just here to boost ratings. And even that's subject to editing. If she's completely un-photogenic or totally without any personality, we have to scrap it," Les says. "Just remember that your heart is already set between Bianca and Camille. You know how the viewers can't get enough of them."

"Come on, Les, how do viewers know what I like? I've seen how you edit the things I say, and it's not even close to what I said."

"You're the one who agreed to be on the show when we approached you, Tyler. No one twisted your arm, and believe me, no one would know a thing about World Reach Trust if it weren't for Paired in Paradise. I hear their donations go up every time we're on air," Les says, exhaling. "Look, kid, I know you're not happy with how things are turning out, but hey, America is in love with you! And rating are through the roof! Two more weeks of pretending you can't make up your mind between Bianca and Camille, and we'll be out of your hair."

In the distance, I see one of my boats approaching, just to the left of Les' ear as he continues talking.

"What if none of them is my type?"

Les stares at me. "This may be a reality show, kid, but it's still showbiz, and we give the audience what they want to see. And right now, what they want to see is you unable to make up your mind between the wanna-be actress and the wanna-be shoe designer. You're gonna find your type somewhere else... maybe on some mountain, I don't know. Just not on my show—not while I'm running it."

I've meant to ask Les this question for weeks, but we've both been too busy to set aside time alone without the cameras following us at every turn. I like all the women, but the closer we get to the end of the show and that final moment when I'm supposed to make my choice, something doesn't feel right. Maybe it's because I know we're all under pressure to give the viewers the best that we can give them. It's still showbiz, after all.

"What happens if my type walks in right now and she's not part of the show?"

"Then she walks right out of the frame until the show ends in two more weeks and you can go after her," Les says, his fingers pantomiming a pair of legs walking away. "Do we have to go back to this again? Look, I'm sorry none of the girls do anything for you, but you weren't singing that tune when Camille joined you in the pool last week."

"Nothing happened."

"Oh, please! Not according to the audience! And believe me, kid, they sure picked up on the fact that you loved whatever she was doing to you," Les says, grinning as I roll my eyes.

I'm not going to deny it; I almost caved in to the temptation of doing more than just kiss Camille the night she joined me in my private pool without her bikini top and a few minutes later, minus her bikini bottoms, too. And how can I forget how she boldly reached inside my swim trunks? Sure, she'd had a bit too much to drink, sent on a dare by one of the other contestants, but Les doesn't know that. The only reason he hasn't pushed the they-had-sex-in-the-pool scenario is that he knows I also have my own security cameras in place and would have shown the world what actually happened—me getting out of the pool to retrieve towels for her to cover herself.

Sometimes I wonder if I hadn't nearly died on Annapurna, what would I have done that night? But I push the thought away for I know the answer. Camille would have ended up in my bed and life would have been more complicated for both of us and the show. And I don't need any complications, not when I only have two more weeks left before the show folds and things will be back to normal again.

"Look, kid," Les continues, "the way this Wild Card works is that she's going to rile up the remaining contestants, and we hope that she'll amp up the tension a bit, raise the stakes... that kind of thing. We don't even factor in any likelihood of you liking her into the equation. As far as I'm concerned, she's persona non grata."

"So you got your ratings boost and that's it? She's done?"

Les shrugs. "That's showbiz for you, kid. Get used to it."

Before any of us can say anything else, the sight of a boat approaching the resort dock catches his attention, and he stands up, pressing a finger against his ear piece. "That must be her."

Behind me, I hear one of the producers ask if the cameras are with the remaining women who have been waiting on one of the decks overlooking the resort dock. As expected, cameras will be filming their reaction to the arrival of their surprise rival.

Les turns to face me, grinning knowingly as the camera operator is back at his work, recording the conversation. "So, Tyler, are you ready to finally meet the Wild Card?"

Two weeks, Ty. Two more weeks.

I flash him my best smile. "Of course, Les."

* * *

When I first see Daniela Simmons, I don't exactly see her. I see only the wheelchair she's sitting on with its interesting addition—a single wheel attachment in front of her folded legs, much like my sister's jogging stroller. She's wearing a teal top with a loose circular scarf accenting her neck, and a white skirt that's been gathered and tucked under her legs, probably so it won't get caught in the spokes of her wheelchair.

As she wheels herself across the dock, I see that the big wheel addition allows her chair to make it through uneven surfaces quite easily. It's quite cool. She's also laughing at something Archer Mann, my best friend and resort manager is saying.

"What the hell did she do to her wheelchair? Looks like a damn stroller," Les mutters, and I can tell he's forcing the sarcasm from his voice.

"I love it," I say as the camera operator takes a step back and then pans the camera to take in the view while another camera operator keeps his camera trained on me.

"What do you think about her being in a wheelchair, Tyler?" Les asks, his tone back to the one he uses whenever the cameras are rolling.

I know they're recording my every move, hoping to catch my expression. Maybe they expect surprise or even shock that Daniela is in a wheelchair. But if that is the case, then Les is going to be disappointed.

While her arrival to the Aida Resort may have been delayed by the production company's need to implement wheelchair-accessible accommodations for her, the Aida has been accessible since my family took over the resort two years ago.

"What's to think about?" I ask, pushing back my annoyance and forcing a smile. " I can't wait to meet her."

Maybe it's her beaming smile or the cute sandals that peek from under her billowy skirt, or maybe it's the big wheel attachment she's added to her wheelchair, something that tells me she's resourceful. Whatever it is, I can't help but like Daniela Simmons.

If anything, she really is the Wild Card now, for she's stirred more than just the pot that is Les' perfect ending for his manufactured fairy tale—she's stirred something that's long been asleep inside me.