The Discarded Heiress Owns The Wasteland

The stage lights dimmed. A deep, resonant electronic chime echoed through the studio.

Director Quinn Vance jogged onto the stage, a microphone in his hand. His face was flushed with excitement.

"Ladies and gentlemen!" he shouted. "The twelfth season of 'Ancient Love' is about to begin!"

A massive hologram flickered to life above the stage. It showed Planet A13. Red dirt. Black forests. A wasteland.

Quinn cleared his throat. "The rules are simple. Survive on the planet for one month, and you split the grand prize!"

The contestants buzzed with excitement. They whispered to each other, forming alliances.

In the dark corner, Casey's eyes snapped open. One month. That wasn't enough. She needed a year.

She stood up. She walked toward the center of the stage, her stride purposeful. The crowd parted for her, sensing the danger radiating from her.

She reached Quinn and grabbed the microphone right out of his hand.

Quinn gaped at her, reaching for it back. "Hey!"

Casey sidestepped him easily. She brought the mic to her lips.

"Director, a one-month challenge is boring. I want to invoke Clause 7.4 of my contract," she said. Her voice was clear, cutting through the noise of the crowd. "I'll survive for a year, and the planet becomes mine."

Silence. Then, laughter. It started as a chuckle and grew into a roar. The audience pointed at her, tears streaming down their faces.

The holographic comments reappeared for a split second on the main screen, just so she could see the mockery. She's insane. Gold digger wants to die.

Coralie covered her mouth, her eyes wide with fake shock, but her shoulders shook with hidden glee.

Quinn's face turned red. "Give that back!" he hissed. "You're disrupting the show!" He shoved her shoulder. "Get off the stage, or you're disqualified!"

Casey didn't move. The shove didn't budge her. She stared Quinn down.

"I want to invoke Clause 7.4," she repeated.

Security guards started moving toward her.

Then, a sound broke the tension. Slow, deliberate clapping.

Everyone looked up. In the VIP box on the second floor, a man lounged in a velvet seat. Giles Henson. The Second Prince. He was handsome, with a lazy, dangerous smile.

He pressed a button on his armrest. His voice boomed through the speakers. "I find this... entertaining. Director, grant her request."

Quinn started sweating. He wiped his forehead. He knew better than to argue with royalty.

He sighed into his backup mic. "The challenge... is approved."

The crowd erupted. They stared at Casey like she was already dead.

Casey shoved the microphone back into Quinn's chest. She looked up at the VIP box. Her eyes met Giles's. She didn't thank him. She just looked at him like he was a variable in an equation.