Araminta: My name is Araminta Yaxley-Carter and honestly I’m not sure why I’m here.
Araminta’s laugh is lighter than the dainty step she takes from the boat. Her heel sticks into the sand and she stumbles forward, her muted laugh eerily out of sync with the voiceover version that plays.
She kicks the shoes off, tossing them onto the beach, before she reaches for her suitcases.
Araminta: I’m just kidding. I guess what I want most from this is a platform to do some good. I’ve benefited from a great deal of privilege in my time, but the last few years have been tough—I’ve lost loved ones, suffered some rather public heartbreak and, through it all, built a life for myself. I suppose if anyone can take any inspiration from that, I’d feel incredibly honored.
As she drags her suitcases across the beach, the speedboat pulls away, leaving her alone on the island. The camera spins the view, and Araminta approaches a huge house dropped among the palm trees. It is an architectural monstrosity: layers of chrome and glass stacked atop one another, everything right angles and slashing edges. It is surrounded by a bleach-white deck with cameras drilled into every pillar. The island itself is tiny, a sharp cliff at one edge, a desperate crawl toward the ocean at the other.
Across the screen, her name unfurls in glowing letters: Araminta Yaxley-Carter, Influencer, London, UK.
Araminta: But I’ve also lost myself. In my fight to lay foundations for my life, I’ve forgotten what I once wanted. I used to be an artist, a sculptor, and that’s been pushed to the side. Don’t get me wrong, I’m incredibly proud of the work I’ve done on my social media channels—especially working as a mental health support ambassador—and I’ve taken great joy in the creative projects of my newly launched home rejuvenation series. But I’m also an award-winning artist. I’m here to prove that I really can do it all—and what is that but incredibly iconic?
Araminta reaches the villa, entering a living room that is as artificial as everything else—painted gold accents, pink and green paired without thought, and everywhere indications that they are in paradise: pineapple lamp, palm-tree-print wallpaper, ocean sunsets hung in frames. It isn’t a house; it’s a set and a messy backdrop to the woman in the bright white dress whose bare, sandy feet leave trails on the polished floor.
“Hello?” Araminta calls. “Oh, I’m first? Gosh, I thought they’d have someone far more impressive than me first.”
She wanders the room, taking in its every inch without a single expression flitting across her face. Internally, she’s doubting her decision to come onto the show at all. She has to spend four weeks here? In this violent clash of a house?
She spins with a smile. When she speaks her voice is warm honey, practiced for speeches in front of ring lights—and now for television. “I guess I’ll go snag the best bedroom then.”
Isko: I’m Francisco Andrada, but everyone calls me Isko. I’m from Cebu City, but I spent most of my childhood in Vancouver before training in Paris and Porto, then traveling the world, working as a chef on super yachts and also privately for individual clients. For so long, I’ve been driven by sheer passion for my craft—to learn as much as I can, to explore new opportunities, to cater to new people with new taste buds. Food is an incredible thing, sensual and tactile—more than an art form, it is a thing that, across cultures and throughout history has, I think, made us human. Good food is good life.
Isko lounges in the boat, sun glinting off his sunglasses, and salt spray of the sea tousling his hair as the boat speeds along. He waits a moment as it finally stops before lowering his glasses in a practiced move he knows will make the final cut.
His suitcases appear heavy as he drags them from the boat, artfully battered cases that say he is rich and well traveled. He bought them last month, brand new, and took a hammer to them himself.
Isko Andrada, the screen says, Chef, Vancouver, Canada.
Isko: For a while, food was an intimate thing for me. I loved being a private chef, catering for a handful of people in such a specific, acute way. But recently I’ve craved something larger. I keep coming back to what a unifier food is—and maybe I’d like to be more in touch with that collective experience. My food is excellent. I know that’s not an acceptable thing to say, but I’ve won awards, trained in the best academies, served the rich and famous. Let’s face it—modesty is for the untalented. And I’m here because I am very, very talented. And also because my fiancé bet me that I couldn’t survive on an island for a month without having a tantrum about under-ripe produce or a poorly shaken martini. I think he might be right, but I’m just stubborn enough to try.
Isko meets Araminta in the kitchen, where she searches for alcohol, thinking to put out a spread to greet the others.
“Anyone whose first thought on a deserted island is to hunt for booze is my kind of person,” he jokes, and the screen cuts back to the boat.
Rhys: I’m Rhys Sutton. I’m an artist of various guises, but right now I’m an actor. I’ve been a musician—you might remember my band, Hurricane Bay. I’ve been a director. I’ve been a writer. But acting is something else, something beyond all of those. You’re not searching to create art; you’re trying to become it.
Rhys relaxes in the boat like it’s a deck chair, so calm and uncaring, unlike the others, who had leaned forward eagerly, searching out a glimpse of the island. He is all sharp lines and jutting angles—not handsome, exactly, but striking. Everything about him seems deliberate. He is precision personified, and it’s clear that if he is an actor, then he was designed to play the villain. No hero looks so interesting.
The camera pans out, shows the speck of a boat approaching the island. Framed by so much ocean, it looks spiteful, like this rock has avoided being submerged by all that water through sheer force of will and some violent refusal to drown.
Rhys Sutton, Actor, New York, USA.
When Rhys reaches the house, he finds the others in the living room checking cabinets, after finding nothing in the kitchen.
They introduce themselves and share their quest for liquor.
Rhys takes one look around the room before leaving. He finds the cellar door so easily it’s difficult to believe he hasn’t been in the house before.
Rhys: Why am I here? [Laughter] Well, why not?
Kalpana: Most of my work is done under the name Kalpana. I’m an eco-activist, feminist, protest poet and, according to one Crier article, “an upstart menace and young refusenik.” And I’m here because I want to challenge what we believe our icons to be. I don’t think they need to be singers and footballers—I think they can be people who are trying to change the world for the better.
Kalpana sits bolt upright in the boat as though she has forgotten she is on screen. She stares at the island approaching, and there’s something in the shock of her pink hair and the steeliness of her gaze that issues a challenge.
Kalpana Mahajan, Activist, Perth, Australia.
Kalpana: I want a larger platform for the work I’m doing. I want my voice heard. Being on this show is a start—winning the prize money and putting it toward the causes I care about? That’s even better.
The wheel of her suitcase catches on a wooden plank, and she pulls it with such force that the plastic casing cracks. Whatever, she thinks; it’s not like this is the footage they’ll show. A drone hovers near her anyway, her constant companion. She’s signed up for a term in the panopticon.
She resigns herself to the fact she won’t be able to do much here—lectures will be cut from the edit for time, and she doesn’t want to preach. She has to play the longer game—buy an audience while ignoring the show’s carbon footprint—and when she’s done, when she’s outside, she’ll have ammunition for months.
The others cheer as she enters, several bottles of wine already uncorked.
Araminta is first to introduce herself, and Kalpana shakes her hand and nods, even as her worst fears are confirmed—that no one else is here for the noble reasons she is.
So she reaches for the wine and forces a smile for the cameras.
Jerome: My name is Jerome Frances, and I’m a tech entrepreneur. I’m here for the challenge. That’s always been what’s driven me. I launched Soltek when I was twenty, and within two months, DateRate was the most downloaded dating app in history. I did all that with just a small loan and a major in political science! It’s now a multimillion-dollar company with a dozen apps under its belt. My motto is “Work hard, play hard,” and that’s what I’m here to do.
Jerome leans back in the boat in a parody of relaxation. The pose should read as chilled, as self-assured and confident. But he is not used to manipulating his body, not used to physical pretense. His arms are too rigid, two straight lines along the edge of the boat, leg crossed at the knee, not the ankle. His fedora is pulled forward, and he waits until the boat docks before pushing it back to reveal his face.
The camera operator clearly decides it’s a forgettable one, quickly cutting away to a sweeping view of the beach, Jerome a dot moving across it.
Jerome Frances, Entrepreneur, San Francisco, USA.
Jerome: So yes, I am going to be that arsehole who says: look at all my accomplishments. And you know what? I’m pretty iconic.
“Hello!” Jerome greets everyone as he walks into the house.
The others barely pause in their conversation. But Kalpana is pouring wine and jolts as she sees him, the Cabernet spilling across the glass table in bright red splatters.
Kalpana: Oh, you did not just put me on an island with Jerome fucking Frances.
Theo: I’m Theo Newman, lead singer and guitarist for RiotParade. You could say we’re pretty successful [laughter]. Yeah, it’s all happened so quickly, but here I am, I guess. Last week we won a Treble so I’m riding that wave. “Destroy My Name” was actually the first song we wrote together as a band rather than just me and a notebook, so maybe we should all be here, not just me.
They barely show Theo on the boat. A quick glance, an abrupt cutaway.
Viewers don’t know it’s because he spent the whole journey curled over the side, emptying his stomach. He has a fantastic agent. She got in quick. And you don’t want to piss off the agents on the first episode. You save that for the third.
When he steps from the boat, the sun is setting. The sweat sticking to his skin lends him a glow so gentle, forums query whether he oiled up for the moment or whether the post-production team was just really thirsty for his muscles to gleam.
Theo Newman, Frontman of RiotParade, Manchester, UK.
Theo: I’m here because we’ve just made it to the point where we’re getting widespread attention, and well, I keep being plastered across the media like I’m another coked-up celeb. And I guess, here, at the start of all I’m hoping to become, I’d like the opportunity for the public to know who I really am.
Theo reaches the house and pushes his sunglasses up through the short, tight curls of his windswept hair.
Theo: I get it—we’re all raised on images of rock stars, but for me it is all about the music. I don’t care about your drugs and your alcohol and the scantily clad women clawing at my door. I care about the riffs, about the lyrics that break your heart, about the drum beats you feel in your bones. I care about the art of it all. I’m not just another rock star spitting out some cliché lines for the charts. I want to make something that matters.
He opens the door, the camera zooming in on the black flicks of a tattoo twisting along the deep brown skin of his wrist.
The others freeze when he walks in, clocking his unbuttoned shirt, the patches on his suitcases, his deep-set collar bones, and the arches of his cheekbones.
A glass shatters.
Theo: So I guess I’m here to set the record straight.
Araminta: Theo freaking Newman. Here I was thinking the most famous among us would have a few thousand followers on Instagram, not platinum records. And he just walks through the door like it’s nothing… I mean, I’ve met a fair few celebrities but…Christ, I mean those abs really aren’t airbrushed, are they?
Kalpana: You’d have thought they’d just watched Jesus walk on water, the way they all reacted to Theo Newman.
“Hey, man.” Rhys is the first to react, jumping to his feet and thrusting his arm out. “Rhys. Rhys Sutton. Actor.”
Theo drops his bag and shakes the hand, his other clasping Rhys’s elbow.
“Theo,” he nods.
Jerome rushes forward with an eagerness that leaves the others cringing. “Yeah, no shit,” he says. “Can I get you a drink?”
“Nah, I’ve got it,” Theo says, grabbing a beer from shelves on the side that the others had somehow entirely missed on their search for drinks.
“That’s Jerome, by the way,” Kalpana adds, forcing her hand into his as he leans for her cheek. “He’s a…what would you call it? CEO?”
“Entrepreneur,” he answers curtly. “I’d prefer not to get bound up with too specific a job title. I’d rather show flexibility, get my hands dirty—I don’t want to ever stop grinding, you know and—”
“I’m Kalpana,” she continues. “I’m an activist.”
“I love how everyone’s dropping their careers with their names,” Theo says with a smile that seems too easy for the number of cameras in the room.
“Would you call them careers?” Isko asks, eyebrow quirking. “It seems like such a debasing term for what we do—to give yourself so fully to something then limit it to one mere aspect of your life? I’m Isko, by the way.”
Kalpana laughs. “I’d agree that my passion isn’t a career but a life I live, but I’m not sure I’d say the same of—what was it you do? Ice cupcakes?”
Isko: Please tell me you got Kalpana breaking the glass on camera? Like, this dude had just walked through the door.
Kalpana: Yeah, I dropped the glass because Jerome started jumping up and down—not because I was beside myself over this dude. Firstly, I’m a lesbian. Secondly, I need more than someone walking through a door to get me going.
“Araminta,” she greets, air kissing both cheeks. “Lovely of you to join us. Do you think that’s all of us?”
“I can’t see anyone following Newman,” Rhys says with such assuredness there seems to be no question as to whether anyone else is expected. He glances around at the room they have settled themselves in and determines it too plush, too kitsch, and utterly underwhelming. “Should we take all this outside?” He nods to the drinks they’re all clutching. “It’s a nice night.”
It’s not. Now that the sun has set it’s cold. Bitterly cold. The kind of chill that creeps from the wide expanse of the Atlantic Ocean and descends onto the island with malignant intent.
Reality TV like you’ve never seen it before, AHX boasted on their posters, their ads, their posts, and their previews. But it looks like any other: pretty, young people in a villa, in paradise. Only this is not the Caribbean or the tip of some Mediterranean island; this is a rock off the coast of Portugal, encircled by the biting Atlantic Ocean. There are no carefully positioned cameramen to give the illusion of their isolation—only complete and utter abandonment. It might not look all that different to the other shows, but the jarring disparities in even the tiniest of details suggest it is ill-conceived, perhaps even destined for tragedy.
Outside the house is a shaded patio scattered with lounge furniture for any situation the producers have thought, or rather hoped, might occur: canopied beds big enough for four people, circular benches around a fire pit, large dining sets and smaller tables for one-on-one conversation—or even dates.
Beyond the patio and the long, straight-edged pool, the beaches stretch until they hit the ink-black ocean, distinguishable from the sky only because the waves are too rough to reflect the stars. There is just tumultuous darkness. Trees gather on one side of the house, the jut of cliff on the other.
Close to the house, through the garden, is the smoking area, the only place they are assured there are no cameras, the TV execs not wanting to glamourize smoking. And apparently everyone here smokes. If there’s a vice, they all want in. Or maybe they all took it up quite suddenly, and it’s the idea of a space without cameras that they’re truly addicted to. At any rate, microphones will be necessary—every conversation captured and broadcast. Beyond that is a short, grassy verge before the sand begins again, running into the shore—waves crashing onto the beach like an attempt to swim out will be met by the ocean forcing you back, the island an inevitability.
The contestants gather around the fire pit and urge their shivers still, dreaming of the sun rising and baking the island.
But the camera doesn’t catch the chill, just the contestants leaning in closer to the fire, to each other, and already the chemistry is palpable, like they might throw themselves into the flames just to be nearer.
“So we need to address this, right?” Araminta asks, swirling her straw in her drink before glancing up at Theo with a self-mocking smile. There is at once something indulgent to it—that she is embracing the embarrassment of being starstruck—and something almost coquettish in the practiced look from beneath thick lashes. “Theo, why are you on this show? Haven’t you already proven you’re an icon?”
Jerome turns to her sharply. “Well, I think quite a few of us are proven icons, actually.”
“Come on; you know what I mean.”
She angles her body back to Theo, like she is ready to give him all of her attention if he would like to take it.
“We’re doing wonderfully; it’s true,” Theo admits. “But I’m not. The show sounded like a fun opportunity to get out of the music bubble and prove that I can be more than a label’s puppet.”
Rhys laughs in a short blunt bark. “Seriously, dude? Back when I was in a band, I would have killed to be a label’s puppet. Aren’t you living the dream?”
Theo shrugs, but his fingers tighten on the neck of his beer. “Integrity means a lot to me, and I don’t want to be defined by the corporate music world. I’m looking to cement myself so solidly that each reinvention—on my own terms—retains the whole. You think Bowie or Freddie Mercury would have been the icons they were with music labels like they are now? You think they would have done the required three social media posts per day, or would they have done something wild and freeing like this?”
Isko: I don’t see him turning down those record contracts…
Rhys: Are we all coming across so deluded? Do all our attempts to prove ourselves iconic sound as ludicrous as a guy with one hit single comparing himself to the greats?
“Are we not all here for such things?” Isko asks. “Except for you, I suppose, Jerome.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
Isko’s gaze is as shrewd as it is graceful, like every pointed remark is a step in a well-rehearsed dance. “Well, we are all passionate about something in a way that feels greater than ourselves. Things that take skill and talent. You would like to make money in technology—is that not a rather distinct difference?”
Jerome scoffs, spluttering on his drink like he has no idea where to even start. “First of all, I would not like to make money—I already am. Secondly, it does take talent, but you know what I value more? Hard work, and that’s where I’m beating you all. Skill and talent? Passion? All right, sure, let’s pretend I don’t have that, but I’d love to hear how the heiress in the corner is fitting your metric.”
Jerome: I’ve built an empire and there’s a girl sitting right there who inherited one, but you want to come for me for lacking something? Who let this guy out of the kitchen?
Isko shrugs. “I wasn’t going to provide a ranking, but sure, I’d say she’s down there. No offense, honey, but the rest of us have made careers out of our passions. Yours is a hobby.”
Araminta doesn’t deign to look at them, her composure so undisturbed it’s possible she hasn’t even heard.
Araminta: It’s hardly the first time, is it? And they’re not exactly wrong—I have inherited a lot. I’m sure I probably haven’t fought as hard as everyone else. But to imply I haven’t fought at all? That I’m untalented? That speaks far more to their insecurities than my deficiencies.
When she speaks it’s a little too calmly, like someone who has learned that ice can burn more harmfully than fire. “Well, honey, I have many strings in my bow, so I don’t see not wholly dedicating myself to one of them as a problem. I don’t really know how to like things casually; everything I do is all-consuming.”
Jerome laugh. “Yeah, people can be so passionate about posting photos to Instagram, can’t they?”
“You mean of the houses I’ve lovingly restored as part of a flourishing home rejuvenation series that I’m hoping to launch into a full-fledged business?”
“Rejuvenation? Do you mean renovation?” Kalpana asks.
“No, that’s not what I do. It’s about finding and replenishing energy in a home,” Araminta starts, but the others are already smirking and she cuts herself off. “If you don’t understand it, fine, but don’t mock those to whom it means a lot.”
Kalpana: Dear god, she’s gentrified gentrification.
“And I’m not defending my social media, Jerome,” Araminta continues. “Out of everyone here, I’ve helped people the most. I’ve been working with charities on there for years and—”
He interrupts her with another choking scoff as he inhales his whiskey. “You’ve helped people the most? Look, Araminta, I really don’t want to play a card like this, but DateRate has revolutionized dating.”
“Oh my god.” Kalpana can’t contain herself—or maybe she makes no effort to. She glances away from the camera just for another angle to catch her eye roll.
Theo: I haven’t really been on the dating scene much lately—is he saying what I think he’s saying? Oh, “rate”? Jesus, does the bloke know that’s only one letter away from—
“What?” Jerome challenges. “What’s so worthy of your disdain, Kalpana, about making dating safer for women by enabling them to rate the men they match with? It’s—”
“Are you serious—”
Kalpana and Jerome are both cut off by bright pink and green lights flickering to life around them, accompanied by what they can only assume is the show’s jingle.
On the pale stone wall of the villa, a TV screen flicks to life.
Araminta reaches to refill her glass, twisting around the others for the bottle. It’s terrible wine. But it’s better than trying to do this sober.
When she turns back, the Iconic logo fades as their host appears in a wash of bright studio light, so many miles from them. She is blinding veneers, a heavy contour, and a smile distorted by uneven creasing along her Botoxed skin. She is a recognizable face: Eloise Taverner, veteran of reality TV, there from the very first days of Big Brother. She is not merely a host, she is the host. Eloise is AHX saying they believe this show is the next hit—and they’re willing to put a lot of money into making it so.
“Contestants, welcome! We’re so thrilled to have you here! I hope you’re enjoying getting to know each other, because this gorgeous island is your home for the next month. But don’t relax into your sun loungers just yet, because we’re about to put you through the ringer. To succeed, you have to be one in a million—but can you even be one of just six?”
They try not to look, knowing it is what the cameras crave: an assessing of the competition. But they can’t help it, and the camera catches furtive glances, reflections in windows and flickering side-eyes.
“You’ve all made a name for yourselves in your respective fields. But this isn’t The Apprentice—we’re not here to ask if you can be the very best in your area of expertise; we’re asking if you can transcend it. Can you take your skillset, your talent and your ingenuity, and become someone whose name will live on forever? Over the next three weeks, we’re going to see what you’re made of. And with a quarter of a million dollars on the line, this is no time to be anything short of exceptional. Between weekly competitions and daily mini-challenges, our viewing audience is going to decide which among you is truly Iconic!”
Araminta prepares an excited smile, but it falls when she realizes that no one else is even pretending to want that money. Oh, certainly no one would pass on it, but no one needs it. Theo’s band might have only just burst onto the scene, but it’s making waves—platinum-colored waves—and Kalpana’s intent to give it to a worthy cause makes her own living situation perfectly clear. Araminta herself has stock in Soltek, practically all she has left after estranging herself from her family, and $250,000 is barely a drop in Jerome’s proverbial ocean. She’s been #gifted enough designer clothes to recognize the five-figure sums Isko is wearing, and Rhys doesn’t even blink as Eloise lists those numbers.
She knows why she’s here—rebirth, reinvention, a declaration that she is perfectly fine, thank you very much. So why are the others here if not for the prize money?
If, like her, they’re here for the limelight, then how might they try to snatch it away from her?
“And to our viewing audience, not only is every camera on this island available to livestream on the AHX website, you’ll also have plenty of opportunity to vote for challenges and rewards to really get involved with the competition. In fact, right now you can go online or download the Iconic app to vote for which traits you expect your idols to have. Then watch over the next month as we test our contestants on each and every one. But before we get to those mini-challenges, it’s time for the bigger tests. That’s right—as well as daily tasks, we’ll also be asking our contestants to give it their all in a weekly challenge. So let’s start with the first, shall we?”
Smoke billows from one of the nearby tables as it slides apart, a box rising from within.
The contestants offer the obligatory shocked gasps and excited squeals, though really they’re anxiously contemplating whatever the first task might be.
“This competition is a chance for all of you to step up and become something new, something more. We’re really going to push you to the limit to see if you can be all that we expect of our heroes. But before you can rise up, you must embrace where you are now.”
The box falls open, revealing a stack of cards and six ballpoint pens, which the producers pair together with a record scratch, the anti-climax played for a comedic effect that no one finds funny.
“You can’t allow anything to hold you back. So now, around this fire, we want you to write down the things in your past that you wish you could toss into the flames. You are going to free yourself.”
The screen shuts off and no one speaks, the silence abrasive against the crackling heat of the flames.
Finally, Rhys rises and gathers the pens and cards.
“Looks like five each,” he says as he hands them out. “I suppose you’re going to have to choose your dirty little secrets carefully.”
“I’m not really sure that I have any anymore,” Araminta says with an awkward laugh as she takes them from him. “I think the press has exposed every awful thing I’ve ever done.”
Isko: Oh, I’m sure that’s not true at all.
“Is that what we’re doing then, secrets?” Kalpana asks. “Can we include regrets? Fears?”
“I suppose it’s anything that might be holding you back,” Theo says. “Anything you worry about other people knowing.”
Jerome uncaps his pen and starts scribbling with such ease the others simply stare. “We’re taking this seriously then—no one writing anything meaningless.”
Araminta chews on her lip as she stares into the flames, trying to think of things to dredge up and toss in. “I think if we established anything earlier, it’s that we all care about this an awful lot. We’re taking it seriously.”
They fall back into silence—no giggling laughter, no awkward attempts at humor, no grandiose efforts to make the things they are writing seem larger than they are. They let the intensity of their consideration speak for itself.
Kalpana: I did wonder, while I was giving it everything I had, are the others really doing the same?
Isko: It felt ludicrous, knowing that while I was sharing such deep parts of my past on the page, for all I know, Kalpana might have been composing a poem and Theo writing song lyrics.
Araminta: It was rather freeing to be honest, all that pressure of the others and the cameras and knowing it’s all going to go up in smoke.
Theo: I don’t think anyone else really did it, actually. But I did. I felt like I owed it to myself.
Jerome: I don’t have skeletons in my closet, but I did my best.
Rhys: Oh, I absolutely left those cards blank [laughter]. No, I’m just joking, but it was difficult to focus when everyone else was taking it so very seriously. I can only imagine the sort of things they worry might destroy them. My money is on Kalpana and a closet full of fast fashion.
When they’re done, they stand over the flames, cards in hand.
Isko shuffles his nervously. “Okay, are we ready—”
The lights flash again, an alarm blaring.
“Oops, sorry contestants!” Eloise flashes back to existence. “You didn’t think it would be that easy, did you? There’s one more thing we didn’t mention: if you want to be the best of the best, you have to accept the scrutiny of the public. You cannot simply erase your past—not when everyone’s watching.”
There is more smoke and the bottom of the box falls away, revealing six hammers and a handful of nails.
“You’re going to nail your confessions right into the villa wall, secrets facing in.”
“What?” Kalpana breathes.
“You are going to have to rely on your fellow contestants to resist their curiosity. Because the only way to get that secret out is to rip it down. If you look, everyone will know someone’s been snooping. Here’s lesson number one: when you reach this high, it’s a cutthroat world. And you need to be careful who you trust.”
Theo grips his cards close. He looks as though he might throw them into the fire anyway and accept whatever punishment they give him.
“The rules of your first weekly challenge are simple—take a card down, lose a point. Take your own down, lose everything. And with $250,000 on the line, every decision counts. Any cards remaining at the end of the week will be the writer’s to take down and do with as they please.”
Jerome: Knowing that I just wrote what I did and having to not only trust that the others won’t read it but also that they took it just as seriously, wrote things just as damning? Yeah, someone isn’t making it out of this alive.
Isko swallows his own outrage and turns to Araminta. “Well, you first, princess. You said you had no secrets left, right. You can’t care all that much.”
She doesn’t stop to glare at him, just reaches for the hammer with a shaking hand. Ironically, there’s something about holding the tool that calms her. It could be a chisel. The villa wall could just be another block of stone.
She begins bashing her cards in, and soon the others join her, dancing around for space, trying to put their cards somewhere inconspicuous, where they’re less likely to be the one chosen if someone was to be tempted. They are so focused on memorizing which are their own that they struggle to keep track of where the others are pinning their secrets, four nails to each card, so no one can even peel the corners back.
Araminta: I put things I’ve never told anyone on those cards. Now my secrets are held in the very walls of this place. I…I was never expecting to put so much of myself on the line.
When they’re done, they deposit the tools back into the box, which promptly locks shut before anyone can think to take those hammers and pry the nails back out again.
“We could just tell each other now,” Rhys suggests. “It would take the tension out of it all, wouldn’t it? We could just suck it up and then move on.”
“No,” Theo snaps. “We aren’t doing that.”
Kalpana stares dead ahead. “Until someone betrays us, I’m sticking with my cards being blank.”
“Can’t we just all tear them down? If we all lose, then no one does—we just stay where we began,” Isko proposes.
But no one answers—because as much as they dread it, they can’t ignore the fact that leverage over their opponents is a siren song calling to them.
And their secrets—their lives—on the line or not, they are here for a reason, and it’s not the money. They need the attention, need the viewers and the gossip and intrigue. And none of them can deny that this is good TV.
They stare at the wall, thoughts spiraling: How will the viewers ever trust them when those cards are proof they’re keeping secrets from the screen? Is the audience already churning through social media feeds, desperate for an inkling of what they might have to hide? And if they faced disqualification and gave those cards up to the flames, how might the audience turn on them?
In the quiet, Rhys laughs.
“Well,” he says. “Don’t say I didn’t warn you.”
They retreat inside and pour more drinks, hurrying to get to know each other, distracted from their secrets by more important matters: their competition.
Theo and Kalpana spend hours in the corner discussing the optics of passion, of sacrifice, of all the things they’ve given up to get to where they are.
Jerome attempts to flirt with Araminta in a way that is relentless and, somehow, always about himself. Eventually even Rhys has had enough and steps in to rescue her, but before he can, she turns to Jerome with big round eyes and asks why they simply cannot print more money. He launches into a monologue, a distraction that frees her. She winks at Rhys as she notices him watching, impressed. Meanwhile, Isko takes the opportunity to observe the others like the audience incarnate, his grip tightening on his merlot with every self-indulgent comment or performative giggle.
Isko: Maybe my fiancé was right—maybe I really can’t survive on this island for a month.
And when they finally retire to bed, the screen fades to black.
But it’s not the credits—the black is alive, and gradually shades of gray flicker to life. A night camera, whirring to life, capturing a figure outside.
A figure who tears something from the wall, slips it into their pocket, and creeps back into the house.
The credits roll.
@addiebrookes72
Is anyone watching this #Iconic show? These people met each other for like ten minutes and started digging into each other lmaoooo this is going to be messy and I am READY
@SusiB123
Why is everyone on #Iconic acting as though Theo Newman is Beyoncé and not some guy in a band who only went viral last week? Going on a reality TV show to avoid being a one hit wonder is trashy as hell
@TheosLittleRioter
@SusiB123 OH ABSOLUTELY NOT!!! Just because YOU didn’t know who they were until Destroy My Name just means you have AWFUL taste in music. Urgh, are people like this what we have to deal with for our faves going mainstream?
@lizashjohnson
Howling at Araminta Yaxley-Carter, the Nymph of Knightsbridge herself, going on GLOBAL TV in an attempt to fix her reputation. Like babe, were the UK tabloids not bad enough? Now you’re trying to convince the whole damn world you’re not daddy’s disinherited princess who’s shagged half of London? #Iconic
Cloutier leans over his partner’s chair to better see the screen and watches as Rhys Sutton dies.
“Jesus.”
Kennard shuffles away from him and drags the footage back. It’s grainy, black and white—desperate drones hauled to the action, nighttime footage, and a boy staggering, yelling, almost incoherent.
“He’s drunk,” Cloutier says, though he doesn’t need to. Even if they didn’t have footage, he knows enough about the show to know they were drunk most of the time.
There’s a sharp rap at the door of the dingy room they’re using as their office in this tiny precinct. At their beckoning, Detective Maes appears, eyes tired, coffee clutched tight in her bony fingers, and, tucked under one arm, a slender folder that she tosses onto the table in front of them.
“Here’s your report on episode one.” She nods at the screen showing the paused still of Rhys in his final moments. “That’s viral, by the way.”
“So I’ve heard,” Kennard says bitterly. “It’s what all the fuss is about, right?”
“Is there any update from AHX?”
Cloutier shakes his head. “No, they’re still saying the only way they won’t release the final episode is if we can prove a crime took place.”
“Damn, how long do you have?”
“Three days, and then they air it,” Cloutier says. “And if, on the slim chance there really was foul play, we’ll never get a conviction with that episode out there. There won’t be a jury in the world that won’t be prejudiced.”
“So three days to arrest someone and force AHX to pull the final episode, or they destroy any potential to get justice?”
“They’re arguing that it’s already out there. And they’re not wrong; we can’t get the injunction through because it’s already on every news channel and all over the internet. People even streamed it live.”
Maes sighs. “Yeah, I was one of them.”
“Really?” Kennard scoffs. “I wouldn’t take you for a fan.”
“I have teenagers, George. All three of us saw it—along with a few million other people, apparently.”
“How were that many people even watching?”
“Instagram,” she says. “Facebook, TikTok, Twitter, Snapchat, Tumblr—you name it, the message was shared. We only watched the edited episodes each night, but Lila had, like, a hundred texts from her friends telling her to join the live stream on the AHX website. It was running 24/7 and you could tune in to different cameras. They all said shit was going down. Even her friends who didn’t watch the show were streaming it.”
“So millions of people watched him die,” Cloutier says, beginning to list things on his fingers. “We’re in a race against millions of armchair detectives, everyone at Interpol is losing their goddamn minds and asking for updates every twenty seconds, and if we don’t solve it in three days, AHX is going to blow it.”
“Can they blow something that’s not even worth investigating?” Maes asks. “I watched it live. And I’ve watched that clip a dozen times,” she says, nodding at the screen. The footage doesn’t show his last breath—it would be much easier for all of them if it did—just the moment before where, if you look closely enough, you can tell he knows this is how it all ends. “He’s just a kid who got too drunk. Do you really think a crime took place?”
“I think it’s unlikely,” Cloutier says with a shrug. “But a case is a case, and I’m not going to waste my own time by not taking it seriously. If Interpol wants to investigate it, that’s what I’ll do.”
“I disagree,” Kennard says, and Cloutier stiffens at the rebuttal. “I didn’t think there was anything there until I spoke to the witnesses. They’re definitely hiding something—and maybe it’s murder.”