Their faces cycled through shades of red and green, a truly hideous sight. I coolly looked away. Alright, Aria, take it easy. Don’t bre- ak the children.
I was ready to call a truce, but they weren’t.
Zoe, her eyes wide with defiance, shot back, “That’s because my brother is humble! Everyone knows he was way more talented than Liam on Idol Factor!”
“Oh,” I said.
She faltered, then took a deep breath. “I won the championship for Dance Fever last year. That’s a hell of a lot better than you and your brother, a pair of empty–headed pretty faces.”
Dance Fever. I actually recognized the name. My nine–year–old niece had won it three years in a row. She’d skipped it last year, tho- \ugh, complaining that the judging was rigged.
Zoe’s arrogant tone was starting to get on my nerves. I stood up and walked over to the nearest staffer, pointing a thumb back at
her. The drone buzzed closer.
“She’s making personal attacks. Isn’t your show going to do anything about that?”
The staffer made a placating gesture. “This is a live broadcast. The production team can’t interfere during filming.”
A slow, dawning realization spread across my face. “So, you don’t step in, even if someone is verbally abusive?”
“Per the rules, we cannot intervene.”
“I understand perfectly.”
This simple exchange, however, sent the live–stream comments into a frenzy.
“What is she doing? Tattling? Is she five? How pathetic!”
“Just like her brother, always playing the victim.”
“Okay, Zoe is a bit much, but at least she has actual talent. All this woman can do is whine to the staff?”
“The producers obviously want them to fight. Tattling is useless. She looks like a clown.”
“Only knows how to pull these cheap tricks behind people’s backs. At least Zoe is direct.”
.
