Genius Manager: I Can Make All Girls Talented!

The villa, once a kaleidoscope of flirtation, laughter, and superficial drama, now simmered in an unfamiliar quiet—one thick with anticipation, like the heavy hush before a thunderstorm that had been circling for hours but refused to break. The air itself seemed to warp with the emotional weight, every hallway whisper and accidental glance more meaningful than the last.

It was a day unlike any other.

From the moment the new rules were agreed upon—this full-cast vote with no immunity, no special status, no hidden favors—the atmosphere shifted. Like dominoes set trembling, each girl had begun recalculating her chances, her alliances, her secrets.

Even Darius, who had navigated the show with a charisma that once seemed effortless, now wore the quiet intensity of a man walking a battlefield of landmines.

He sat outside on the edge of the infinity pool, elbows resting on his knees, watching sunlight skip across the surface of the water. His thoughts drifted endlessly—caught between strategic reasoning and a gnawing ache that told him, no matter what happened tonight, something permanent would be lost.

Behind him, the door to the patio slid open with a whisper.

Avery stepped out, barefoot, a silk robe cinched tightly around her waist, her expression unreadable beneath the shade of her lashes. She didn't speak at first. She simply sat beside him, letting the silence stretch.

"You hate me for suggesting the vote," she finally said, not looking at him.

Darius didn't answer immediately. "No. I respect it. I just wonder who you're really trying to test—me… or them."

Avery's lips curled faintly, the closest thing to a smile he'd seen all day. "Maybe both."

He glanced at her, noting the way her fingers fidgeted with the edge of her robe—an unconscious gesture of someone used to hiding nerves behind confidence.

"Are you scared?" he asked softly.

"Only of being misunderstood," she replied. "But that's been happening since I walked through the door."

He nodded, his gaze returning to the water. "This place… it makes everything feel bigger than it is. Every look, every whisper, every kiss."

Avery's voice lowered. "But what if those things are big? What if we're just afraid to admit it?"

Their eyes met, and for a moment, Darius saw her—beyond the edits, the confessionals, the provocations. There was longing there. And doubt. And something deeply human.

Before he could respond, a knock echoed from the glass door.

It was Alicia.

"The producers just announced the voting starts in an hour," she said, her voice clipped, arms crossed tightly across her chest. "They want us all ready for interviews and ballots."

As if on cue, tension crawled back into the corners of Darius's bones.

The next sixty minutes passed like walking through wet cement.

Each girl was called in individually to the Confessional Room—a minimalist chamber of soft lighting and a single velvet chair where they recorded their votes to camera, alone, unedited, unscripted.

Emma entered first.

Her expression was hardened with resolve, her arms tensed at her sides. But the moment the door closed behind her and she sat in that chair, something cracked. She spoke of confusion, of resentment, of watching Darius grow closer to women she once dismissed as non-threats. She ended her video by saying, "I want to believe in him. I do. But believing hurts."

Then Alicia.

Calculated, poised. She talked about survival, about respect, about how many nights she spent listening to others cry through the walls while Darius touched someone else's skin. Her vote was delivered with a calm finality that made the camera lens itself feel colder.

Yuna came next.

She whispered. Everything she said was soft, but it struck like thunder. She didn't name names. She didn't have to. "Some people," she said, "shine best when no one's watching. But we're always being watched. And it changes people. I'm voting for the one who lost themselves."

Aria was a wildfire.

She sat like a queen, draped over the chair, legs crossed, voice dripping with amusement. "This isn't about love anymore. It's about clarity. You want real? Then let's get real. I came here to play—so let's play." And then, she cast her vote with the air of someone flipping a blade between her fingers.

Avery was last.

She sat still. So still.

"I don't want to win," she said. "Not if it means becoming someone I can't recognize. But I do want truth. And I do want him to see me. All of me. Not just when it's easy."

Then came Darius's turn.

And for the first time all day, the silence he carried cracked open.

In the confessional room, under the scrutiny of unblinking lenses, he dropped every guard.

"I never wanted this to become war," he said. "But maybe it was always headed this way. Maybe that's what happens when you ask a dozen hearts to beat in rhythm for just one."

His voice shook—barely—but enough.

He stared at the ballot card in his lap for a long, aching moment.

Then picked up the pen.

***

Evening fell with a velvet hush, drawing soft blue shadows across the villa's grand, echoing walls. The golden hour light pooled like molten honey on polished tile floors, painting every hallway, every face, every lingering glance with an ethereal, almost sorrowful glow—as if the house itself were aware that something sacred, something irreplaceable, was about to end.

The votes had been cast.

But the reckoning had not yet come.

For the first time since the show began, the remaining cast wasn't fighting for screen time or romantic moments or confessional narratives—they were simply trying to hold themselves together. Nerves pulsed through the atmosphere like static on skin. No one was safe. No one was untouched.

They all knew: one of them would be leaving by nightfall.

And that truth made every shared space suddenly sacred.

In the main lounge, Darius sat on the edge of the long suede couch, elbows on his knees, his fingers steepled in front of his lips. He wasn't speaking. He hadn't spoken in over ten minutes. He just… sat there. Staring ahead. Thinking. Feeling everything.

Across from him, Emma paced in bare feet, her ponytail swaying with each sharp turn. She didn't speak either—but her silence was loud. Loud in the way her jaw clenched when she looked at Aria. Loud in the way she almost stopped herself from making eye contact with Darius.

Alicia was seated in the window alcove, back straight, hands resting atop one another in her lap. Regal. Unmoving. But every now and then, her eyes flicked to the hallway—to where Avery had vanished just minutes before.

"She's hiding," Aria murmured, swirling the wine in her glass as she leaned against the marble countertop. "Again."

Emma snapped her gaze toward her. "She's thinking. You should try it sometime."

Aria's smile didn't falter. "Oh, sweetie. I think all the time. I just don't make a production out of it."

Tension cracked like dry ice between them, sharp and chilling. But no one moved to stop it. No one could.

Darius finally exhaled, voice low. "This isn't what I wanted."

Alicia looked at him, cool and unreadable. "But you didn't stop it."

That stung more than it should have. Because it was true.

And yet—even that wasn't the full truth.

He had watched the game unfold, had tried to hold onto connection and fairness, but as the emotions intensified, as jealousies flared and unspoken confessions calcified into resentment, he'd lost control of the very thing he was meant to lead: the house's fragile balance.

It was collapsing now.

And there was no stopping it.

In the guest bedroom upstairs, Avery sat cross-legged on the bed, her fingers running absently over the hem of her dress. She wasn't crying. Not exactly. But her eyes held the wet gleam of someone who wanted to. Someone who didn't know whether she'd done the right thing.

Yuna entered the room quietly, then closed the door behind her.

"I thought I might find you here," Yuna said softly.

Avery blinked. "Needed air."

"There's plenty of it downstairs."

"Too thick."

Yuna walked over and sat beside her, the bed dipping gently under her weight.

They were silent for a while.

Then Avery said, "Do you think they all hate me now?"

Yuna tilted her head. "Some do. Some don't. It doesn't really matter. This vote… it wasn't about popularity. It was about truth. And sometimes, people confuse the two."

Avery let out a shaky breath. "What if I pushed too hard?"

"You didn't," Yuna said simply. "You lit a match. They were already soaked in gasoline."

Downstairs, in the kitchen, Alicia finally stood and crossed to Darius, stopping just in front of him. Her presence commanded space. Controlled it.

"I want to say something before the results come in," she said.

He looked up, eyes clouded with emotion.

"I may not like everything you've done, Darius," she said carefully. "But I respect the way you handled this. You didn't manipulate the vote. You didn't try to bargain or scheme. That counts for something."

He blinked, surprised. "Thank you."

She studied him for a beat longer, then leaned in, lips grazing his cheek.

"Still," she whispered. "If I go home tonight, I hope you miss me just enough to regret it."

She walked away before he could respond.

Outside, the crew was finishing setup.

Spotlights were wheeled into place. Cameras adjusted. A small platform framed by velvet ropes had been erected in the courtyard garden, a dramatic centerpiece beneath the stars where the results would be revealed.

When the sun dipped fully below the horizon, casting the world into a rich, indigo dusk, the cast was called out—one by one.

They gathered beneath the amber lighting of the garden's string lights, each dressed in their evening best, the air thick with rose oil and fresh tension. No one smiled. Not even Aria. Not tonight.

The host's voice rang out like the toll of a bell.

"Good evening, everyone. Tonight, one of you will be leaving the villa. You voted. And now, the results are in."

A pause.

Then:

"But before we announce the name… Darius, would you like to say anything?"

He stepped forward slowly.

Looked at each of them.

His voice, when it came, was heavy with emotion but unshakably calm.

"No matter who leaves tonight," he said, "I want you to know something: you all changed me. Every one of you. This experience isn't about who wins me—it's about what we discover together. I didn't ask for this vote, but maybe I needed it. Maybe we all did. So… thank you. For being brave enough to tell the truth."

Silence followed.

Then the host turned to the envelope.

Fingers poised.

Lips parted.

And the name was read aloud.