An award-winning talk show host famous for saving marriages puts her own under the spotlight. What she finds in the harsh glare will change everything.
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Chapter One

Sometimes mere mortals must accept that certain things are simply out of our control. Today, as in right now, would be one of those times. And to think, I started the day by trying to convince myself it wouldn’t be so bad. That I’m not a morally bankrupt sellout willing to compromise myself to save my career.

That’s how the day started.

Kevin, one of my three guests, jumps from his seat beside his wife, poking a meaty finger at Kade, seated on Melanie’s right. A strategic placement between the two men considering she’s married to Kevin, yet having a yearslong affair with Kade.

Her husband’s brother.

All of which I knew before this family showed up today.

“You lying son of a bitch,” Kevin says.

My name is Dr. Rebecca Matthews. Welcome to my new world.

Taking the cue from his brother, Kade rises, moving in front of Melanie in case Kevin takes this to the level my executive producer, Jenny, recently started yearning for.

She wants it. The anger. The drama. The oohing, ahhing and gasps from our live audience. This is nothing new. Me?

Hate it. Always have.

Every filthy second.

Over the years, we’ve managed to find the middle ground. The one that keeps our ratings up and my soul unsacrificed.

This, I suppose, is what happens when a show’s largest advertiser bails.

Kade’s back is to me and I can see by the set of his shoulders, he’s ready for whatever his brother intends.

They’re both tall, broad-chested men. Farm boys, Kevin had said during our first moments together. Strong and loyal and accustomed to hard work and the occasional brotherly tussle.

Despite my height of five-ten, I’m no match for them and my heart is banging like a high-school band. I’m stunned that the mic clipped to my blouse isn’t picking it up.

“Gentlemen,” I say, “sit down.”

Kevin, finger in midair, turns to me. His face is a grotesque mix of red and purple that the camera is probably zoomed in on.

“You,” he spits. “You’re no better. Orchestrating this whole thing and springing it on me.” He gestures to the three hundred folks witnessing this fiasco. “In front of all these people?”

A low murmur cruises over the audience. Kevin isn’t the only one duped. This audience came in here expecting the respectable Dr. Becca, winner of nine daytime Emmys.

I’ve saved countless marriages over the last fourteen years and have given daytime talk credibility. No shenanigans. No circus of emotional ambushes, screaming guests or physical altercations. Just helping people.

Until now. Until the suits told me to spice it up. Walking on set this morning, all I'd hoped for was being able to control the environment. Not exactly my idea of a fulfilling day.

“Don’t blame her,” Kade hollers. “We needed to get this out. I can’t do this anymore.”

“Fucking my wife or lying?”

Oh, ouch. That’ll have to be edited.

In my ear, I hear a chuckle. My stomach twists. I force myself to not look above my left shoulder where, behind the control room glass, someone seems to enjoy this.

We’ve just humiliated a man, and my staff is laughing?

If you hadn’t guessed, I’m not a fan of what’s known in daytime talk as trash television. Ambushes, I find vile.

And here I am, a willing—sort of—participant in both. In my defense, what is the host of the top daytime talk show supposed to do when ratings slip and her biggest advertiser walks?

What about my staff of two hundred?

And their families?

I won’t be the one to tell them our show failed because I refused to “spice it up” when the network suits asked.

“Watch your mouth!” Kade yells and someone from the crowd applauds.

Kevin’s skin turns a deeper shade of red and his eyes are giant lasers boring into his brother. I peer down. His hands are fisted, the bones popping like rails.

Oh no.

My executive producer—the EP—will hate it, but it’s time to break this up. Calm everyone down before someone gets hurt.

I set my notepad and pen on the table beside me and stand. “Gentlemen.” I take a step toward them. “Please, let’s all …”

Kevin’s fist connects with Kade’s nose. The mic amplifies a horrid crunching sound and a cacophony of hoots and hollers comes through my earbud. The control room. Once again, enjoying this nightmare.

Behind me, the audience, mostly middle-aged suburban stay-at-home parents, roars. My so-called classy audience. I glance back and half of them are on their feet, some waving their fists.

I can’t have this. It's disgusting and . . . embarrassing. Years of meaningful work reduced to a circus act. For ratings. Shame fills me and my cheeks burn like a four-alarm fire. I turn back to the men, still standing in front of a wide-eyed and clearly stunned Melanie. There’s a stain on her blue blouse. Blood spatter.

On my show.

I step forward, shoving my arms between the men, getting into their personal space. “Stop this. Enough!”

Kade, hand over his gushing nose, takes a half step back. Just as I swing sideways to unleash a verbal pounding on Kevin, he cocks his left arm and his giant fist snaps forward.

They say all humans have a fight-or-flight instinct. Mine must be on sabbatical because I have nothing. I’m frozen, my mind numb as—boom!—Kevin’s fist plows into my face, the blow sending rockets of pain shooting up my right cheek. Momentum throws me backward, teetering on my stilettos as voices explode from my earbud.

I lose my balance, tip sideways and . . .

Crash.

Ow. Ow. Ow. Dammit. More pain. This time from my hip that took the brunt of the hard stage, but it’s nothing compared to my abused and throbbing cheek.

The shouts of our incensed and hollering audience turn into a muddled wha, wha, wha in my head.

Finally, two assistant producers rush the stage, tending to me as Kevin and Kade square off. At least until Kevin peers down at me, the horror of what he’s done seeming to focus him.

“My God,” he says, squatting down. “I’m sorry!”

“Idiot!” Kade shouts, lowering his blood smeared hand. “You always were a dumbass!”

Fourteen years of taping. Of promising my audience smart, reflective television that will hopefully help more than just the folks sitting onstage.

And this is what I’ve become? Sitting on the floor with a throbbing cheek while my show flies completely out of my control. 

One producer helps me to my feet while the other stands in front of the audience, urging them to settle down.

I draw a breath, gently touch my cheek, and wince before pulling my hand away. No blood. That's good at least. Back to work. I straighten my skirt and my blouse, then glance at my guests. “Everyone,” I say, “please, sit down.”

As if that’ll cure my problems.

Still on set, ice pack to my cheek, I’m in my chair, phone in hand and killing time by scrolling through endless emails from network execs, assistants, social media advisers, marketing, blah, blah. On and on they go. Where they stop, nobody knows.

“So,” Jenny, my executive producer, says, her green eyes twinkling as she approaches, “that happened. He went total scorched-earth!”

She's wearing loose khaki cargo pants, white Converse sneakers and a white long-sleeved pullover that is somehow more mangled than her normally wrinkled shirts. Jenny has been my EP since we debuted, and she always looks like a harried mom of twelve. As long as she does her job well, I don't care if she dons sweatpants for work.  

We’ve been a team for fourteen years. In that time, we haven’t been totally in sync regarding the amount of drama I’ll allow on my show. As executive producer, Jenny’s rear is on the line with mine. In show business, you’re only as good as your last job. Zero security. If my show flops, Jenny will have to explain to future networks why she deserves a shot when, while at the helm, my show’s ratings sank like the Titanic.

Thanks to Jenny’s dedication and talent, we've avoided trash television and created the most respected daytime talk show in modern history. No simple feat, that.

And, I've never been attacked. Ever. On-air violence has never been my style. So the twinkle in Jenny's eye?

My professional nightmare.

I’ve spent years touting my quality show. Ms. High-and-Mighty displaying my Emmys and denouncing the so-called trashy shows. Begging my competitors to rise above all that madness.

Should have known not to get cocky, since I currently have ice and two ibuprofens keeping the throb at bay and I’m afraid to look in a mirror.

My makeup artist will earn her money today.

The audience is gone, sent to the cafeteria where we’ll buy them lunch while we figure out if Kade’s nose is broken and how to salvage the rest of this taping. With an afternoon show already scheduled and guests about to arrive, it should be interesting.

I’ve never had a taping postponed because of a physical altercation. At least until being told to spice it up.

Well, the suits got their spice.

Anger lurks, lighting up my nerve endings. A guest getting punched in the nose? It’s violent and unexpected. Draws all sorts of people to their televisions and gives my nice, professional, sagging show a ratings boon. 

Total money shot.

I should be happy. Thrilled even.

And yet . . .

Disgust.

At myself, at my audience, at my guests. My staff members who are enjoying it. The suits who foisted this crap on me.

So much for my doctorate.

Jenny stands over me on the recently renovated stage. A new design of bold reds that were supposed to help my slipping ratings.

Meeting Jenny’s gaze, I drop my phone on the side table. “Is he all right?”

“We had a doctor in the audience. Can’t stop the bleeding. She sent him for an X-ray.”

“Terrific.”

As I suspected, there went the day’s shooting schedule.

“What’s the plan?” I ask Jenny.

“Hopefully, the ER can patch him up and we resume.”

I gawk at her, my mouth literally falling open. What is happening today? Mercury must be in retrograde. “With a broken nose?”

She looks at me as if I escaped from the mental health care facility four blocks away. “Are you kidding right now?”

“It’s the money shot. I get it. I can still hate it.”

All these years, I’ve been fighting the trash wars. Promising my viewers, my sweet, middle-aged suburbanites, that I won’t pollute their world with uncontrolled chaos.

Or violence.

I lower the cold pack from my cheek, scoop up my phone and stand, more than ready for the solitude of my office. My heels tap-tap-tap against the stage, the sound echoing through the space.

Jenny falls in step beside me, her sneakered feet much quieter as we reach the door. She rushes ahead, swings the door open.

 “If he can resume,” Jenny says, “we’ll push the afternoon taping back. It’ll be a late night, but what else is new?”

“Fine. Hopefully, I won’t have a bruise where he slugged me.”

My cheek throbs again. I lift the cold pack to my face and we make a right into the hallway that leads to our offices. Halfway to my office, Jenny breaks off, hustling toward the bullpen where a myriad of assistant producers and interns work the phones.

Kaitlyn, my assistant, appears beside me, reading from her phone as she walks—something I’ve repeatedly warned her is dangerous—and completely ignores the fact that I’m holding an ice pack to my face.

Am I the only one who thinks this is more than odd? That some monumental shift has just happened?

“I’ll call Ryan,” she says, “and tell him dinner is off.”

Oh, he’ll love that. My husband has eaten more dinners alone than either of us wants to admit.

But he signed up for this gig. We both knew the grind. The constant battle for ratings and our responsibilities as public figures.

The rewards that came with it.

Now, with the age of social media and our twenty-four-year marriage the network loves to tout as another of my successes, we’re in the spotlight more than I’d expected. Ryan never complains, but all the scrutiny has to get old.

It does for me.

“Thank you,” I tell Kaitlyn. “Can you grab me lunch? I need to clear emails.”

“Sure. Grilled chicken salad?”

“Perfect.”

I’ve learned to eat a light lunch. Nothing too heavy that will launch my digestive tract into a symphony of noises that a mic will pick up.

I turn into my office, close the door, and head to the attached bathroom. Not ready to face the mirror, I set the ice pack on the sink and slip out of my skirt and blouse. Somehow, they both remained blood free, but will need to be pressed before we resume taping. I hang both garments on the door hook and change into yoga pants and a long-sleeved T-shirt I wore into the office.

Then I do the inevitable. I push my shoulders back, lift my chin, and gather the nerve to step in front of the mirror.

Eh. Could be worse. A splotch of red on my cheek, but thankfully no broken skin. In a day or two, it’ll be an ugly bruise. 

For today, Steph, my makeup artist, will do her magic and make me, as she likes to say, fabulous.

Right now, I’m anything but fabulous. Inside and out.

I’m a fraud.