I do a lot of sexy publicity, but I have yet to have any bad

Host:
The neon lights of the city pulsed like restless veins beneath a velvet night sky. A café terrace hummed with music and the faint laughter of strangers. The air was thick with perfume, espresso, and the electric tension of people performing themselves. In a corner booth, half-swallowed by shadow and light, Jack sat with a glass of whiskey, his expression unreadable — a man watching the world as though it were an experiment.

Across from him, Jeeny leaned back in her chair, her hair cascading over her shoulders like a dark wave. The streetlamps outside caught the edges of her eyes, making them shimmer with something between curiosity and challenge. A magazine, glossy and still warm from the press, lay open between them. On its cover: a woman, radiant and confident, dressed in confidence more than fabric.

“I do a lot of sexy publicity, but I have yet to have any bad experiences regarding jealousy.” — Brooke Burke

The quote hung there like perfume, sweet, provocative, and just a little dangerous.

Jack: dryly, swirling his drink “So that’s it? Sexy publicity without jealousy. Sounds like a myth to me — like honest politicians or selfless influencers.”

Jeeny: smiling faintly “Or maybe it’s just confidence, Jack. The kind of peace that comes when you stop needing to be approved of.”

Host:
The music drifted in — a slow jazz rhythm — lazy, liquid, intimate. The light above their table flickered, like the heartbeat of a conversation that was about to turn personal.

Jack: “Confidence is one thing. But sexy publicity — that’s a performance, Jeeny. A game designed to provoke envy, feed attention, manipulate desire. Don’t tell me you think it’s all just innocent expression.”

Jeeny: “Why not? Maybe it’s about celebration, not manipulation. The human body is an art form, Jack. And jealousy — that’s just insecurity dressed as virtue.”

Host:
A car passed by, its headlights slicing through the window and washing their faces in a brief silver light. For a moment, Jack looked almost younger, his eyes softer, before the shadow returned.

Jack: “You’re forgetting the biology. Desire isn’t art, Jeeny. It’s chemistry, instinct, competition. You put sex in public view, and you’re inviting comparison — inviting jealousy. It’s not evil, it’s inevitable.”

Jeeny: leaning forward, voice gentle but firm “Then why hasn’t it broken her, Jack? Brooke Burke says she’s had no bad experiences. Maybe because she owns her image. Maybe jealousy only thrives where there’s shame.”

Host:
Her words landed like raindrops on stone — soft, but shaping. Jack’s jaw tightened; he looked at her as though she had just challenged gravity.

Jack: “That’s poetic, but not real. Jealousy is the shadow of love, the price of possession. You can’t erase it by smiling in a photoshoot. Every admiring glance you earn is a potential wound to someone who thinks they own you.”

Jeeny: eyes narrowing slightly “And there’s the problem — that word. Own. Why do we build relationships like prisons? Why must love always come with a lock and key?”

Host:
The street outside grew quieter, as if the night itself were listening. The rain began to fall, softly, rhythmically, cooling the air and blurring the lights into gentle halos.

Jack: shrugs “Because that’s how we’re built. We’re territorial. We call it devotion, but it’s fear — fear of losing what we believe defines us.”

Jeeny: whispering, almost to herself “Maybe we’d be happier if we stopped defining ourselves by what we can lose.”

Host:
He looked at her — really looked at her — as though her words had pulled a thread loose somewhere in his chest. His eyes, once cold, now searched, tired but alive.

Jack: “You make it sound easy. But people aren’t that enlightened. We ache for validation, for ownership, for security. Even freedom becomes another performance. Maybe that’s all sexy publicity really is — the illusion of freedom, sold in high resolution.”

Jeeny: “No, Jack. The illusion isn’t in the freedom — it’s in the shame. The world has made sensuality into sin, and confidence into arrogance. A woman who’s comfortable in her body threatens the fragile order of those who’ve never made peace with theirs.”

Host:
The waiter approached, set down another glass of wine, and quietly departed. The sound of the rain had become a steady rhythm, like the heartbeat of the city.

Jack: after a pause “So you’re saying jealousy isn’t inevitable, it’s learned?”

Jeeny: “Exactly. We’re taught to be jealous, Jack — taught that beauty is a competition, that attention is currency, that love must be exclusive to be real. But if education can teach us fear, it can also teach us freedom.”

Jack: smirks “You sound like a romantic revolutionary.”

Jeeny: smiling back “Maybe I’m just tired of fear wearing the mask of love.”

Host:
Her voice was low, but it carried — through the hum of the rain, through the shadows and the neon, it lingered like the scent of something true. Jack’s eyes dropped to the magazine cover again.

The model stared back at him — confident, alive, untouched by the specter of judgment.

Jack: softly “You know… maybe that’s the trick. Maybe jealousy only hurts when it feels like a threat. If you’re secure, it becomes just… noise.”

Jeeny: “Exactly. When you know who you are, the admiration of others isn’t a threat, and the envy of others isn’t your burden. That’s what Brooke Burke meant. Confidence isn’t about ego — it’s about peace.”

Host:
The light above them dimmed again, the filament glowing like a heartbeat ready to rest. Outside, the rain slowed to a whisper, each drop a final word in a long sentence of weather.

Jack: “You really believe people can live like that — without jealousy?”

Jeeny: gazing out the window “Not everyone. But some do. The ones who’ve made peace with themselves stop competing with the world.”

Jack: after a long silence “Maybe that’s the real sexy publicity, huh? Peace — just being comfortable enough in your skin to not need to prove it.”

Host:
For the first time that night, he smiled — a real smile, small but unguarded. Jeeny returned it, her eyes warm and tired, but alive.

The camera of the mind slowly panned out — through the window, into the wet city, where the lights blurred into ribbons of gold and crimson. The rain had stopped. The air was clean again.

Host:
And there they sat, amid the ghosts of noise, the scent of coffee, and the dimming hum of midnight — two souls who had found a truth not in jealousy’s fire, but in the quiet confidence of self-acceptance.

In the reflection of the window, their faces overlapped — masculine clarity and feminine warmth, logic and light — a single image framed by the city’s sigh.

And for one moment, it was clear:
The most beautiful publicity isn’t sexy at all — it’s peace made visible.