The foremost unspoken rule for a reality-soap celebrity is: You must not discuss your co-stars in a manner that could harm their personal brands or, heaven forbid, their businesses. You are free to yell at them, insult their partners, spread malicious gossip, deem their designer outfits hideous, criticize their cosmetic enhancements, harass them on social media, hurl cocktails in their faces, or create chaos at their meticulously planned dinner parties… the options for orchestrating a public conflict with your friends—or, at least, the individuals portraying them on television—are limitless. However, the one absolute prohibition is causing detriment to their financial gains.
Chrishell Stause encountered this principle the hard way following the tumultuous ninth season, whose reunion special premiered on Netflix on Wednesday. Alongside segments teasing the upcoming season of the spin-off series Selling the O.C. and revisiting former cast member Nicole Young’s harsh comments about Stause’s deceased parents, the episode’s most intense discussion involved nearly everyone criticizing Stause. What transgression did the woman regarded as the show’s main protagonist commit to provoke the anger of her former colleagues? She shared a raw appraisal of her castmate and former close friend Emma Hernan’s on-again, off-again boyfriend, which seemed poised to damage Hernan’s brand.
In an on-screen reproduced exchange, a fan questioned Stause about her disagreement with Hernan. Stause’s reply: “Ask her about her MAGA boyfriend who told me pronouns are foolish and that he enjoys using the N-word. I simply cannot tolerate that. I’m too old to permit such behavior. But I care for her from a distance.” Over a series of tabloid headlines, Hernan recounted being “assaulted” after the post: “People were inundating my Instagram with crazy slurs and calling me MAGA and all these things because of what she wrote.” Stause declined to accept responsibility for that negative reaction. “Because of what I wrote?” she inquired. “Or because of what he said and did?” From there, the two women debated the specifics of what Davis allegedly said or did not say to Stause, who clearly has a personal connection to the “pronoun” discussion; her spouse, the musician G Flip, identifies as nonbinary. It is probable that we will never ascertain whose depiction of Davis’s comments is more accurate.
For those of us who have historically viewed Stause as sanctimonious, passive-aggressive, and inclined to portray herself as a victim, there is ample evidence in both her post and her behavior throughout the reunion to support this viewpoint. Yet, if she is speaking truthfully about the individual in question, real estate heir Blake Davis (who did not improve his own standing in his few obnoxious appearances in Season 9), why should she not voice it? Isn’t uncompromising honesty—that fundamental directive to “discover what unfolds when individuals cease being polite and begin to be authentic”—the very essence of reality television?
Apparently, only to a certain extent. As virtually everyone on the reunion stage, including Stause’s sole remaining supporter, Chelsea Lazkani, either stated or implied, a boundary exists—and Stause crossed it. “I think Chrishell would need to take ownership by saying, ‘I’ve acted in a way that doesn’t reflect our friendship,’” Lazkani suggested, in an attempt to mend the relationship. “All the other details are irrelevant.” While Stause disputed that the core of Davis’ comments was less important than her decision to publicize them, she did offer a somewhat lukewarm apology: “Regarding what he said, I regret repeating it on social media.” Both she and Hernan expressed their hurt by the other’s actions concerning Davis.
However, the discussion continuously reverted to Stause’s post about him, with almost everyone onstage taking Hernan’s side. Then Hernan revealed the unspoken truth: “You were aware that would hurt me. You knew that would negatively impact my business. And you know that I support my family—you know everything, Chrishell.” For anyone who might have overlooked her constant endorsements for said business across multiple seasons of Selling Sunset, Hernan is not merely a reality star and a luxury real estate agent; she also owns a frozen empanada company.
The cast and reunion host Tan France persistently framed Stause’s use of social media as inexcusable. The reality is, she is hardly the only cast member from the Oppenheim Group to air grievances online. Using platforms like Instagram, TikTok, or X to perpetuate intra-cast disputes, particularly during the lengthy periods between seasons when viewers might otherwise lose interest, is such a foundational strategy of reality stardom that it would be astonishing if there weren’t social media drama surrounding the Emma-Chrishell fallout. The sole distinguishing aspect of this incident is that the specific accusations Stause made about Davis—that he was a MAGA supporter and employed derogatory terms—appeared likely to damage Hernan in the estimation of the predominantly young and female audience that watches Selling Sunset (and, potentially, purchases frozen empanadas).
Gossip and conflicts serve as the currency of reality dramas, yet the stars of these programs must navigate an impossible balance between appearing genuine, entertaining their audience, and maintaining a sufficiently positive image to sustain the consumer-facing businesses and supplementary ventures they increasingly promote using their fame. Thus, the implicit agreement among reality TV casts becomes: all actions are permissible, except for disclosures that could severely diminish someone’s market worth. This has emerged as the central theme of The Real Housewives of Salt Lake City—arguably the most turbulent show in its franchise—whose characters are constantly trying to uncover which of their frenemies is discreetly unearthing dirt and disseminating rumors about their legal or financial difficulties. These women are more than willing to utter unpleasant things about each other on camera. However, no one wishes to be caught scrutinizing lawsuits or whispering about a castmate’s questionable business practices.
For individuals involved in a genre that embraces poor conduct, thrives on scandalous revelations, and professes to have, well, some connection to veracity, the entire situation is quite hypocritical. It becomes logical, though, when one considers that professional reality stars are essentially entrepreneurs—their primary purpose is to generate income.
