I squeezed myself into the cluster of people donned in extravagant attire. They held their expensive glasses of wine as if their very intellect and influence depended on it. I stood quietly in a corner, observing as the wealthy attendees engaged in conversations that seemed to revolve around their material success.
"Business is doing good," one declared, followed by a forced laughter.
"I just hope that the Henarez family can salvage this deal. Hopefully, it won't end up like their past partnership with Mr. Vicente Raguindin."
"Oh, speaking of Vicente Raguindin, has he been found?" inquired another curious gossipmonger, who appeared to be the wife of the balding man she was chatting with.
"He's long gone. If you inherit bankruptcy, you're sure to disappear from this world due to shame," the bald man retorted, taking a swig of his wine.
The woman's response was cut short as her husband warned her through a tight grip on her arm. "Wife, why don't you fill your glass first?"
I raised an eyebrow at the scene before me. The interaction only reaffirmed the prevalent dominance and control exerted by men in society. Even in marriages, it seemed women were deemed lesser beings than their male counterparts. Men portrayed themselves as control freaks, almost viewing themselves as omnipotent gods who wielded their power without restraint. I shrugged and decided to leave the group to their discourse.
More whispers and discussions about the Henarez family and the world of opulence reached my ears. However, true to my beliefs, such matters wouldn't affect me. If it didn't have a direct impact on my life, I wouldn't waste my energy on it.
Well, I figured I might as well dive headfirst into this circus of nonsense. Time to put on my best fake smile, endure the show that's probably as entertaining as watching paint dry, and then strut out of here with my very own "Thanks for Participating" ribbon. Who needs a trophy when you can have the consolation prize of a lifetime?
Oh boy, there he was, strutting out like he owned the universe! "Oh, my gosh, he looks so fine!" I heard myself mutter in a voice that was a bit too loud for comfort.
Beside me, a woman let out a scream so piercing it could have shattered glass, her excitement practically threatening to burst through the fabric of her dress. And here I was, standing amidst the Lovestruck madness, thoroughly regretting my life choices. I mean, I would not be here playing proxy on this ridiculous show if it weren't for Megan's relentless insistence and my own desperate need for the consolation prize. I was literally counting down the minutes until the absurd ordeal would be over and I could retreat to normalcy.
From the grand Henares' mansion, a man emerged on the second floor, a man who could easily be mistaken for a Brazilian telenovela star, and I was momentarily stunned. Perfect jawline, eyes that were unfairly beautiful, a nose so sharp it could cut glass, and lips that were, well, luscious. My little fantasy bubble popped almost immediately. To snap myself out of the delusion that I was some sort of bachelor magnet, I shook my head as if shaking off water after a swim. I mean, really? A good-looking dude being paraded around like a cash cow by producers? Priceless.
Ah, the epitome of superficial beauty, only attainable by women whose life's purpose was to maintain a flawless appearance. And silly me, I'd thought that sort of thing was reserved for models, fair-skinned ladies, and those embracing their adventurous sides.
Honestly, I had no time for such stereotypes, which is why I normally avoided these reality dating show shenanigans. They turned the whole experience into a fairy tale spectacle, making it seem like only the physically impeccable, tall, and handsome had a shot at true love and happiness. As if real beauty resided solely in the skin and the products you slathered on it. Deep inside, I knew I was far from fitting that mold.
It was like I was trapped in a twisted fairy tale, cursed without a prince or a solution in sight.
The applause erupted, and the women craned their necks to see. The girls around me were stiff as boards, their collective tension palpable, as the undeniably handsome man grinned at them. The band struck up a classic tune. That was the cue—the show had officially begun, and the men could start selecting their lucky ladies from the mesmerized audience to partake in a whirlwind romantic escapade. And soon enough, I would be leaving with cash in hand. Then life would return to normal, as if none of this absurdity had ever happened.
Just another episode of the reality dating saga that ruled the airwaves, LOVE STRUCK. Rayden Henares, a man blessed with a dazzling smile and no extraordinary qualities otherwise, was on his way to becoming THE ONE.
The last heir standing from the Henares business empire. Impeccable looks, a touch of French sophistication, education from the crème de la crème institutions—fifty-nine women vying for the attention of a man who, in my humble view, was just a mannequin dressed in dollar signs for a TV network owned by his family.
A shiny new toy, primed to show off its worth.
To sum it up, he was the quintessential tall, dark, and handsome—rich, and let's not forget, delightfully superficial. I pondered over the word "enigmatic" for a second, before dismissing it. I had no interest in uncovering the enigma of his beauty.
And there I stood, scanning the scene. Designer gowns from both local and international fashion powerhouses claimed the spotlight. Neither Marchesa nor my beloved Angel Sanchez could have conjured what was before my eyes.
It was clear that the ladies had put their heart and soul into their outfits—from headpieces to accessories, bags to dresses, and even down to the high heels designed to strut and sway, all in the hopes of catching a fleeting glimpse from the enigmatic THE ONE.
Honestly, I didn't think THE ONE would even give me a second glance. I had reached the pinnacle of desperation. Among the sea of elegant women adorned in gowns crafted by renowned local designers, I felt like a rag doll. No need to build my hopes too high—I was more fit for the consolation prize at best. In other words, once the announcement was done, I'd simply go back home and carry on, business as usual.
But against all odds, fate seemed to throw me a curveball. It was as if, in the midst of my indifference to the spectacle, I was handed a surprise ticket. Rayden Henares, the scion of a Greek dynasty, was lounging on the mansion's terrace. Quite the ladies' man, they said. There he was, seemingly rooted to that spot, a perpetual frown etched on his face. When he finally tore his gaze away from the cacophony of shrieking girls and locked eyes with me, his forehead wrinkled so deeply it almost seemed like origami. I could practically hear his inner monologue: Wallflower? Total dreck.
He had all the prerequisites: the classic tall, dark, and handsome profile, doused with an air of intimidating mystery. As I neared the entrance of the Henares estate, I repeated to myself that I would not be unnerved. Not one bit. But despite his good looks, there was an aura of menacing darkness around him. Like his flawless reflection would make you feel both embarrassed and threatened, as if he was the beauty and you were the beast. Nevertheless, amidst the chaos, I couldn't wait to retreat to familiarity.
The idea of him choosing me was preposterous, pure fiction. A woman like me, who had nothing to boast about except an inherited rundown house from her late father and aunt, along with two kids brought into the world solely out of stubbornness. Oh yes, we had daily visits aplenty, yet somehow, my cantankerous aunt had managed to raise me into someone reasonably well-adjusted.
The wails and cries of desperate women were the backdrop to my thoughts.
"There's nothing I can do here," I muttered under my breath.
If it weren't for my dear friend Megan's persistence and her plea for me to be her stand-in, I wouldn't be here, mingling with the rich and fancy folks, becoming a pawn in the game of making Rayden desperate for a date. Because I knew, without a shadow of doubt, that I'd never be among those ten lucky souls chosen to grace the presence of a man like him.
"He's mine!" one hopeful nearly screamed.
"I'm the chosen one," muttered another, peering into her compact mirror.
"He's into the skinny, model type, you know? I did my research, so obviously, he's meant for me!" countered another with fierce determination.
"You go, girl! Wait till you're all crying when you head home!"
Predictions and bravado filled the air. And here I was, the only one unsure and lacking the guts to declare myself THE ONE, the finale dance partner of the summer. The odds were stacking higher than ever against me. A snowball's chance in a furnace, a sandcastle built on nonexistent foundations.
"Alright, ladies and gents," announced Simond, the charismatic host of the show, "before Rayden graces us with his presence, he's personally looked through the CVs of our roses. He's chosen ten prospects out of sixty to be acknowledged tonight. Each of these prospects will get two minutes to dance with THE ONE."
He grinned, a glint of mischief in his eyes, "Eliminations will follow, whittling down the numbers to five. And then, Rayden will, after a series of twists and turns, pick the triumphant trio in the next episodes. But right after this break, we'll reveal the ten lucky ladies!"
The director, stationed at the forefront of the stage, shouted, "Cut!" And just like that, it was time for a commercial break, where my favorite Fita product shamelessly played on the theme of "who's meant for whom," showing a sixty-year-old woman competing with three others for a man who couldn't care less.
The ladies required a round of touch-ups, and they had even hired professional makeup artists to ensure they looked like the best versions of themselves that evening. While they were debating whether they should be part of the lunacy, I had only powder and lip balm on my face. I chuckled at the thought and shook my head.
Two flamboyant makeup artists were wresting THE ONE away from a couple of fans who were about to get an autograph, it seemed, as I turned to leave.
My bladder was about to stage a revolt, so I hurriedly entered the ladies' room to relieve myself. As I walked back out, the host had already started announcing the ten prospects. It was about to be a brunette's turn, one who looked like a supermodel's skinnier, hungrier twin. Two spots were still vacant, I observed with a resigned sigh. Well, I could always hang out in the bathroom for the evening, couldn't I? Alright then, was a consolation prize all I could hope for?
"Alright," I muttered, disappointment lacing my tone. The tenth name on that list wasn't Sidney Pencer. And so I let out a sigh, rolling up the hem of my rented dress. As I rounded the corner, I saw the others still waiting, disheartened looks etched on their faces. Just as I started distancing myself from the crestfallen group of women, Simond's voice suddenly rang out again, announcing that the last called candidate couldn't participate due to personal reasons, and that Rayden himself had chosen to make a live appearance for the tenth lucky prospect.
"Not a problem!" I sarcastically shot back, continuing to walk away. A breath of fresh air was in order, since I was feeling suffocated in my current ensemble.
A murmur spread through the hall.
Silence followed.
All that could be heard was the sound of my shoes striking the marble floor.
"You! The girl with the gray hair! You're the tenth prospect," the baritone voice declared, cutting through the hush.
Still, I kept walking toward the door. But the thing was, I wasn't wearing gray. I was wearing all black. I thought, well, that's a mistake.
"Seriously?" I muttered again, bitter amusement coloring my words, before I pushed open the door.
"The girl who's making an exit!" Rayden repeated.
Baffled, I glanced around, wondering if there was someone else leaving at the same time. But it seemed I was the only one headed for that massive door. "Oh my... plot twist," I muttered into the evening breeze.
Cameras flashed, capturing my presence. And as I took in my outfit, I mused, "This morning it was totally dark! Did my dress fade under the spotlight? It must have looked different under the glow!"
"You, the gray-haired girl in the corner. You're my tenth prospect," Rayden's voice, dripping with some sort of enchantment, whispered through the microphone. The cameras turned toward me, flashes firing like paparazzi on a scandalous hunt. And there I stood, feeling like a celeb fresh out of rehab, caught in the media frenzy.
The director called for applause.
"What in the world? Me, the tenth prospect?" I muttered, my words carried away by the wind.