Amidst the roaring applause of the audience, my knees decided to go rogue and do the cha-cha, giving in to Megan's ambitious four-inch heels. As the blinding lights nearly turned me into a human disco ball, I found myself in a scene straight out of a futuristic space movie. My eyes struggled to make out anything in front of me; it was like trying to decipher hieroglyphs at the speed of light. I threw my left palm up like an amateur sun visor, but it was about as effective as using a cocktail umbrella during a monsoon. The sheer brightness of it all was enough to give a supernova competition.
And then, like a script straight from a sitcom, I stumbled over my own gown, turning a graceful entrance into a slapstick comedy routine. Yes, I, Sidney Pencer, the unsuspecting participant in the spectacle called LOVESTRUCK, ended up on the floor in a graceless heap. It hurt, really hurt. In simpler words, it was an epic faceplant in the spotlight, a highlight that would surely haunt me in my future nightmares. And I'm pretty sure my tumble managed to rattle the collective poise of the audience. I could practically feel the embarrassment-induced heat creeping up my cheeks.
Oh, how I wished I could wake up from this nightmare, but no, the universe had decided to play a hilarious joke on me. And reality was insisting on being too real. Trust me, I even pinched myself to check if I was sleepwalking through some cruel dreamland. The pinch hurt, by the way. My mind was working overtime to reject the fact that this wasn't a dream. Total bummer.
A warm hand found its way around my waist, except it wasn't my partner's hand as it should have been. And just like that, the shadows coalesced into a tall figure, extinguishing the blinding light like a superhero cape blocking a spotlight. "Woah!" I exclaimed, because, let's be honest, how could you not when a hand appears out of nowhere and holds your palm like it's trying to catch a bus?
Before I knew it, I was on my feet again, courtesy of that mysterious hand, which I could smell was doused in what could only be a deluxe cologne. Call me Sherlock, but I had a hunch it was Rayden. And there he was, standing all heroic and mysterious in the midst of the luminous chaos. And there I was, trying my best not to think of Rayden Henares—the supposedly shallow bachelor—coming to my rescue like a knight in shining armor, except he was actually kind of real, and the whole situation was just too ridiculous.
"You alright?" a concerned baritone voice inquired. I couldn't quite place the face yet.
To regain my vision, I had to close my eyes for a moment. That hand, once a fleeting savior, had disappeared from my view.
And when I finally dared to open my eyes, there he was—Rayden Henares in all his stunning glory. Those lashes could put fans to shame, those eyebrows were ready for a dramatic performance of their own, and those lips seemed to defy my initial verdict. And he was smiling. Right at me. Oh, and he was doing that super suave hair-tuck thing that my teenage self would've swooned over. I was just waiting for a swarm of birds to start singing love songs.
Amidst all this surreal glamour, there was a stage full of nine hopeful women, and their glares of envy were palpable even through the light. Rayden's big palm engulfed my own and led me onward. Cameras buzzed around us like hungry paparazzi, and it was all I could do to not break into a crazy laugh right then and there.
Rayden and I walked up to the stage, our steps guided by the subtle guidance of the production team. It was as if we were floating through a magical forest, the set all adorned for the grand dance sequences that awaited us. And this event, aptly named "MAGIC DANCE with THE ONE," was set in the grand garden of the Henares mansion, a space that looked like it was plucked straight out of a fairy tale.
Right, because when I pictured myself dancing with Rayden Henares, it was in the magical garden of a millionaire's mansion. Reality check: I was the girl who just made an epic tumble in a spotlight.
"Look at her, smiling like she already won the whole darn competition," one of the chosen ones, looking like she was about to pounce on her prey, purred with an air of venomous amusement. She was like a stock photo of an exotic beach model mixed with a feral cat, ready to scratch eyes out.
I held back my inner volcano and countered, "When did smiling become a criminal offense?" in the most serene voice I could muster. Seriously, it's like the rules of this show say you're not allowed to be happy or something.
"Oh, because becoming a trending hashtag on Twitter means she's the next love guru!" This one, flaunting an expensive phone like it was a designer purse, chimed in with mockery dripping from every syllable. She gave me the once-over like she was appraising an outdated furniture item she found in her attic.
That's when I realized it wasn't just the show's participants watching; it was a full-on spectator sport. People were eavesdropping on this fantastical catfight, from the Henares mansion to who knows where. My initial instinct was to launch into a Shakespearean monologue right there, just for dramatic effect. But even in my head, the Shakespearean soliloquy was sounding more like a stand-up comedy bit.
But I wasn't going to let these contestants steal my spotlight, and certainly not my sanity. So, I held my ground, clutching my dress hem as if it were my shield, reminding myself that I had to adult. And adulting in this scenario meant keeping my cool and not getting into a mud fight in a designer gown.
"You seriously walking out without me?" I mustered, raising an eyebrow as if I was serving up an ice-cold cocktail of sass. "Or do you think I'll stick around for your encore?" And yeah, that was my fighting stance. Sort of. It wasn't exactly Shakespeare, but it would do.
"It's not polite," came Rayden's response, humor dancing in his eyes. He seemed to channel some kind of social etiquette teacher from the Victorian era. His jaw tightened, his lips fighting back a smile, and he looked at me with the kind of intensity that probably meant business. Business I had no idea about.
I, on the other hand, turned into a dictionary of awkwardness. My cheeks burned like they were on fire, and I just tried to shrink into my seat. Clearly, the fearless Sidney Pencer had left the building, leaving behind a bucketload of mortification.
The production continued with Martin Nievera and Regine Velasquez's timeless duet, "Forever," setting the soundtrack for the evening. As the music played, I found myself in the most unexpected predicament—Rayden Henares with his hand on my waist. At least, I think that's what was happening. My gown was whispering sweet nothings to my senses, and maybe—I repeat, maybe—his hand was just resting there, although my senses were trying to trick me into believing his touch was as weighty as the crown jewels.
With every dance step, I felt his breath grazing my cheek, and suddenly, I was singing a duet with Rayden Henares. This was happening, and there was no way to escape it. He asked in that half-melodic, half-playful tone, "Nervous?"
I had half a mind to answer that with a hysterical laugh, but then I decided to opt for bowing out gracefully from this conversation. Seriously, I needed to put my brain on mute. So, I gave a demure, composed response, or at least I attempted one. "Not at all."
A chuckle—no, more like a controlled bout of laughter—emanated from him. It was supposed to be mocking, but honestly, it just seemed like he was tickled by my calculated coolness. And really, who wouldn't be entertained by a girl who went from epic fall to ice-cold demeanor in record time?
The production moved forward, the director's voice booming in the distance, instructing everyone to "bring on the meaningful glances!" And I thought this wasn't The Walking Dead! We were in a rom-com, for crying out loud. Eye contact and communication should be as frequent as bad pickup lines.
Rayden, determined to meet the director's wishes, offered a cordial greeting. "Hey," he said, flashing a grin so broad I could practically hear his cheeks stretching.
I kept my eyes locked ahead, pretending as if I was immune to his charm. Not that I was buying any of it, because, let's face it, we all knew Rayden Henares wasn't into this charade. It was written all over his face. Okay, not literally, but the sentiment was palpable.
"Sidney, right?" he queried, and that grin just wouldn't quit. Seriously, it could power a small town.
Now it was my turn to put on my best poker face. "Yep," I answered casually, like I was discussing the weather, not the fact that I was on a reality dating show with a famous bachelor.
"Interesting." He smirked, but there was something about that smug twist of his lips that hinted at an undercurrent of a challenge. Like he was the king of poker, and he had just thrown down a pair of aces.
And so it continued, me and Rayden, dancing through this orchestrated farce, with me playing the role of a nonchalant contestant and him... well, I had yet to figure out exactly what role he was playing. But I was determined not to be another contestant head-over-heels for him. And he was determined to give me the impression that he wasn't remotely interested.
In the midst of all this, Rayden's gaze shifted to me, and for a fleeting moment, I caught a glimpse of something that felt oddly real beneath the performance. Something raw, something unexpected. But before I could process it, the dance kept going, and we twirled through the garden like characters in a whimsical ballet.
As the scene concluded, the director and crew cheered, ready to capture the manufactured magic they were creating. I had never felt so out of place in my life, dancing with Rayden Henares in a garden that was more fairy tale than reality.
And so, this is how I found myself—Sidney Pencer, reality show contestant, costume drama participant, and tumbler extraordinaire—trying to navigate a romantic comedy that seemed to be improvising its plot as it went along. With every step, every twirl, and every carefully rehearsed line, I couldn't help but wonder, "What the bloody hell?" But hey, it's a sitcom about dating, right? And here I was, just waiting for the punchline, praying it wouldn't involve another epic fall. Because when all was said and done, there was one truth I couldn't escape: I was in too deep, and no amount of scripted lines or orchestrated dances could save me from the chaos that was about to ensue.