# MY PERFECT WIFE
### A Novel by Huddon S Lajah
---
# CHAPTER THREE
## Twenty-Four Strangers
---
The Grand Pavilion was, objectively speaking, ridiculous.
Mario stood in the center of the venue—a converted nineteenth-century ballroom that his father had rented for an amount that could have funded a small hospital—and contemplated the absurdity of his existence.
Crystal chandeliers cascaded from ceilings painted with cherubs. Marble floors gleamed beneath strategic lighting designed to make everyone look ten percent more attractive. A string quartet played Vivaldi in the corner, because apparently nothing said "find your soulmate" like baroque chamber music.
There were ice sculptures. Multiple ice sculptures. Swans, mostly, but also what appeared to be a reproduction of Michelangelo's David, which seemed thematically inappropriate for a wife-finding competition.
"You're making your constipated face again," Beatrice observed, appearing at his elbow.
"I don't have a constipated face."
"You absolutely do. It's the one you make when you're internally screaming but too polite to do it externally."
"I'm not internally screaming."
"You're internally screaming."
Mario was, in fact, internally screaming. But he wasn't going to admit that to his assistant, who already had too much power over his life.
"The contestants arrive in twenty minutes," Beatrice continued, consulting her tablet. "You'll greet them at the entrance, one at a time, while the cameras capture your first impression. Try to look interested."
"I am interested."
"You look like you're waiting for a dental procedure."
"That's my interested face."
Beatrice sighed with the weariness of someone who had spent six years managing an emotional disaster in an expensive suit. "Your mother is by the champagne fountain. Your father is terrorizing the catering staff. You have approximately eighteen minutes to compose yourself before twenty-four women descend upon you like fashionable locusts."
"Fashionable locusts seems harsh."
"Wait until you meet them." Beatrice tucked her tablet under her arm. "I'll be in the control room, monitoring the cameras and judging everyone silently. Good luck, boss. You're going to need it."
She vanished into the crowd of staff members making final preparations.
Mario stood alone in the center of the ridiculous ballroom, surrounded by ice sculptures and cherubs and baroque music, and contemplated the fact that his life had become a reality television show without his consent.
Eighteen minutes.
Then everything would change.
---
**Meanwhile, in a limousine approximately three miles away...**
Jawin Mendez was having a crisis.
"I can't breathe," she announced to the empty interior of the car. "This dress is trying to kill me. This is an assassination attempt disguised as formal wear."
The dress in question was emerald green, floor-length, and cost more than three months of Jawin's rent. Salma had purchased it specifically for the competition, along with matching shoes, jewelry, and a clutch that was too small to hold anything useful.
"Why do rich people carry tiny purses?" Jawin muttered, trying to fit her phone, wallet, and emergency snacks into a bag the size of her palm. "Where do they put things? Do they not have *things*?"
Her phone buzzed. A text from Salma:
*You're going to be amazing. Remember: smile, nod, pretend you know what a sommelier is.*
Jawin texted back:
*I know what a sommelier is.*
*Do you?*
*...wine person?*
*Close enough. Text me updates. Bella says good luck.*
Jawin smiled despite her terror. Bella—her younger sister, secretly dating Salma for the past eight months—had been the one to convince her that this insane plan might actually work.
"Just pretend you're playing a character," Bella had said. "Like when we used to play princesses as kids."
"I always played the dragon."
"Then be a dragon in a princess dress. Rich people are weird. You'll fit right in."
Jawin wasn't sure about that, but the money Salma had offered was too significant to refuse. Fifty thousand dollars. Enough for culinary school, plus a cushion for her parents' perpetually precarious finances.
All she had to do was survive a few dates with some spoiled billionaire heir, not get eliminated too quickly, and collect her payment.
Simple.
Definitely simple.
She was absolutely going to die.
The limousine slowed as they approached the Grand Pavilion. Through the tinted windows, Jawin could see the venue's entrance—red carpet, photographers, actual velvet ropes—lit up like a movie premiere.
"Miss Mendez?" The driver's voice came through an intercom. "We're arriving. You'll be contestant number twenty-four, the final entrance. Please wait for my signal."
Contestant number twenty-four. The last one.
That meant everyone would be watching.
That meant maximum potential for humiliation.
Jawin's internal dragon whimpered.
"Got it," she said, her voice only slightly strangled. "Waiting for signal. Not panicking. Everything is fine."
Everything was not fine.
But Jawin Mendez had survived worse than fancy parties. She'd survived her father's restaurant going bankrupt. She'd survived three jobs at once while finishing community college. She'd survived a semester of her mother's experimental cooking.
She could survive this.
Probably.
---
**Inside the Grand Pavilion — The First Arrivals**
Mario took his position at the entrance, flanked by camera crews and a producer who kept instructing him to "look more approachable."
"I don't know what that means," Mario said.
"Smile. Look warm. Like you're happy to meet these women."
"But I don't know if I'm happy to meet them. I haven't met them yet."
The producer—a harried woman named Daniela who seemed to regret every life choice that had led her to this moment—closed her eyes briefly. "Just... try."
Mario tried.
According to the monitor Daniela held, he looked like he was experiencing mild indigestion.
"Perfect," Daniela lied. "First contestant approaching."
The doors opened.
Victoria Sterling entered like a queen claiming conquered territory.
She was tall—nearly Mario's height in her heels—with platinum blonde hair swept into an elaborate updo and a silver dress that probably cost more than most cars. Her eyes swept the room, calculating, assessing, and ultimately dismissing everything as beneath her before landing on Mario with laser precision.
"Mr. Castellan," she said, extending her hand. "Victoria Sterling. I believe our fathers have done business together."
"They have." Mario accepted her hand, noting her grip—firm, confident, slightly aggressive. "Sterling Pharmaceuticals. The Southeast Asian distribution deal."
"You remember."
"I remember everything."
Victoria's smile sharpened. "Good. So do I."
She moved past him into the ballroom, leaving behind a trail of expensive perfume and unspoken competition.
"Contestant two approaching," Daniela murmured.
The doors opened again.
And again.
And again.
Mario greeted them one by one, a parade of polished perfection in designer gowns:
**Camille Fontaine** arrived with a handshake and an immediate critique of the venue's acoustic properties. "The string quartet is positioned incorrectly. The sound disperses rather than resonates. Did no one consult an acoustician?"
"I don't think wife-finding competitions typically employ acousticians," Mario replied.
Camille's eyebrow rose. "Pity. I would have."
**Roxanne Del Monte** made an entrance that should have been accompanied by its own soundtrack—dramatic pause in the doorway, strategic lighting, smoldering eye contact that she held approximately three seconds too long.
"Mario," she breathed, rolling the 'r' in a way that suggested she had practiced. "I feel like we've met before. Perhaps in another life."
"We definitely haven't."
"Then perhaps in a dream."
"I don't dream."
Roxanne's smolder flickered, confused by his complete lack of romantic imagination. "How... unique."
She swept away, already recovering her composure, probably mentally rehearsing her next dramatic moment.
**Penelope Huang** was nearly invisible. She entered with her shoulders hunched, eyes fixed on the floor, mumbling something that might have been a greeting but was too quiet to hear.
"I'm sorry?" Mario leaned closer. "I didn't catch that."
"I said—" Penny cleared her throat, cheeks flushing. "I said hello. I'm Penny. I play piano. I'm not—I'm not very good at—" She gestured vaguely at everything. "This."
"Neither am I," Mario admitted.
Penny looked up, surprised. For a moment, something like relief flickered in her eyes.
"Really?"
"Really. This is..." He searched for the right word. "Uncomfortable."
"Yes!" Penny's voice was slightly too loud, and she immediately cringed. "Sorry. Yes. It's uncomfortable. I thought it was just me."
"It's not."
They shared a moment of mutual social awkwardness before Penny scurried into the ballroom, still apologizing for existing.
Mario found himself almost smiling.
---
The contestants continued arriving:
Number five was a tech entrepreneur who immediately tried to pitch him on her startup.
Number eight was a professional equestrian who spoke exclusively about horses.
Number twelve was a former child actress who seemed to have peaked at age nine and never recovered.
Number fifteen asked if he believed in astrology, and when he said no, spent ten minutes explaining why Scorpios like him were "naturally resistant to cosmic truth."
(He was a Sagittarius.)
(He didn't correct her.)
By contestant twenty-three, Mario had developed a facial expression that he hoped communicated "polite interest" but probably communicated "please let this end."
"Last contestant approaching," Daniela announced, checking her tablet. "Number twenty-four. Jawin Mendez."
Mario straightened slightly.
Entry twenty-four.
The laughing woman.
The one his mother had mentioned.
The one everyone seemed mysteriously interested in.
The doors opened.
---
Jawin Mendez did not enter like a queen claiming conquered territory.
Jawin Mendez entered like a woman fighting her dress for dominance—and losing.
The first thing Mario noticed was the fabric—emerald green, beautiful in theory—bunched slightly at the waist where she was trying to hold it up. The second thing he noticed was her shoes—matching heels that she was clearly unaccustomed to, based on the slight wobble in her gait. The third thing he noticed was her face.
She was terrified.
Not the polished, performative nervousness of the other contestants—the "oh, I'm so nervous, but look how gracefully I'm handling it" variety. This was genuine, unfiltered terror, the kind that came from being completely out of one's depth and knowing it.
For some reason, this was the most refreshing thing Mario had seen all evening.
She reached him. Stumbled slightly on the final step. Caught herself on his arm—gripping harder than was probably appropriate—and looked up with an expression of pure mortification.
"Hi," she said. "I'm Jawin. I'm going to fall. Please don't let me fall on camera. That's the only thing I'm asking for tonight."
Mario, despite everything, felt his lips twitch.
"I won't let you fall," he said.
"Promise?"
"Promise."
Jawin exhaled. Then seemed to realize she was still gripping his arm and released it like she'd touched something hot.
"Sorry. Sorry. The shoes are—they're trying to kill me. Everything tonight is trying to kill me. The dress, the shoes, the tiny purse that doesn't fit anything—" She held up the clutch accusingly. "Who designed this? What's the point of a bag if you can't put things in it? I couldn't even bring emergency snacks."
"Emergency snacks?"
"For emergencies. Snack-related emergencies." She paused. "That's not a rich person thing, is it? Rich people don't have emergency snacks?"
"I don't think most people have emergency snacks."
"That explains why everyone's always stressed." Jawin seemed to realize she was rambling and forcibly stopped herself. "Right. Okay. I should—I should go inside now. To the party. Where I will definitely not embarrass myself further."
"You haven't embarrassed yourself."
"I grabbed your arm like a drowning person."
"I've experienced worse greetings tonight."
"Really?"
"Number fifteen tried to read my aura."
Jawin snorted. It was an undignified sound—completely at odds with the elegant setting—and absolutely genuine.
"Did she find it?"
"Apparently it's mauve."
"That's not a real aura color."
"I told her that. She said I was cosmically resistant."
Another snort. Jawin clapped a hand over her mouth, eyes wide. "Sorry. I shouldn't laugh at other contestants. That's probably against the rules."
"What rules?"
"I don't know. Competition rules? There are probably competition rules. Don't laugh at people. Don't fall down. Don't admit you're only here because your friend bribed you—"
She stopped.
Mario's eyebrow rose.
"That was... out loud," Jawin said slowly. "I said that out loud."
"You did."
"On camera."
"Also yes."
Jawin closed her eyes, apparently accepting her fate. "Cool. Great. I'm going to go stand in a corner and contemplate my life choices now. Nice meeting you."
She wobbled past him into the ballroom, leaving Mario standing at the entrance with a feeling he hadn't experienced in approximately fifteen years.
Amusement.
Genuine, unforced amusement.
"Last contestant processed," Daniela announced, checking something off her tablet. "You can mingle now."
Mario watched Jawin navigate the crowd, her green dress slightly crooked, her heels still wobbling, her tiny useless purse clutched like a lifeline.
*She's only here because her friend bribed her.*
She didn't want to be here.
She wasn't performing.
She was, quite possibly, the only authentic person in the room.
Mario found that far more interesting than he should have.
---
The mingling portion of the evening was structured chaos.
Mario was expected to circulate through the room, spending approximately five minutes with each contestant, making polite conversation while cameras captured every awkward moment.
Victoria cornered him first.
"I've reviewed your company's Q3 reports," she said, which was apparently her idea of small talk. "Your Southeast Asian expansion is overextended. You're hemorrhaging resources in Vietnam."
"We're investing in infrastructure."
"You're throwing money at problems you don't understand." She smiled, sharp and cold. "I could help with that. Sterling Pharmaceuticals has distribution networks throughout the region. A partnership could be... mutually beneficial."
"Is that why you're here? To propose a business merger?"
"I'm here to propose whatever you find most appealing." Victoria leaned closer. "I've done my research, Mario. I know what you value. Efficiency. Logic. Practical solutions to practical problems. Love is a fairy tale. Marriage is a partnership. I can be the perfect partner."
She said this like it was a sales pitch. Which, Mario realized, it was.
"I'll keep that in mind," he said neutrally.
"Please do." Victoria touched his arm—a calculated gesture, designed to seem intimate. "I'm not like these other women, Mario. I'm not here to play games. I'm here to win."
She moved away, confident in her pitch, already surveying the competition with predatory satisfaction.
Mario felt nothing.
Efficiency. Logic. Practical solutions.
Victoria was everything his father wanted.
She was absolutely wrong for him.
---
Camille found him next, launching into a debate about monetary policy that Mario actually enjoyed.
"The Federal Reserve's approach to quantitative easing is fundamentally flawed," she argued, gesturing with her champagne glass. "They're treating symptoms rather than causes."
"The symptoms were immediate. The causes are generational."
"Then address both simultaneously. Policy can be multifaceted."
"Policy can also be paralyzed by complexity."
Camille's eyes lit up. "Finally, someone who can actually argue. I was beginning to think this competition was intellectually bankrupt."
"It might still be."
"Probably. But at least you're not boring." She clinked her glass against his. "I appreciate that, Mario. Don't fall for someone boring."
She wandered off to critique the ice sculptures, leaving Mario with the distinct impression that she would make an excellent friend and a terrible romantic partner.
---
Roxanne found him near the dessert table, executing another dramatic approach complete with strategic lighting adjustments.
"The stars have aligned for us," she announced. "I can feel it."
"Can you?"
"The universe speaks to those who listen." She placed a hand on her chest, directly over her heart. "Tonight, when I saw you, something resonated. Something cosmic. Something—"
"Excuse me, are those crab cakes?"
Mario and Roxanne both turned.
Jawin stood beside them, having materialized out of nowhere, her attention fixed on the dessert table with laser focus.
"Those are definitely crab cakes," she continued, apparently talking to herself. "Real crab cakes. At a party. With actual crab. Do rich people know how expensive crab is? Do they care? These probably cost like fifty dollars each."
She grabbed three.
"I'm sorry," she said, finally noticing Mario and Roxanne. "Were you having a moment? A cosmic moment? That sounded cosmic."
Roxanne's dramatic expression flickered with irritation. "We were discussing fate."
"Oh, cool. Fate's interesting. Did you know that the word 'fate' comes from the Latin 'fatum,' which means 'that which has been spoken'? Like the gods speaking your destiny into existence. I learned that in a podcast." Jawin bit into a crab cake. Her eyes closed in genuine rapture. "Oh my God. This is the best thing I've ever eaten. How is this the best thing I've ever eaten? I work with food. I know food. These crab cakes are *transcendent*."
Roxanne stared at her.
Mario stared at her.
Jawin, oblivious, continued her communion with the crab cakes.
"I need to find whoever made these," she announced. "I need to know their secrets. If I learned to make crab cakes like this, I could—" She stopped, suddenly remembering she was in public. "Sorry. I'm doing it again. The rambling thing. I should go."
"You should stay," Mario heard himself say.
Jawin froze mid-retreat.
Roxanne's expression shifted from irritated to calculating.
"I mean—" Mario tried to recover. "The crab cakes. If you appreciate them that much, you should stay near the source."
"The... source?"
"The dessert table."
"Right. Yes. That's where crab cakes come from. Dessert tables." Jawin was definitely blushing now. "Although technically crab cakes aren't dessert? They're more of an appetizer? Unless you put frosting on them, which would be wrong—"
"Jawin," Mario interrupted.
"Yes?"
"You're rambling again."
"I know. I can't stop. It's a medical condition. Well, not medical. Psychological. Well, not diagnosed. Just... me." She shoved another crab cake in her mouth, apparently as a strategy to stop talking.
Roxanne looked between them, something shifting in her eyes.
"I'll leave you to your crab cakes," she said, her voice no longer cosmic but distinctly chilly. "We can discuss fate another time, Mario."
She swept away, dramatic exit slightly undermined by the fact that she was clearly going to complain about Jawin to the nearest sympathetic ear.
Mario and Jawin stood alone by the dessert table.
Well, alone plus three camera operators.
"I interrupted something," Jawin said, once she'd finished chewing. "Didn't I?"
"You rescued me."
"From fate?"
"From Roxanne."
Jawin laughed—that same genuine, unguarded laugh from her photograph. It sounded even better in person.
"She seems intense," Jawin observed.
"Everyone here seems intense."
"Not Penny. Penny seems like she wants to disappear. I found her hiding behind an ice sculpture earlier. We bonded over mutual terror."
"You bonded with another contestant?"
"Is that against the rules?"
"I don't know. Are there rules?"
"I assumed there were rules. Don't form alliances. Don't eat all the crab cakes. Don't admit you're only here for the money—which I already failed, so I guess I'm disqualified."
Mario studied her. The rambling. The honesty. The complete lack of strategy.
"Why *are* you here?" he asked. "If you don't want to be?"
Jawin went quiet. For a moment, the performer dropped, and Mario saw something real underneath—exhaustion, determination, the particular weariness of someone who had been fighting too hard for too long.
"My friend needed someone to take her place," Jawin said slowly. "She couldn't do it herself. Family reasons. And I needed—" She stopped. "It's complicated."
"Complicated how?"
"Complicated like I'm not supposed to tell you the real answer." Jawin managed a small smile. "Sorry. I know that's not very romantic. 'Why are you here?' 'For money and complicated family loyalty!' Not exactly fairy tale material."
"I hate fairy tales."
"Really?"
"They're unrealistic. Nothing in life works out that neatly."
Jawin considered this. "That's either very cynical or very honest."
"Can't it be both?"
"I guess it can." She grabbed another crab cake—her fourth—and raised it in a mock toast. "To cynical honesty, then. And transcendent crab cakes. And whatever this ridiculous competition is actually about."
Mario found himself raising an imaginary glass in return.
"To ridiculous competitions," he agreed.
They stood there, surrounded by ice sculptures and baroque music and twenty-three other women who were all playing a game that Jawin didn't seem to know the rules of.
And for the first time all evening, Mario didn't want to escape.
---
The evening continued.
Mario made his rounds, spending mandated time with each contestant while cameras captured everything for the inevitable documentary.
He learned that Contestant Eight's horses had names like "Thunder Dynasty" and "Platinum Legacy."
He learned that Contestant Twelve still had her childhood headshots in her purse.
He learned that Contestant Fifteen genuinely believed his aura was mauve and that mauve was "the color of suppressed potential."
But throughout the evening, his eyes kept returning to a specific spot in the room.
Jawin had found Penny.
The two of them had claimed a small table in the corner, far from the cameras, and appeared to be having an animated conversation that involved a lot of gesturing and occasional snorts of laughter.
At one point, Jawin demonstrated something with her hands that made Penny laugh so hard she nearly fell off her chair.
At another point, Penny showed Jawin something on her phone that made Jawin clutch her chest in exaggerated emotion.
They looked like friends.
They looked like real people having a real conversation.
Everyone else looked like contestants.
"You're staring," his mother observed, appearing at his elbow.
Mario startled. "I'm not—"
"You're staring at entry twenty-four like she's a puzzle you can't solve." Lucia smiled serenely. "I told you she was interesting."
"She's different."
"Different good or different bad?"
"I don't know yet." Mario watched Jawin gesture emphatically about something, nearly knocking over her drink. "She's... chaotic."
"You could use some chaos."
"I hate chaos."
"You hate *uncontrolled* chaos. This is a different kind." Lucia squeezed his arm. "She's genuine, Mario. Perhaps the only genuine person in this room. Don't discount that because it doesn't fit your categories."
"I wasn't���"
"You were. I know you. You're already trying to rank her, evaluate her, assign her to a box. Stop." Lucia's voice softened. "Some people don't fit in boxes. That's what makes them valuable."
She drifted away before Mario could respond.
He looked back at Jawin's table.
She had somehow acquired a plate of approximately fifteen crab cakes and was apparently teaching Penny the proper way to appreciate them.
Chaotic. Genuine. Completely wrong for the competition.
Possibly right for something else entirely.
---
At 10:00 PM, Mario's father took the stage.
The room fell silent as Don Castellan approached the microphone, commanding attention through sheer force of presence.
"Good evening," he began, his voice carrying effortlessly through the ballroom. "I want to thank you all for being here tonight. This is the beginning of something unprecedented—a structured search for love, for partnership, for the perfect match."
Mario winced at "structured search for love."
In the corner, Jawin whispered something to Penny that made them both stifle giggles.
"In the coming weeks," Don Castellan continued, "my son Mario will get to know each of you. He will go on dates. He will have conversations. He will evaluate compatibility. And at the end of this process, he will choose a wife."
Twenty-three women looked at Mario with various degrees of calculation, hope, and ambition.
Jawin looked at Mario with something like sympathy.
"But tonight is not about rankings or evaluations. Tonight is about first impressions. About potential. About the beginning of a journey that could change lives." Don Castellan smiled—his public smile, the one designed for cameras. "So please, enjoy the evening. Enjoy each other's company. And enjoy the beginning of the search for the perfect wife."
Applause.
Cameras flashed.
Mario felt like he was drowning in champagne and expectations.
"You okay?" a voice asked.
He turned.
Jawin had materialized beside him, her plate of crab cakes now empty, her expression genuinely concerned.
"You look like you're internally screaming," she added. "That's a thing I recognize because I've been doing it since I got here."
"I'm fine."
"That's the least convincing 'I'm fine' I've ever heard, and I've heard a lot. My mom says 'I'm fine' while actively crying. My dad says 'I'm fine' while his restaurant is literally on fire. Well, it was on fire once. Small fire. Kitchen incident."
Despite everything, Mario felt his tension ease slightly.
"Your family sounds... eventful."
"That's a nice way of putting it." Jawin hesitated. "For what it's worth, I'm sorry you have to do this. The whole competition thing. Having your dad announce it like that. Having everyone watch and evaluate and—" She gestured at the room. "This. All of this."
"It is what it is."
"Sure, but it's also kind of messed up." She said this matter-of-factly, without judgment. "Like, the premise is wild. Twenty-four women competing for a guy they've never met based on arbitrary rankings and televised dates? That's not romance. That's a business transaction in a fancy dress."
Mario stared at her.
"What?" She looked suddenly worried. "Did I say something wrong? I say things wrong a lot. It's part of my condition. The undiagnosed psychological one."
"You said something right," Mario said slowly. "Something I've been thinking but couldn't articulate."
"Really?"
"This isn't romance. It's a business transaction."
"In a fancy dress," Jawin added.
"In a very fancy dress."
They looked at each other.
Something shifted.
Mario didn't know what to call it—a moment, a connection, a crack in the walls he'd built so carefully over twenty-eight years—but something was different.
Something was changing.
"Jawin."
"Yes?"
"I'm going to be honest with you."
"Okay."
"I don't know what I'm doing. I don't know how to date or connect or feel things the way everyone else seems to. I've spent my entire life avoiding exactly this kind of situation, and now I'm in the middle of it, and I'm..." He paused. "I'm terrified."
Jawin didn't laugh.
Didn't look away.
Didn't offer platitudes.
"Yeah," she said simply. "Me too."
It wasn't comfort, exactly.
It was something better.
It was honesty meeting honesty in a room full of performance.
"Contestant Mendez," Daniela the producer called from across the room. "We need you for a confessional interview."
Jawin sighed. "That's me. The confessional interviews are where you talk to the camera about your feelings, which I'm definitely not qualified for." She started to leave, then paused. "Mario?"
"Yes?"
"For what it's worth, I don't think you're broken. I think you're just... different. Like me." She smiled—that genuine, unguarded smile. "Different isn't bad. Different is just different."
She wobbled away on her impossible heels, leaving Mario standing alone in the crowded ballroom.
Different isn't bad.
Different is just different.
He'd been telling himself a different story for twenty-eight years.
Maybe it was time for a new one.
---
**Later That Night — Confessional Booth**
The confessional booth was a small room with a single camera, designed to capture contestants' "authentic reactions" for the documentary.
Jawin sat in the provided chair, staring at the lens like it was a loaded weapon.
"Just speak naturally," the cameraman said. "Tell us about your first impressions."
"Naturally. Right." Jawin cleared her throat. "Um. First impressions. Okay. The venue is beautiful? Like, aggressively beautiful. Too beautiful. It makes you feel underdressed even when you're wearing a dress that costs more than your rent."
She paused.
"Is that the kind of thing you want?"
"Just keep going."
"Okay. Um. The other contestants are all very... polished. Very put-together. Victoria looks like she could take over a small country. Roxanne looks like she's constantly rehearsing for a telenovela. That's not a judgment—I respect the commitment."
Another pause.
"Penny's nice though. We bonded. I don't think she wants to be here either. Not that I don't want to be here. I'm definitely here voluntarily and not because someone paid me."
The cameraman raised an eyebrow.
"That was a joke. Definitely a joke. Please edit that out."
"We don't edit these."
"Of course you don't." Jawin slumped in her chair. "Um. Mario. You want me to talk about Mario, right? First impressions of the bachelor?"
"Please."
"He's..." She thought about it. Really thought. "He's sad. Not on the surface—on the surface he's all sharp suits and professional distance. But underneath, there's something... sad. Like he's been lonely for a really long time and doesn't know how to stop."
Silence.
"That was probably too real, wasn't it? I do that. Get too real. It makes people uncomfortable."
"Keep going."
"I don't know if I'm supposed to like him. That's not how this works, right? You're supposed to compete for him, not... understand him." Jawin looked directly at the camera. "But I think I might understand him. A little. The loneliness thing. I know what that feels like."
She sat up straighter.
"Not that I'm lonely. I have friends. I have family. I have—" She stopped. "Okay, fine. I'm lonely too. But a different kind of lonely. The kind where you're surrounded by people who need things from you, but no one actually sees you. You know?"
The cameraman said nothing.
"Sorry. That was definitely too real. Can we talk about the crab cakes instead? The crab cakes were transcendent. I ate like fifteen of them. Whoever made those crab cakes should win an award. That's my official first impression: transcendent crab cakes."
She smiled at the camera.
It was almost convincing.
---
**Mario's Confessional — Same Night**
Mario sat in the same chair, facing the same camera, with approximately none of Jawin's nervous energy.
"First impressions?" he repeated. "The contestants are exactly what I expected. Polished, strategic, performing versions of themselves designed to appeal to the competition's criteria."
Pause.
"That sounds harsh. It's not meant to be. They're doing what's required. I understand that. It's just..." He searched for words. "It's exhausting. Watching people perform. Knowing they're calculating every word, every gesture, every smile."
He looked at the camera.
"Except one. Entry twenty-four. Jawin. She's..." He stopped. Started again. "She's not performing. She's terrible at this, actually—rambling, awkward, completely unprepared for the environment. She ate fifteen crab cakes and announced she was only here because someone paid her. On camera."
A ghost of a smile.
"It was the most refreshing thing that happened all night."
Pause.
"I don't know what to do with her. She doesn't fit any category. She's not wife material by any conventional metric. But she's..." He shook his head. "She told me I'm not broken. That I'm just different. No one's ever said that to me before. Not like that."
He looked directly at the lens.
"I don't know if this competition will find me a wife. I don't know if I'm capable of what my father wants. But if there's even a small chance that someone here could understand me—actually understand me, not just perform understanding—then maybe..."
He trailed off.
"Maybe this isn't completely absurd."
Pause.
"Don't include that last part. It was too honest."
"We don't edit these," the cameraman repeated.
Mario sighed.
"Of course you don't."
---
**The Parking Lot — 1:00 AM**
The gala was over.
Contestants departed in a procession of limousines, each one carrying a woman with complicated feelings about the evening's events.
Jawin stood outside, waiting for her car, her heels finally removed and dangling from one hand. The grass was cold and damp beneath her bare feet. She didn't care.
"You survived."
She turned.
Mario stood a few feet away, his Brioni jacket draped over one arm, his tie loosened. He looked almost human like this—less like a CEO and more like a man who was very, very tired.
"Barely," she said. "I'm pretty sure I violated about seventeen unwritten social rules."
"Probably more than seventeen."
"Fantastic. So I'm definitely eliminated."
"That's not how it works."
"How does it work?"
Mario moved closer. The parking lot was quiet—most of the other contestants had already left—and for a moment, it felt like they were the only two people in the world.
"I choose," he said. "That's how it works. I decide who stays and who goes. And despite your rambling and your crab cake obsession and your complete inability to pretend you belong here..."
He paused.
Jawin held her breath.
"I'm not eliminating you," he finished. "Not yet."
Something fluttered in her chest. Something she didn't want to examine too closely.
"Is that supposed to be reassuring?"
"I don't know. Is it?"
"I'm not sure. No one's ever not-eliminated me before."
Mario almost smiled. "It's a new experience for both of us."
Jawin's limousine pulled up, headlights cutting through the darkness.
"That's me," she said.
"I know."
"I should go."
"You should."
Neither of them moved.
"Mario."
"Yes?"
"This is weird, right? This whole thing? The competition, the rankings, the—" She gestured at everything. "It's objectively weird?"
"Objectively weird," he agreed.
"Okay. Good. I'm not losing my mind."
"You might still be losing your mind. But at least you're not alone."
Jawin laughed. That genuine, unguarded laugh that Mario was beginning to associate with something dangerously close to hope.
"Goodnight, Mario."
"Goodnight, Jawin."
She climbed into the limousine, bare feet and impossible dress and all.
Mario watched her go, standing alone in the parking lot, surrounded by the debris of a competition he hadn't wanted.
Twenty-three women had tried to impress him tonight.
One woman had eaten fifteen crab cakes and told him he wasn't broken.
It wasn't even close.
---
🤗END OF CHAPTER THREE🤔