# MY PERFECT WIFE
### A Novel by Huddon S Lajah
---
# CHAPTER FOUR
## The Champagne Disaster
---
The morning after the gala, Jawin woke up with a crab cake hangover.
This was not a real medical condition—she had Googled it at 3:00 AM to confirm—but her stomach felt like she had committed crimes against it. Fifteen crab cakes. *Fifteen*. In what universe had that seemed like a reasonable decision?
The universe where she was surrounded by rich people and didn't know what else to do with her hands.
She lay in bed—not her bed, but the competition bed, in the contestant mansion that felt like a hotel designed by someone who had never actually stayed in a hotel—and stared at the ceiling.
Day One of the competition: completed.
Remaining days: approximately ninety.
Probability of survival: decreasing by the hour.
Her phone buzzed. Salma:
*How did it go??? Bella and I watched the live stream. You looked AMAZING.*
Jawin texted back:
*There was a live stream???*
*Of course there was a live stream. This is a televised competition.*
*I didn't know that.*
*It was in the contract you signed.*
*I didn't read the contract.*
*JAWIN.*
*I was stressed! There were a lot of pages!*
A pause. Then:
*Bella says you and Mario had "chemistry." Her word, not mine.*
Jawin stared at the message.
*We did not have chemistry. We had crab cakes.*
*She says chemistry.*
*She's a romantic. She thinks everything is chemistry.*
*She's dating me. She has excellent taste.*
Jawin smiled despite herself. Salma and Bella's relationship was one of the few genuinely good things in her life—two people who had found each other against all odds and fought to stay together despite family pressure and societal expectations.
If Jawin could help protect that, even by participating in this absurd competition, it was worth it.
Another buzz:
*Seriously though, are you okay? You looked stressed in your confessional.*
*They aired the confessionals???*
*Excerpts. You talked about being lonely. The internet is shipping you already.*
*What does shipping mean?*
*Oh honey. We need to have a conversation.*
Before Jawin could respond, there was a knock at her door.
"Contestant briefing in thirty minutes!" a production assistant called. "Breakfast is in the main hall. Don't be late!"
Jawin groaned, dropped her phone, and contemplated the ceiling for another five minutes.
Then she got up.
Day Two had begun.
---
The contestant mansion was chaos in designer clothing.
Twenty-four women occupied a building that could comfortably house twelve, which meant every bathroom was contested territory, every mirror was a battleground, and every interaction was layered with subtext that Jawin couldn't decode.
She found Penny in the breakfast room, looking approximately as overwhelmed as Jawin felt.
"Hi," Penny said quietly. "Did you sleep?"
"Not really. You?"
"I had stress dreams about playing piano for a hostile audience. They kept throwing tomatoes. Very specific tomatoes. Heirloom varieties."
Jawin sat down across from her. "That's very specific."
"My anxiety is creative."
They ate in companionable silence—Jawin had toast, plain, because her stomach was still recovering from Operation Crab Cake—while chaos swirled around them.
Victoria held court at the largest table, surrounded by women who had apparently decided she was the one to align with. They laughed at appropriate moments, nodded at appropriate moments, and generally behaved like courtiers in a Renaissance painting.
Roxanne had commandeered a corner with dramatic lighting, practicing expressions in her phone's front-facing camera.
Camille was reading an economics textbook and ignoring everyone.
Contestant Fifteen—the astrology one, whose name Jawin still hadn't learned—was explaining something about Mercury being in retrograde to a politely trapped audience.
"This is a lot," Jawin observed.
"It's *insane*," Penny agreed. "I don't know how to—" She gestured vaguely. "Any of this."
"Neither do I. But at least we don't know together."
Penny managed a small smile. "That's actually comforting."
"ATTENTION, LADIES!"
The room went quiet.
Daniela the producer stood in the doorway, tablet in hand, wearing the expression of someone who had made deeply questionable career choices.
"Today's schedule," she announced. "At noon, you will attend a champagne brunch at the Castellan Estate. This is not optional. You will mingle with Mario in a social setting, demonstrate your poise and conversation skills, and generally convince him that you're worth keeping around."
Murmurs rippled through the room.
"Champagne brunch?" someone asked. "How formal?"
"Cocktail attire. The wardrobe department will assist anyone who needs it. Transportation leaves at eleven-thirty. Questions?"
Victoria raised her hand. "Will there be eliminations today?"
"Not officially. But impressions will be noted." Daniela's smile was thin. "First impressions are important, ladies. But second impressions can be just as critical."
She departed, leaving behind a room full of women suddenly very concerned about their second impressions.
Jawin looked at Penny.
Penny looked at Jawin.
"Champagne brunch," Jawin said. "At an estate. Where we demonstrate poise."
"We're going to die."
"Absolutely."
---
**The Castellan Estate — 12:15 PM**
Mario had been dreading this.
The champagne brunch was his mother's idea—a "casual" gathering to allow the contestants to interact with him in a "relaxed" environment. The fact that "relaxed" involved a hundred-thousand-dollar venue, professional catering, and multiple camera crews suggested that his family had a different definition of the word than most people.
He stood in the garden, surrounded by perfectly manicured hedges and strategically placed flower arrangements, holding a champagne flute he had no intention of drinking.
"Smile," his mother instructed, appearing at his side. "You look like you're attending a funeral."
"I feel like I'm attending a funeral."
"The funeral of your solitude, perhaps." Lucia patted his arm. "The contestants will arrive in fifteen minutes. Try to be present. Engaged. *Interested*."
"I don't know how to be interested."
"Then fake it until the interest becomes real." She gestured at the garden. "This is beautiful, Mario. The weather is perfect. The food is excellent. Allow yourself to enjoy something for once."
"Enjoying things is not my strength."
"No. But it could be, if you let it." Lucia squeezed his arm. "I saw your confessional, by the way. The one from last night."
Mario went still. "They aired the confessionals?"
"Excerpts. You talked about Jawin."
"I mentioned her."
"You said she was 'refreshing.' You said she made you feel 'hope.'" Lucia smiled knowingly. "Those are strong words from someone who claims to feel nothing."
"I didn't say—"
"You absolutely did. It's on the internet now. People are calling you 'secretly soft.'" She laughed at his expression. "Don't worry. I think it's endearing."
Before Mario could respond, the sound of approaching vehicles interrupted.
The contestants were arriving.
His mother melted into the background, and Mario was left alone in the garden, holding his untouched champagne, waiting for twenty-four women to descend upon him like fashionable locusts.
Beatrice had been right.
---
The brunch began promisingly.
The first arrivals were smooth, polished, exactly what the setting demanded. Victoria claimed a position near Mario with territorial precision. Camille launched into a discussion of agricultural policy that was surprisingly interesting. Roxanne made three dramatic entrances, which was impressive given that there was only one entrance.
Penny hovered near the hedges, looking for escape routes.
And Jawin—
Jawin was late.
Mario found himself watching the entrance more than he should have, tracking each new arrival with something that felt dangerously like anticipation.
*She's just another contestant*, he reminded himself. *Nothing special. Nothing—*
"SORRY! SORRY! I'M HERE!"
The garden went quiet.
Jawin Mendez burst through the entrance like a small hurricane in cocktail attire, her hair slightly askew, her dress (deep blue this time) slightly crooked, her expression a mixture of panic and determination.
"The car had a flat tire," she announced to no one in particular. "Well, not a flat tire. The driver got lost. Well, not lost. He knew where we were going, but there was construction, and then a detour, and then I gave directions, which was a mistake, because I don't know this area at all, and we ended up at a different estate entirely—did you know there are *multiple* estates around here? I didn't know that. Who needs that many estates?"
She stopped.
Realized everyone was staring.
"Hi," she said weakly. "I'm here now. That's the important thing."
Mario felt his lips twitch.
Victoria's expression could have frozen champagne.
Somewhere near the hedges, Penny was silently dying of secondhand embarrassment and sympathy.
"Miss Mendez," Daniela said, her producer smile firmly in place. "So glad you could join us. Please, help yourself to refreshments."
"Right. Yes. Refreshments." Jawin smoothed her crooked dress, which accomplished nothing. "That's why we're here. Refreshments and... mingling. I'm great at mingling."
She was demonstrably not great at mingling.
But she walked into the garden anyway, head held high, like someone who had decided that dignity was overrated and survival was the only goal.
Mario watched her go.
Then he followed.
---
The champagne brunch had three designated "mingling zones," each designed to facilitate intimate conversation while remaining visible to cameras.
Zone One was the Rose Garden, where Victoria had established dominance and was holding court with terrifying efficiency.
Zone Two was the Terrace, where Camille was debating economic policy with two other contestants who had clearly not expected their brunch to involve macroeconomics.
Zone Three was the Fountain Area, where most of the remaining contestants had gathered to network and gossip.
Jawin had retreated to a small bench near the hedges, approximately as far from any mingling zone as architecturally possible.
Penny found her there.
"Are you hiding?"
"I'm *strategically positioning myself*."
"That's hiding."
"It's sophisticated hiding." Jawin gestured at the bench beside her. "Join me in my sophisticated hiding spot?"
Penny sat.
They watched the brunch unfold from a safe distance. Victoria was laughing at something Mario said—a calculated laugh, precisely three seconds too long. Roxanne was making another dramatic entrance, this time from the terrace. The astrology contestant was explaining something about Venus to a server who could not escape.
"This is surreal," Penny said. "Like a nature documentary. 'And here we observe the socialite in her natural habitat, demonstrating dominance through sustained eye contact and strategic champagne positioning.'"
Jawin snorted. "That's exactly what it is. We should be narrating."
"*The alpha female approaches the bachelor, establishing territorial boundaries through conversational monopoly...*"
"*Notice how the other females maintain a respectful distance, waiting for an opportunity to challenge the hierarchy...*"
They were both giggling now, the kind of slightly hysterical laughter that comes from stress and absurdity and the desperate need to find something funny.
"Ladies?"
They froze.
A production assistant stood before them, tablet in hand, expression disapproving.
"You're supposed to be mingling with Mario. Not hiding in the hedges."
"We're not hiding," Jawin said. "We're—"
"Strategically positioning," Penny finished.
The PA was not amused.
"Mario is in the Rose Garden. He's asked to speak with Contestant Twenty-Four specifically."
Jawin's heart stopped.
"He asked for me?"
"Yes. Specifically."
Penny nudged her. "Go. Don't make it weird."
"It's already weird. Everything is weird."
"Make it less weird, then."
Jawin stood. Smoothed her still-crooked dress. Took a deep breath.
"Rose Garden," she said. "Where the sophisticated people are. I can do this. I'm sophisticated. I once went to an art museum without touching anything."
She walked toward the Rose Garden like a woman approaching her own execution.
---
The Rose Garden was, unsurprisingly, full of roses.
It was also full of Victoria Sterling, who was in the middle of a complex explanation of merger synergies when Jawin arrived.
"—and the vertical integration would eliminate approximately thirty percent of your operational inefficiencies," Victoria was saying. "I've prepared a detailed proposal, if you're interested."
"I'm always interested in proposals," Mario said, in a tone that suggested he was absolutely not interested in proposals.
"Then we should schedule a private meeting. Tonight, perhaps. My room has excellent—" Victoria noticed Jawin approaching and her expression flickered. "Oh. Miss Mendez. How nice of you to join us."
The way she said "nice" suggested it was not nice at all.
"Hi," Jawin said. "Sorry. I was told Mario wanted to—" She gestured vaguely. "Talk. Or mingle. Or whatever we're supposed to be doing."
Victoria's smile sharpened. "We were discussing business. Complex business. Perhaps you'd be more comfortable near the refreshment table?"
It was a dismissal. Elegant, polished, devastating.
Jawin felt her face heat.
"Actually," Mario said, stepping forward, "I specifically asked to speak with Miss Mendez. If you'll excuse us, Victoria."
Victoria's smile froze.
"Of course," she said, her voice dripping with ice-coated honey. "I'll prepare that proposal for our private meeting."
She glided away, every step radiating elegant fury.
Jawin watched her go with a mixture of relief and terror.
"She hates me now," she observed.
"She hated you already."
"That's not comforting."
"It wasn't meant to be." Mario gestured toward a more secluded part of the garden. "Walk with me?"
Jawin walked.
---
The secluded part of the Rose Garden was actually secluded—no cameras visible, no other contestants nearby, just roses and hedges and the distant sound of sophisticated laughter.
"You asked for me," Jawin said. "Specifically. Why?"
"Because you're the only person here who seems genuinely uncomfortable."
"That's... not a compliment."
"It is, actually." Mario stopped walking. They were standing beside a particularly aggressive rosebush, thorns gleaming in the sunlight. "Everyone else is performing. Saying what they think I want to hear. Being who they think I want them to be. You're..."
"Terrible at performing?"
"Honest."
Jawin considered this.
"I don't know if that's good or bad."
"Neither do I." Mario turned to face her. "Tell me about yourself."
"What?"
"Your background. Your life. The things that made you who you are." He paused. "I've read your file. It was... sparse."
"Sparse is a nice way of saying boring."
"Sparse is a nice way of saying *different*." Mario's eyes were intense—the same intensity she'd seen at the gala, the kind that made you feel like you were being analyzed at a molecular level. "Everyone else has pedigrees. Accomplishments. Strategic value. You have 'service industry' and 'middle-class background.' Why are you here?"
It was the question she'd been dreading.
Jawin could lie. She could invent a romantic backstory, a compelling narrative, a reason that fit the competition's fairy-tale premise.
But she'd already blown that at the gala, hadn't she? She'd already admitted she was here for money.
*Might as well lean into the disaster.*
"My friend couldn't do it herself," she said. "Family reasons. And I needed money for culinary school. That's... that's the whole story."
Mario's expression didn't change.
"Culinary school?"
"I want to be a chef. A real one. Not—" She gestured at the catered brunch around them. "Not like this. Not fancy parties with tiny food that costs more than rent. Real cooking. The kind that feeds people. Makes them happy."
"That's a specific dream."
"Most dreams are specific. Otherwise they're just vague hopes." Jawin fidgeted with her dress—still crooked, she realized, but at this point it felt like a permanent condition. "My dad had a restaurant. Small place, nothing fancy. He cooked for the neighborhood. For families. For people who just wanted good food and a warm place to be."
"Had?"
"He lost it. Three years ago. Couldn't compete with the chain restaurants moving into the area." Jawin's voice softened. "That's when I started working three jobs. Helping my parents. Trying to save enough for school so I could eventually do what he did. But better. More sustainable."
Silence.
Mario was looking at her with an expression she couldn't read.
"You're here for fifty thousand dollars," he said slowly. "So you can learn to cook. So you can open a restaurant. So you can continue your father's dream."
"When you say it like that, it sounds noble. It's not noble. It's just... survival."
"Survival is noble." Mario's voice was quiet. "More noble than most things in this garden."
Jawin didn't know what to say to that.
So she said something stupid instead.
"You should try the champagne."
Mario blinked. "What?"
"The champagne. You've been holding that glass since I arrived, and you haven't taken a single sip. It's probably warm by now, which is a waste. Champagne is supposed to be cold."
"I don't drink champagne."
"Then why are you holding it?"
"Because..." Mario looked at the glass in his hand, apparently surprised to find it there. "I don't know. Appearances, I suppose."
"That's the saddest thing I've ever heard."
"It is, isn't it?"
They looked at each other.
Something shifted.
"Here," Jawin said, reaching for a fresh champagne flute from a nearby tray. "Let me show you how to actually appreciate champagne. My friend Salma taught me. She's very particular about beverages."
She turned with the glass.
Her heel caught on something—a root, a cobblestone, the universe's determination to humiliate her—and she stumbled.
The champagne went flying.
Directly into Mario's face.
Time seemed to slow.
Champagne cascaded down his features in golden rivulets. His Brioni suit—the same one from the gala, or perhaps its identical twin—absorbed the liquid like an expensive sponge. His expression shifted from surprise to shock to something that might have been the precursor to fury.
Jawin stood frozen, empty glass in hand, watching her entire competition participation flash before her eyes.
*This is it*, she thought. *This is how I get eliminated. Death by champagne.*
"I—" she started.
"Don't," Mario said.
"I'm so sorry—"
"*Don't*."
He was going to yell at her. He was going to have her removed. He was going to tell his father that Contestant Twenty-Four was a disaster who couldn't be trusted with beverages, and she would be sent home in disgrace, and Salma's money would be wasted, and her culinary school dreams would die in a rose garden surrounded by thorny bushes that suddenly seemed very symbolic—
Mario laughed.
Jawin's spiral stopped.
Mario Castellan—cold, distant, emotionally unavailable Mario Castellan—was *laughing*. Not a polite chuckle. Not a performative response. Actual laughter, genuine and surprised, bubbling up from somewhere deep.
"Your face," he managed. "You look like you've committed murder."
"I might have! Career murder! I definitely committed career murder!"
"It's just champagne."
"It's champagne on a Brioni suit! That's probably an international crime!"
Mario wiped his face with his sleeve—the sleeve of his very expensive, now very wet suit—and kept laughing. It was a rusty sound, like something that hadn't been used in years and was surprised to still function.
"An international crime," he repeated. "I'm fairly sure there's no tribunal for that."
"There should be. I should be arrested. Put on trial. 'Jawin Mendez, you stand accused of first-degree champagne assault—'"
"Stop."
"'—with special circumstances of social humiliation—'"
"*Jawin*."
She stopped.
Mario stepped closer. He was still dripping. His suit was definitely ruined. His hair was plastered to his forehead in a way that should have looked ridiculous but somehow just looked... human.
"No one," he said quietly, "has made me laugh like that in fifteen years."
Jawin's brain short-circuited.
"What?"
"I don't laugh. Ask anyone. I'm the heir who doesn't laugh, doesn't smile, doesn't—" He gestured at himself, champagne still dripping from his fingers. "This. Whatever this is."
"Being a mess?"
"Being real."
The word hung between them.
*Real.*
In a garden full of performers, in a competition designed for strategy, in a world where everything was calculated and evaluated and ranked, Jawin had done something impossible.
She had made Mario Castellan feel *real*.
"I'm still sorry about the suit," she said weakly.
"I have seventeen of them."
"That's... actually that's kind of excessive."
"It is. I've been told." Mario looked at her, champagne drying on his face, something new in his eyes. "You're a disaster, Jawin Mendez."
"I know."
"A complete, unmitigated disaster."
"I'm aware."
"I don't know what to do with you."
"Neither do I."
They stood there, in the secluded rose garden, surrounded by thorns and the distant sound of sophisticated laughter, looking at each other like two people who had just discovered something unexpected.
Something terrifying.
Something that might be—
"MARIO!"
The moment shattered.
Victoria Sterling appeared at the entrance to the secluded area, her expression morphing rapidly from calculated charm to barely concealed horror as she took in the scene.
Mario, dripping wet. Jawin, holding an empty glass. The obvious conclusion writing itself.
"What *happened*?"
"Champagne accident," Mario said, his voice returning to its usual neutral tone. "Nothing serious."
"Nothing—" Victoria's eyes swept over his ruined suit with the devastation of someone watching money burn. "That's a Brioni. That's—"
"Replaceable." Mario nodded to Jawin. "Thank you for the conversation, Miss Mendez. I found it... refreshing."
He walked past Victoria, leaving a trail of champagne droplets, heading toward the estate.
Victoria stared after him.
Then turned to Jawin.
"What," she said, each word a knife, "did you do?"
"I spilled champagne on him."
"You *what*?"
"It was an accident. I tripped. The champagne went—" Jawin mimed an explosion. "Everywhere."
Victoria's expression suggested she was calculating the most efficient way to commit a crime without leaving evidence.
"Let me be very clear," she said, stepping closer. "I don't know why you're here. I don't know what your angle is. But Mario Castellan is going to choose a wife who elevates the family name. Not—" She looked Jawin up and down with withering disdain. "*This*."
"I'm not trying to—"
"Save it." Victoria's smile was sharp enough to cut glass. "Enjoy your remaining time here, Miss Mendez. I suspect it won't be long."
She swept away, probably to find Mario and offer dry cleaning services as a form of romantic gesture.
Jawin stood alone in the rose garden, empty glass still in hand, surrounded by thorns.
She had just spilled champagne on the bachelor.
She had just made him laugh for the first time in fifteen years.
She had just made an enemy of the most powerful contestant in the competition.
Day Two was going *great*.
---
**The Contestant Mansion — That Evening**
"You spilled champagne on him."
Penny sat on Jawin's bed, clutching a pillow like a lifeline, staring with an expression of pure disbelief.
"I spilled champagne on him."
"On his *face*."
"On his face."
"And his *suit*."
"And his suit."
"A Brioni suit."
"I keep hearing that word." Jawin flopped backward onto her own bed. "Is Brioni some kind of cult? Why does everyone care so much about the suit?"
"Brioni suits cost like ten thousand dollars."
"*WHAT*?"
"Maybe more. I don't know. I Googled it after Victoria's meltdown."
Jawin covered her face with both hands. "I destroyed a ten-thousand-dollar suit. With champagne. At a brunch designed to evaluate my poise and sophistication."
"On the bright side, everyone's definitely going to remember you."
"That's not the bright side!"
Penny crawled across the bed to sit beside her. "Okay, but—he laughed."
Jawin peeked between her fingers. "What?"
"You said he laughed. After the champagne. For the first time in fifteen years, according to him."
"He was probably laughing at me."
"Was he?"
Jawin thought about it. The surprise on Mario's face. The genuine, rusty sound of his laughter. The way he'd looked at her afterward, like she'd done something impossible.
"I don't know," she admitted. "It felt like... I don't know. Something else."
Penny nodded slowly. "The internet thinks you're his favorite."
"The internet is delusional."
"The internet has clips from the gala, the confessionals, and now someone's leaked footage from today's brunch." Penny held up her phone. "You're trending. #ChampagneDisaster is number three."
"Oh God."
"But also #MarioLaughed is number one. People are *shipping* you."
"What does shipping mean? Salma said that too and I didn't understand."
"It means they want you to end up together. Romantically."
Jawin sat up. "That's insane. We've known each other for two days. I ruined his suit."
"Love works in mysterious ways."
"This isn't love! This is me being a disaster!"
There was a knock at the door.
Penny and Jawin exchanged looks.
"Come in?" Jawin said.
The door opened.
A production assistant stood there, expression carefully neutral.
"Miss Mendez. You've been requested for a private meeting."
Jawin's stomach dropped. "With who?"
"With Mr. Castellan. The elder Mr. Castellan." The PA paused. "Mario's father."
The room went very quiet.
"That's probably bad," Penny whispered.
"That's probably very bad," Jawin agreed.
She got up anyway.
---
Don Castellan's temporary office in the estate was terrifying by design.
Jawin stood in the doorway, taking in the massive desk, the intimidating bookshelves, the man behind it all who radiated power like a nuclear reactor.
"Miss Mendez," Don Castellan said. "Please. Sit."
Jawin sat.
For a long moment, Mario's father simply looked at her. His eyes were the same as his son's—dark, intense, capable of making you feel like a bug under a microscope—but there was something harder there. Colder.
"I watched the footage from today's brunch," he finally said.
"I can explain—"
"There's nothing to explain. You spilled champagne on my son. It's on camera. The internet is already making memes."
"I'm sorry—"
"I'm not interested in apologies." Don Castellan leaned forward. "I'm interested in understanding what happened afterward."
Jawin blinked. "Afterward?"
"My son laughed."
"Yes."
"My son does not laugh."
"I... noticed that."
"My son has not genuinely laughed in over a decade. He has not shown authentic emotion. He has not—" Don Castellan stopped. Something flickered in his expression—surprise, perhaps, or confusion. "He laughed because you spilled champagne on him."
"It was a stressful moment."
"Clearly." Don Castellan sat back. "Tell me, Miss Mendez. What exactly are you doing in this competition?"
The question felt loaded with implications Jawin couldn't decode.
"I'm... participating?"
"You're clearly not suited for this environment. You lack the social skills, the background, the strategic thinking. Victoria Sterling could acquire my son's company as a minor portfolio addition. Camille Fontaine could debate him into submission. Roxanne Del Monte could at least entertain him. What can you offer?"
It should have been devastating. It *was* devastating—a comprehensive destruction of any confidence Jawin might have accumulated.
But somewhere underneath the panic, something else stirred.
*Annoyance.*
"I can make him laugh, apparently," she heard herself say. "Which is more than anyone else has managed in fifteen years."
Don Castellan's eyebrows rose.
The room went very quiet.
*Oh God*, Jawin thought. *I just talked back to a billionaire. I'm going to be eliminated. I'm going to be sued. I'm going to be—*
"Interesting," Don Castellan said.
"I—what?"
"You have spine." He almost smiled. "Unexpected, given your background. But not unwelcome."
Jawin had no idea how to respond to that.
"Let me be direct," Don Castellan continued. "I designed this competition to find my son a wife. A partner who could help him lead this family into the future. Someone strategic. Powerful. *Suitable*."
"I'm none of those things."
"No. You're not." Don Castellan's eyes were unreadable. "And yet my son, who has resisted connection his entire life, laughed at a champagne disaster caused by a woman with no money, no connections, and no discernible strategy."
He stood. Walked to the window.
"I don't know what to make of you, Miss Mendez. You don't fit any of my models. You shouldn't be a factor in this competition, and yet—" He turned back. "You are. Somehow."
"Is that... good?"
"It's *interesting*." Don Castellan's expression hardened slightly. "I'm watching you. Understand that. If you're running some kind of scheme, if you're trying to exploit my son—"
"I'm not. I promise."
"Promises are easy. Results matter." He returned to his desk. "You're dismissed. Don't spill anything else on my son."
Jawin stood. Made it to the door. Stopped.
"Mr. Castellan?"
"Yes?"
"For what it's worth—" She took a breath. "I don't think Mario needs someone strategic. I think he needs someone real."
Don Castellan said nothing.
Jawin left.
---
**Mario's Room — Same Time**
Mario stood in front of his mirror, examining his reflection.
He had changed out of the ruined suit. Showered off the champagne. Returned to his standard armor of expensive fabric and emotional distance.
But something was different.
His face.
He was *smiling*.
Not a performance smile. Not a social obligation. An actual smile, small and surprised and completely genuine.
*She spilled champagne on me.*
It was ridiculous. It was undignified. It was the exact opposite of what this competition was supposed to achieve.
And it had made him feel more alive than anything in years.
His phone buzzed. A text from his mother:
*Saw the footage. #ChampagneDisaster is trending.*
Mario replied:
*I'm aware.*
*You laughed.*
*I'm aware of that too.*
*I haven't seen you laugh like that since you were twelve.*
Mario stared at the message. Thought about his mother's words from the gala: *Some people don't fit in boxes. That's what makes them valuable.*
Jawin didn't fit in any box.
That should have disqualified her.
Instead, it made her the most interesting person he'd ever met.
His phone buzzed again:
*Don't overthink it, darling. Just feel.*
Mario set down the phone.
Feeling was not his strength.
But maybe—just maybe—it was time to learn.
---
**The Contestant Mansion — Midnight**
Jawin couldn't sleep.
She lay in bed, staring at the ceiling, replaying every moment of the day in excruciating detail.
The champagne. The laugh. Victoria's fury. Don Castellan's interrogation.
*I think he needs someone real.*
Had she actually said that? To a billionaire? About his son?
What was *wrong* with her?
Her phone buzzed. Salma:
*Are you okay??? Bella and I saw the champagne thing. And the meeting with his dad. The whole internet is freaking out.*
Jawin replied:
*I'm alive. Probably not eliminated. Maybe made an enemy of the most powerful woman here. Standard Tuesday.*
*It's Wednesday.*
*Everything is blurring together.*
A pause. Then:
*Jawin. Be honest. Do you like him?*
Jawin stared at the message for a long time.
Did she like Mario?
She barely knew him. He was cold, distant, emotionally unavailable, and wore suits that cost more than her annual income. He was the heir to an empire she couldn't comprehend, living a life she couldn't imagine.
But he'd laughed.
He'd laughed at her disaster, and then he'd looked at her like she'd done something wonderful.
*I don't know*, she typed. *It's complicated.*
Salma's response:
*The best things usually are.*
Jawin put down her phone. Closed her eyes.
Tomorrow would bring new challenges. New opportunities for humiliation. New interactions with Mario that she couldn't predict and couldn't control.
But tonight, in the quiet darkness, she allowed herself to feel something she hadn't expected.
Hope.
Complicated, confusing, probably disastrous hope.
It was terrifying.
It was also, maybe, wonderful.
---
😜END OF CHAPTER FOUR👏