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Chapter 1
TRINA
Only someone desperate—we’re talking, beyond-dignity-and-scraping-the-bottom-of-humiliation desperate—would participate in a reality TV show called “Bride at First Sight.” You can count me out. Sure, arranged marriages work in some countries, but not in the United States.
I fiddle with my press pass as I crane my neck to get a better view. How can I get closer to the contestants and hear what they’re whispering about? This isn't my usual gig. As a sports reporter forMA Times, I wear sneakers and sweatpants while I'm on the field interviewing players. Tonight, I'm all glammed up and smack dab in the middle of the grand spectacle opening night of "Bride at First Sight."
I smooth my hand over my satin cocktail dress. At least I'm not wearing a plunging neckline to get a man's attention. I want to blend in but not stand out too much—unlike some of these ladies' cleavage.
Sparkling lights surround me, making me think of the floating lanterns scene from Disney’sTangled. The dripping chandeliers could rival a Vegas casino. Everything about this glitzy ballroom screams extravagance. Nervous energy thickens the air as women in slinky dresses prance around like peacocks, vying for the attention of none other than Liam Ashley, the Thunderhawks’ star basketball player.
I can't help but laugh at the absurdity of it all. Women who look like they raided Neiman Marcus on their way here are doing everything short of cartwheels to catch Liam's eye. The lengths some people go to for fifteen minutes of fame. I'm sure each contestant gets a wad of cash even if they don’t get the groom.
As I take it all in, the undercurrent of tension between the ladies is tangible. The clink of glasses fills the room as the women nervously sip their champagne, their eyes darting around in search of Liam.
Cameras point at them from every angle, capturing every movement of this mad circus. And oh, the faces. The women are shooting poisoned darts at each other, all while trying to maintain their poise and charm. Laughter erupts like wedding confetti, but when Liam passes each standing table, they burst into jittery giggles and frantic fanning motions.
I remove my press tag and hide it in my purse lest I be seen for what I am—a snoopy news reporter. Weaving my way through the crowd, I attempt to catch snippets of conversation.Anabelle. Jenna.I read some of the name tags and lean in as close as I can without being obvious.
Jenna is rocking a sleek black cocktail dress that hugs her athletic curves. Her hair is styled in a gravity-defying updo that pulls so tight her cheeks are non-existent. "I heard Liam loves a woman who can shoot hoops. I've been practicing for two weeks, and I can't wait to show him my skills."
Next to her, Sarah’s hair is arranged around a tiara, making her resemble Anne Hathaway fromThe Princess Diaries. "Did you see how he looked at me when I walked in? Talk about love at first sight. I've got this, ladies. I just know it."
I roll my eyes.Maybe he was caught off guard by the ridiculous crown on your head, Sarah.
I move to the next standing table. One too many drinks have a few women swaying. Lily has employed a cascade of hairpins to hold mounds of hair into tiny buns. She probably hoped to captivate Liam with her unique sense of style. To me, it smacks more of homage to Princess Leah’s earmuffs, but you gotta give the poor woman credit for such a mammoth effort. I'm not sure what look she was going for. It could be in fashion, but I wouldn't know.
Lily gives a dramatic pout. "Ugh, I can't believe that bimbo over there wore the same dress as me. Who does she think she is, trying to steal my thunder?"
Tiffany, stuffed into a too-tight dress crafted from a thousand disco balls, flicks her hair over her shoulder. "I overheard Liam digs a woman with a sense of humor. Lucky for him, I've got enough jokes to fill a comedy club. I've memorized twenty one-liners and if I get a chance, I'll slip them into the conversation."
Twenty one-liners in one conversation? My eyes pop. I’m sure he will be impressed.
The opening lines of a new article percolates in my mind. I could use a sarcastic edge, something like, “Grab your popcorn and get ready for a wild ride of love, drama, and sequined cocktail dresses. Speculations will fly faster than a three-pointer in the reality TV world of ‘Bride at First Sight.’ Whom will Liam Ashley pick?”
No, that's cheesy. Excessive like Lily’s hair mounds.
I want to dig deeper and discover the backstory of these ladies. I already know all I need about Liam Ashley. I once caught him taking advantage of an intoxicated woman at an after-game party... oh, what a schmuck. I'm glad I got to expose the truth. He acts like a hero, and teens admire him, but he’s just like my pathetic ex-boyfriend. Once the fame fries their brains, they're all players. The off-court kind.
Liam mingles at each table, speed-dating. Sure, he looks amazing in his blue-tailored suit, and the effect is only magnified by his role as a potential groom, but he is far from husband material—ugh. I couldn’t think of anyone worse. But this is all a game. A reality game. These women are in for the contestant’s money and the spotlight. Do they seriously believe a marriage to Liam Ashely would last?
I would hate to be watched by cameras 24/7, knowing the world was analyzing every move, the disagreements, listening to every conversation. Yeah, no thank you. I'd rather stay behind the scenes and report from my writing desk.
The music fades, overhead lights brighten, and a microphone is tapped causing an instant hush in the room. The show’s host, Martin Cortez, is about to make an announcement. I slink back to the edge of the ballroom, getting away from the blaring lights. Has Liam picked his bride already? He doesn’t mess around.
***
LIAM
Finally. A slim man in a black suit raises a hand, and heads turn in his direction. I edge to the back of the room where I can relax without all these women staring at me.
“Ladies, on behalf of ‘Bride at First Sight,’ welcome to the most incredible night of your lives.” The man has a smooth voice, the kind that commands attention.
And it gives me a break. The constant smile is wearing me down. I resist the urge to roll my eyes when the majority of the women glance my way. Several of them wink.
The one with the crazy buns all over her head seems about to stand up, but the woman beside her grabs her hand and yanks her down.
Why did my manager decide this was a good idea? He gave me some cockamamie story about it being good PR. Whatever. I want to help my team, but this is over the top. Marriage? Really? To a woman I’ve never met until tonight and know nothing about. What if she’s an ax murderer?
