The line wrapped around the block—twice.
A shimmering, shivering parade of high heels, hair extensions, spray tans, and hopes held together by eyelash glue. It was less a queue and more a competitive fashion-forward military operation. Every woman there looked like she'd either walked off a magazine cover or murdered one to get there. They clutched portfolios with the fervor of lawyers in a high-stakes case—except their briefs were full of filtered selfies, tragic poetry bios, and at least one crumpled receipt from Sephora.
One girl near the front had already fainted. Whether it was from nerves, hunger, or her corset snapping back into a different century was anyone's guess.
Megan stood with the grace of someone who'd rather be anywhere else, her iced coffee sweating harder than she was. She took an aggressive sip and muttered, "I swear, I'm gonna commit an actual crime. This is like The Bachelor went speed-dating with Succession. Where's the soul? Where's the humanity?"
Venessa stared ahead, arms folded, her entire body screaming "wrong place, wrong era, wrong universe." She looked like someone waiting for the bus, not for a billionaire groom she didn't even believe in.
The universe had a warped sense of humor, clearly. Here she was, an ex-rich, overworked, under-slept single mother of three, standing in line for a man she hadn't seen, didn't want, and couldn't afford the time to even mildly dislike.
Jane, ever the calm storm in heels, flicked her sunglasses up and surveyed the crowd like a bored casting director. "They're here for a fantasy," she said coolly, "You're here for insurance. Learn the difference."
"I'm here," Venessa said flatly, "because you bribed me with the promise of a babysitter. Seeing the rush and crush of girls I don't think it's a good idea anymore. I've got twins gremlins at home who think dinner appears by sorcery, and I'm their fairy god mother."
Jane arched an eyebrow. "But Ven, remember... it's Adrienne Lauren," she said, like she was invoking an ancient goddess of fashion, her voice low and reverent as if uttering the name might summon red-bottomed heels from the sky. "The Adrienne Lauren. The woman who made stilettos look like weapons and CEOs look like interns with unpaid coffee runs."
Venessa turned to her, deadpan. "If only she the one I'm supposed to marry? No? Then I don't give a damn if her son's wearing Prada or Pampers. But help me, sis. How are you we going to navigate through this..."
Megan, mid-sip, snorted and nearly inhaled ice. "Marrying her would honestly be the better deal. I would do it if anyone asks..."
Before Jane could throw back a snarky rebuttal, the atmosphere around them shifted—like someone had flipped a switch labeled Total Media Meltdown. Phones buzzed in unison. A ripple of squeals, gasps, and frantic screen-tapping swept through the crowd like a virus of clout and chaos.
It was as if an electric storm had surged through their 5G connection, igniting every influencer's sixth sense. Somewhere, an Instagram reel was already being made. The news broke faster than a Kardashian's NDA.
✦ BREAKING: Renowned spa baroness and socialite Marissa Castell makes rival marriage offer—$85 million and equity in her son's luxury hotel chain, in exchange for a suitable bride.
✦ Another heir. Another auction. May the richest mom win.
The line erupted. Not into panic, but into a kind of glamorized hysteria. One girl screamed "YES, MARISSA, STEP ON ME!" while another frantically texted someone named Kenz that they needed a new glam look immediately.
Jane's lip curled. "Copycat. Adrienne's going to sue Marissa for intellectual property theft and emotional damage. Wanna bet?" Jane put a hand forward but both younger sister just looked away. They didn't even have money to bet on Adrienne, kind of a tragedy!
But then Megan's jaw dropped so hard it almost hit the concrete. "Oh. My. God. This is spiralling fast. We're two plot twists away from a Hunger Games arena. I can see it now—brides in bodycon dodging stilettos while someone throws a tiara into a flaming pit at midnight."
Venessa took a step back. Then another.
"Nope," she said, hands raised like she was walking away from a crime scene she didn't want to be a part of. "Absolutely not. I did not survive a public breakup, bankruptcy, and toddlers with sticky hands just to end up in a live-action dating auction. I'm sorry girls...I think I'm out."
She was about to turned, walking away but then Megan hissed something about glitter grenades and Jane furiously typed on her phone—possibly summoning the devil, or just some assistance.
But behind them, the crowd roared louder. And Venessa? She had no idea she'd just walked away from the opening shot of the most scandalous social war of the year.
Then came the sound no one expected: the honk of a mini bus.
All heads turned.
With the timing of a plot twist that would make Shonda Rhimes weep, a gleaming, blindingly white mini shuttle rolled up across the street from the Lauren estate gates. It hissed to a stop like it was about to exhale pure drama.
And there it was, plastered on the side in gold-trimmed lettering that looked suspiciously like the font from a high-end perfume ad:
"The Castell Experience: Love. Luxury. Legacy."
Jane blinked. "What in the Real Housewives hell—"
The shuttle doors folded open with a hiss, like a spaceship descending from the upper crust of society. Out stepped an assistant in a pastel power suit with a clipboard and an expression that said you can't sit with us.
Behind her, a makeshift registration table popped up with terrifying efficiency, complete with lavender banners, complimentary mocktails, and free branded silk fans.
A swarm of girls peeled out of Adrienne Lauren's line like rats off a not-yet-sinking ship, stilettos clacking as they made a run for Team Castell. Loyalty? Never heard of her. They wanted options, baby.
"This just became a beauty pageant sponsored by capitalism," Megan muttered, rubbing her temples. "Next, someone's gonna parachute in with a third heir and a yacht."
Venessa crossed her arms. "Well, this escalated. I should've just stayed home and unclogged the sink. More dignity in that."
Jane, always calculating, turned on her heel and zeroed in on the Castell stand like a missile in heels. "Listen, Meg..take Ven to Lauran's counter, it's less rush now, it will be quick. And I'll go outside to check ff they're offering drinks, I'm going to see if they've got champagne. Or blackmail."
Venessa grabbed her wrist. "Oh no. No, no. We're not jumping lines like shoppers on Black Friday, Jane. Please, don't you dare put me in two boats..."
Jane grinned. "We're not jumping lines, darling. We're surveying the battlefield."
Megan was already following, muttering something about cult vibes and wanting one of the free silk fans for Jane to grab for her.
And Venessa—tired, responsible, and completely allergic to nonsense—somehow still found herself trailing, the words luxury hotel equity echoing in her head like a bad decision waiting to happen.
Because in this war of mothers, heirs, and outrageous proposals, one thing was clear:No one cared about love.
They just wanted the perfect proposal. But one thing probably only a few like Venessa wondered what made these rich moms so depurate to put out their heir like this. Definitely this looks something cooking behind the curtains.
Thirty minutes later, in the privacy of a shady corner near a suspiciously quiet taco truck, Jane found Venessa again. Megan trailed behind, dramatically peeling the lettuce off a taco like it had insulted her family.
"I forged your name," Megan said casually, like it was weather talk. "For Adrienne's list. You're welcome."
Venessa blinked. "Thanks!?"
"And I took one of Marissa Castell's forms. You know, for backup. Two shots are better than one." "One: Adrienne Lauren isn't just offering a marriage, Ness. She's offering access. Redemption. A golden key out of your babysitter-who-also-wears-designer-dresses life. And Second: Castell? That woman's spa empire has a waitlist longer than most Ivy Leagues. Both are worth at least a shot."
"You do realize this is not vodka?" Venessa hissed. "I said no to marriage! This isn't shopping for handbags, Jane. This is real—"
Jane handed her the Castell form with a perfect poker face. "Then tear it."
Venessa didn't even hesitate. Then she tore the Castell form in half. Not slowly—not dramatically—but in the clean, irritated motion of a woman who had absolutely zero time for ornamental nonsense.
Jane gasped like she'd just witnessed a war crime.
"Great," Jane said brightly. "Now that we've burned that bridge with confetti, let's go back to the one Adrienne built."
"Please," she said flatly.
"Jane, I'm not marrying for spa access," Venessa snapped. "I don't care if her son's made of collagen and black AmEx cards. I'm not interested in some boy-toy prince charming who needs a wife the way a hedge fund needs a rebrand."
She folded the Adrienne Lauren form carefully, tucking it into her bag like it was the only weapon she might actually consider using.
"I'm only doing this because the Adrienne Lauren might help me rebuild a life I want. Not because I want to sell myself to the highest bidder. She's the only bidder of my dream future."
But the moment they returned, something was off. The line had evolved—more aggressive, more curated. PR girls with iPads now filtered through applicants. There were wristbands. Wristbands!
And somehow, in the swirling chaos of models and mogul-hopefuls, Venessa—the one who hadn't even wanted to apply—became the odd one out.
A classy woman in an ivory pantsuit stepped forward. Not a handler. Not PR. It was her. Adrienne Lauren.
The crowd of women hushed. You'd think Beyoncé had descended in a chariot made of tax deductions.
"You," Adrienne said, eyes locking on Venessa. "You're the one who tore the Castell form."
Venessa's heart did something weird. And she froze on spot, before muttering, "Uh… yeah."
A pause. Then a smile—sharp, sharklike bloom on Adrienne's face.
"Finally. A woman with taste."
Adrienne then walked up, handed her a folder wrapped in gold foil, and whispered like she was passing state secrets: "Tell me girl, I have a proposal of my own for you. Are you interested?"
And just like that, Venessa was no longer in the line.
She was the headline.