Venessa blinked.
The crowd behind her was silent, practically holding its collective breath like the air had been turned to champagne and no one dared spill a drop. Adrienne Lauren stood in front of her like some immaculately dressed oracle, cloaked in ivory and power. Her heels were sharper than the law. Her perfume smelled like secrets and second chances.
Venessa, who was still digesting the fact she hadn't even brushed her hair properly that morning, cleared her throat. "A proposal?" she repeated, her voice a half-tone short of disbelief. "You mean like...a job?"
Adrienne's smile deepened, as if Venessa had said something terribly amusing. "My dear," she said, silkily, "if I wanted to offer you a job, I'd have sent a handler. This—" she lifted the golden-foiled folder slightly—"is a life shift. An invitation. And, frankly, an audition."
Venessa's fingers closed around the folder like it might self-destruct if handled improperly. It was heavy. Expensive. The kind of weight that made promises and threats in the same breath.
"You're not like the others," Adrienne continued, tone dropping so only Venessa could hear now. "You didn't come here drooling over my son's trust fund. You came because you thought I could give you something better than escape. Power. Security. A reason to stay in your own damn skin."
Venessa felt every nerve in her body light up. Not in fear. In recognition. Adrienne Lauren didn't look at her like others. She looked at her like an odd. While she was all that older, richer, terrifyingly wiser—but a reflection nonetheless.
"But me?" Venessa asked, clutching the folder.
"Yes, you! Exactly, what I can favour..." Adrienne said as she looked Venessa from top to bottom and honestly she wasn't that disappointed in the girl mid-level clothing choices as they were still stylish and pleasant to look. The girl was natural beauty. Who knows she might be exactly what want she wanted too.
And with that, Adrienne pivoted on her heel like a queen exiting a coronation. She didn't wait for Venessa to respond. She didn't need to. Because queens don't ask—they summon.
Behind her, the crowd unfroze, murmurs rising like an aftershock. Cameras flashed. A blogger fainted. Megan let out a strangled whisper from the sidelines. "Vanessa. You just got chosen like a damn Disney princess with unresolved trauma."
Jane, ever the realist, muttered, "This is either your golden ticket or the opening scene of a thriller. I genuinely can't tell yet."
Venessa didn't answer. She opened the folder.
Inside: a single sheet of thick, black-edged paper. Gold calligraphy across the top:
CONFIDENTIAL INVITATION: BRIDE CANDIDATE LEVEL ONE – PRIVATE ACCESS
Below that? A time. A place. Tonight. Midnight. A private jet terminal. A list of requirements: "Pack for five days. No press. No plus-ones. Discretion is your currency."
At the bottom, a single sentence in Adrienne's signature red ink:
If you're late, don't bother coming.
Venessa stared at it, heart pounding in her ears like the ticking of a very expensive bomb.
A proposal?
Oh no. This was something else entirely.
It wasn't about love. It wasn't about marriage.
This was a game—and Adrienne Lauren had just made her first move.
The private terminal wasn't marked. Just a gate, matte black, unlisted. No flight boards. No logos. Only a concierge in all-white with a clipboard and a look that said, I know who you are, and I know what you're not.
Venessa arrived two minutes before midnight. Jane had forced a sleek dress into her arms, Megan had tried to Google the meaning of "Bride Candidate Level One," and her siblings had fallen asleep before she could leave a note. Typical.
The concierge barely glanced at her passport. "Miss Ellison," he said, ticking her name off with a Montblanc pen worth more than her dress. "Welcome to the Lauren Selection."
The what now?
Before she could ask, she was escorted to a luxury jet so polished it could blind God. Inside were nine other women. All in black. All stunning. All silent.
Each seat had a name card and a blood-red envelope. Venessa's spot? Seat 06.
She took her place, opened the envelope.
RULES OF SELECTION:
1. Ten candidates. Five will be eliminated within the first 72 hours.
2. Eliminations are performance-based. Character, poise, adaptability, and... discretion.
3. No media. No leaks. No questions.
4. You are not competing for love. You are competing for legacy.
5. You may opt out. But no one re-returns once existed.
Venessa blinked, her breath catching. This wasn't dating. This was corporate gladiator cosplay with a bridal veil.
Suddenly, the cabin dimmed. A glass screen lit up. Adrienne Lauren appeared in all her crisp, ageless glory.
"Ladies," she began, "welcome to 'The House of Lauren.'"
Oh god. It had a name. And a brand. And probably a limited series on Hulu waiting in the wings.
"You are here because you've shown the rare mix of intelligence, ruthlessness, and restraint I admire," Adrienne continued. "You are not here to win over my son. You are here to become a rival, if you dare. To my heir. My successor. The woman who can lead a fashion empire, control a dynasty, and yes—if could handle my son."
Someone near the front gasped.
"Over the next five days, you will be tested—socially, emotionally, financially, and yes... morally. You will be observed. You will be judged. But not by me."
Adrienne paused. Smiled.
"You'll be judged by him."
The screen went black. Another envelope dropped from a hatch above each seat. This one was gold-trimmed, and stamped with a single letter: D.
Venessa opened hers.
Inside was a photo. Just one. Grainy. Candid. A man leaning against a balcony in a white button-down, sleeves rolled, cigarette in hand, laughing like sin and danger had formed a boyband.
On the back, written in Adrienne's scarlet pen:
Damien Lauren. Heir. Asset. Liability. Your target.
Below it: And darling, if you fall for him… make sure you have the ability to make him fall harder than you do too.
Venessa stared at the photo, her fingers numb, her brain racing.
This wasn't marriage.
This is going to be a war in stilettos. As she looked over every girl, all eyeing the hunk and probably making plans of their own to catch the big fish.
Cause the prize? Not just a husband.
Everything.