“Tell us a dad joke!” someone shouts.

Without missing a beat, Beck says, “I’m reading a book about antigravity. It’s impossible to put down.”

Half of the room laughs dryly, while the other half makes a confused tittering noise.

“And of course, the renowned Erica Tremaine is your show creator and executive producer. She will be in and out during production. We’re about to load you all up on a fancy bus,” she continues. “At which time we will distribute a welcome packet with some house rules, a map of the château, a brief bio of our mystery suitor—”

The women, including Anna and Drew, whistle and squeal.

“I heard he’s a pilot,” someone behind me says.

Beck clears her throat. “And you will also find your room numbers along with the names of your roommates. We have about four girls to a room, but that will change as many of you are eliminated. Tonight, we go from twenty-five to eighteen, so some of you won’t even have a full room by the time you close your eyes.”

The women groan, and even I feel a sinking pit in my stomach.

“This is when I should give you a lecture about sisterhood and playing nice and yada, yada, yada, but let’s be real: When has that ever made for good TV?”

The room goes sharply quiet except for the producers chuckling at the back of the room.

“I’m kidding,” Beck says. “Sort of. In all seriousness, we want you all to get along, of course, but don’t forget that this is a competition with true love on the line.”

Around me, several women nod with fervor. Not Addison, though. She sits with her legs crossed once at the knee and again at the ankle—is the woman a contortionist? Maybe a contortionist influencer? Is there an audience for that?

“And of course,” Beck continues, “a hundred thousand dollars.”

Everyone lets out an excited whoop! Even me! I could do so much with that money. I’ve been aimless for the last year, but I can’t ignore the little burst of excitement I feel when I think about what I could do if I won. That money, even after taxes, could be a real start to something huge for me and what might someday be my brand. I wiggle my toes inside my shoes, the worn leather insoles perfectly formed to the shape of my feet, and for a moment I imagine what it might be like to see these babies on shelves everywhere in all kinds of sizes and colors. And a very small part of me even aches for my sketch pad. Not because I have any huge ideas just bubbling at the surface, but because I miss the feel of it in my hands.

“For a lot of you, this will be a life-changing experience, and we truly do hope you bond with one another, but don’t forget what you came here for. Or who you came here for.” Beck claps her hands together. “File up in a line outside the buses waiting for you in the carport. Please make sure your luggage is clearly marked…and with that, we’re off to the château!”

We all cheer, and Anna squeezes my hand. “I can’t believe we’re actually doing this!”

On the bus, Drew and Anna sit together and I sit behind them. Several women walk past me in search of other contestants, but a petite white woman with light brown hair wearing a pink-and-white-striped shirt dress and matching espadrilles stops at my row. “Is this seat taken?” she asks in a Southern drawl.

“All yours,” I tell her.

She holds a hand out to me, and I’m honestly surprised she’s not wearing matching lace gloves too.

“I’m Sara Claire,” she tells me.

I shake her hand and try to wedge myself against the wall to give her a little more space. “Cindy,” I tell her. “Just the one name.”

She giggles, and then pats my thigh. “I’ve got plenty of room, Cindy. No need for shrinkin’ yourself up into a ball.”

“Th-thanks,” I say, feeling a little self-conscious that she noticed, but then again, I’ve heard that Southern women have a way of being both polite and direct.

We sit in silence as we begin to read through our welcome packets.

MIDNIGHT CHÂTEAU RULES

1. No glass containers—none whatsoever!—in the hot tub.

2. Lights-out rules enforced. (Time varies by night.)

3. No cell phones. No emails. No texts. No communication with the outside world.

4. Violence will not be tolerated. Any violence will result in immediate elimination and potential law enforcement involvement.

5. Smile! You’re on camera.

A chill runs down my spine. Creepy.

Beside me, Sara Claire gasps. “We’re roomies!”

I look over at her packet and then quickly flip to the third page to catch up.

ROOM 6:

Sara Claire

Cindy

Addison

Stacy

“I hope Addison and Stacy are nice,” Sara Claire says.

I peer over my shoulder to where Addison sits a few rows back, whispering to another woman.

“That might be asking for too much,” I mutter.

I flip back a page to find it labeled SUITOR BIO.

This season’s suitor hails from an iconic family known for their fashion empire.

What? The possible heir to a fashion empire? “Did you see this?” I ask, pointing to the bio.

Sara Claire peers over my shoulder. “I wonder what brand it is?”

“I don’t know, but the fashion industry is a smaller world than you’d expect, especially for the big luxury names.” I continue to read, searching for a hint.

The suitor is known for his sharp-witted humor and business savvy. He might be vicious in the boardroom, but he’s a total softy with the ladies. His hobbies include sailing, water polo, high-stakes Scrabble, and returning his mother’s phone calls. He’s ready to upgrade from his single lifestyle and finally settle down with a woman who will challenge him and help represent the family brand.

Sara Claire taps her pink nail against the page. “Playboy reputation rehab.”

“Huh?”

She turns to me and in a low voice says, “These guys are always some kind of archetype. Country boy with family values looking to settle down? He’s really a right-wing nut with mommy issues. Free-spirited adventure seeker looking for his soul mate to plant roots with? Immature daredevil who thinks he’s more special than everyone else. You gotta read between the lines.”

I tilt my head, looking at the bio once more.