A woman with a narrow nose that just barely lifts at its point says, “Oh, the producers came and got her and a few other girls to have their hair and makeup done by the crew.”

“What? I thought that was only for one-on-one dates,” someone else says.

The woman shrugs. “I guess the producers are already playing favorites.”

Sara Claire nudges me. “They’re just trying to get in our heads.”

“Who is?” I ask.

“The producers,” she says simply.

And it’s then that I’m reminded of the fact that no one here knows just how closely I’m tied to the brains behind this machine.

“The crazier we are, the more entertaining we are, and the more entertaining we are, the higher the ratings,” Sara Claire says as we walk out the front door and board golf carts that look like tiny minivans that take us past the front gates to where lines of tents are set up with rows of chairs.

I know everything she’s saying to be true in a theoretical way. I’ve heard Erica say countless things just like this on phone calls, but seeing the reality of it is…unsettling. It’s a side of Erica and her job that I knew existed but never thought I’d have to interact with.

“Ladies!” Beck says through a bullhorn. “Your seats are labeled. This is the order you will be going in. You’ll get in the white Rolls-Royce, and yes, she is our baby. A 1950 original. The car will take you through the gates, you’ll meet the suitor, and then head into the house, where the bar will be open to you. When we’re done filming out front, the suitor will come and mingle out in the courtyard. This is your time to get to know him before this evening’s elimination ceremony. Reminder: Some of you will be going home before lights-out tonight.”

Beside her, Wes crosses his arms and smirks. “Go big or go home,” he yells. “Literally!”

I glance around nervously, searching for Anna and Drew. I see them both sitting together in the second and third chairs beside Addison, who is wearing a gold lamé gown with a front and back so low it makes me nervous. Still, she looks like an actual goddess.

I wave to them, but they’re both nodding intently as Beck talks to them.

I find my seat down near the end, next to a woman with red curly hair and three oranges in her lap.

“I’m Judith,” she says as I sit down. “I juggle.”

“Cool,” I say, unsure what to make of that.

From years of watching this show and living with Erica, I know that intro night is a beloved fan favorite. There’s Twitter discourse, message boards, and even drinking games! (Drink every time a contestant introduces themselves with a pun the suitor doesn’t get!)

But the point is that the most memorable women on the first night receive the most camera time when they get the public talking. Of course, the decisions are always left to the suitor, though I can’t help but wonder how many of his decisions are influenced by producers pulling strings behind the scenes.

The question is what can I do or say in ten seconds that will make me stand out among the crowd? (The very beautiful and glamorous crowd.)

Between Juggling Judith and Meme Icon Addison, I don’t really have much to offer in such a short span of time.

“Twins!” someone shouts. “You’re up.”

Anna and Drew stand up, and I nearly shout, They’re not twins! But they’re gone and in the Rolls-Royce before I can even give them a good-luck wave.

“Twins,” says Judith. “Now that’s a good shtick. They haven’t had that before.”

The line moves more quickly than I expect, and with every girl that leaves, the rest of us move down a chair until it’s just Judith and me.

“Good luck!” I call to her as she slides into the back of the limo, the oranges gathered in her arms.

“I don’t need luck,” she says seriously. “I’ve got skills.”

“We saved the best for last,” Beck says as she slams the door.

I scoff at that. “Yeah, right. More like this guy is gonna be a total zombie from meeting twenty-five women back-to-back.”

Wes tilts his head, listening in on his headset. “Move it!” he shouts as he runs past someone from craft services balancing a tray of sandwiches. “We’ve got a breakdown happening by the pool.” He holds the walkie-talkie up to his mouth. “No, let her spiral! I need those tears!”

I don’t know if it’s his gross reaction to some woman in crisis or if it’s just my nerves, but I feel sick to my stomach.

“Whoa there,” says Beck, steadying me. “Ignore him.”

I shake my head. “I don’t think I can do this. I need to go home. There’s still time. Erica would only be a little bit annoyed if I left now. I haven’t even really been on camera. And I can apologize to the whole crew that came out to the house the other day for wasting—”

“Stop.” Her voice is stern. “You can do this, Cindy. You look incredible and you’re smart and funny and talented. The suitor is going to love you. The audience is going to love you. And most importantly, they’re going to die over those shoes.”

I look down at the feathers framing my ankles. My shoes. My beautiful shoes. Even if all I do is walk out there and introduce myself, millions of people will at least know my name and see my shoes. Even if I never design another shoe again, I’ll always have that moment.

I take a deep breath. I can do anything in these shoes.

“Wait!” Ash yells, sprinting up the hill from the trailers down below. “Wait!”

When she reaches us, her chest is heaving, but she’s holding a highlighter and brush in her hands. “Sorry Wes had us so busy all night, but I wanted to get up here to check on you.”

“Me?” I ask.

Ash smiles with a laugh. “Yes, you, Cindy.” She winks. “We all have our favorites, you know.”

And that little piece of information steadies me even more. “Thank you,” I whisper.

She dusts my cheekbones and the tip of my nose with rose gold. “Perfect.”

The Rolls-Royce is straight out of a fairy tale—a glistening white against the swirling sunset sky, and welded to the grille is the sparkling Before Midnight logo, a ticking Roman-numeral clock. This is really happening.

The car drives me the short distance up the rest of the hill and through the gate of the château as though this were my first time arriving here.