Prologue
Marlow
One month ago in Las Vegas
I knew it. I knew it! I fucking knew it!
I’m standing outside one of Las Vegas’ newest and most exclusive clubs, where I’m supposed to be celebrating my childhood best friend’s bachelorette party. Champagne, dancing, bad decisions—the works.
But, no. Instead of partying, I’ve been pacing the damn sidewalk in stilettos, because my phone has been blowing up with call after call from an unknown number.
Finally, after the sixth one lights up my screen, I cave and answer.
And who is it?
My ex-boyfriend’s childhood best friend.
You know the one. The one he swore up and down was just a friend.
The one who always said, “babe, it only looks like we’re close because we grew up together,” every time I made a comment about how she was always around.
The one he gaslight me about her not liking me for a year because, according to him, I was “just jealous” and “insecure” and only a truly mature woman could handle their friendship.
Yeah. That one.
She’s pregnant.
And because life is apparently a soap opera, Young and the Dickless, she’s decided to call me and tell me about it.
Her whiny, high-pitched voice oozes through my speaker. “I’m really sorry you had to find out like this, but I just feel like…women should stick together. You know?”
“Sorry!” I yell into the phone. “Were you sorry the countless times you were offering your vagina up to my boyfriend, you cantankerous cunt?”
A group of guys stumbles past, bumping into me. One of them smirks, clearly clocking my mood. “Chill out, babe. This is Vegas!”
I roll my eyes. “So helpful, that one,” I mutter under my breath sarcastically.
I am not normally this feisty, nor would I ever curse someone out while standing in stilettos on a sidewalk. But sometimes a girl hits her breaking point. That moment where she realizes that playing nice, smiling through the bullshit, and being the “good girl” has gotten her exactly nowhere.
And let’s be clear: I’m supposed to be having the weekend to end all weekends.
One last wild, unforgettable, maybe-regrettable hurrah before I trade in tequila shots and spontaneous decisions for early mornings and professionalism.
Because next week, I start my new job with the Atlanta Strikers Soccer Club.
So really... what better place to make a few questionable, possibly life-altering decisions than three thousand miles from home?
Jillian’s still yammering through the phone. “Okay, I don’t know what a... a cantankerous is, or whatever, but—”
“Save it, Jillian. You didn’t call me out of sisterhood or solidarity or whatever fairytale bullshit you’re selling yourself tonight. You called to gloat. To tell me you finally got what everyone already knew you wanted—you got Jeremy. Congratulations. May the four of you live happily ever after.”
She gasps. “Four? I’m not having twins!”
I let out a cold laugh. “It’s cute you think you’re gonna break him up with his mama!”
Then I hang up. Hard.
Jeremy. What a dumb name, anyway.
By the time I weave my way back inside and find my friends, I’m already halfway into a bottle of tequila I picked up off of a waitress. No glass. No lime. No shame.
I simply gave the nice lady five hundred dollars and told her to leave the Don Julio with me.
The four bridesmaids and bride-to-be are huddled near the VIP booth, eyes widening as I approach, phone in one hand, bottle in the other. I’ve been angry texting them the whole time I was stomping around the casino floor, like we were playing some deranged game of Marco Polo.
“Hey, sweetie,” Alaya says carefully, stepping toward me. “So sorry about Jeremy.”
The other bridesmaids chime in behind her. “Yeah, girl. So sorry!”
I tip the bottle back, taking another long, defiant swig. “I hope he gets ass cancer!”
“Easy there,” Alaya says, voice half soothing, half concerned.
“Fine! Dick and ball cancer. Is that nice enough for you?”
“Jesus, Marlow!” I hear from behind me.
I take another swig, wiping my mouth like a drunken sailor. “Well, it’s a little dick, so it won’t be much of a loss to society!”
Sarah eyes the bottle in my hand, her brows shooting up. “Um… anyone else notice she’s drunk half of that already?”
I hiccup again, clutching my drink like it holds the answers to life. “And why is it—why—that women always settle for the guy with the little dick?”
“Can we stop saying dick so much?” Sarah hisses through her teeth, her smile frozen and eyes darting around. “People are starting to think we’re prostitutes!”
I wave her off like she’s missing something big and mind-bending. “We think—we think—if we accept a man as he is, with his little edamame-looking penis, he’ll be grateful. He’ll worship us. But no! He goes and knocks up Jillian. Jillian! The canker cunt!”
Alaya, calm and dressed like an off-duty goddess, leans in with her best preschool teacher voice. “Hey, Marlow? Since tomorrow’s my wedding day, and you’re my maid of honor and all, why don’t you go back to the villa and lie down, sweetie?”
Translation: you are seconds from being immortalized in a viral TikTok meltdown, and we cannot have that.
“I’m just saying, Laya! With a name like Nelson, he better have a good di–”
Sarah pours more tequila down my throat, stopping me before another dick flies out of my mouth.
Then, seemingly out of nowhere, tears come. Hot and fast.
“I was finally going to introduce him to my dad, Laya!” I blurt, my voice breaking on the words.
She pulls me into a hug, rubbing my back. “I know, sweetie. We all know how hard it is to bring someone home to Daddy.”
Harder for me than most.
I’d been dating Jeremy for a year before even thinking about introducing him to my father. Because my dad sniffs out men like Jeremy in a heartbeat. The ones who talk a good game, who charm their way in with no intention of settling down. The ones who only want to get in my pants. Daddy’s words.
And he would’ve been right about Jeremy.
Because, let’s be real—it takes a player to know a player. And my dad? He’s one of the best.
Not in a sleazy way. He’s not out here lying to women or spinning some fairytale. If anything, he’s brutally honest.
Every time he meets a woman, he lays it all out there—he married the love of his life years ago, and now that she’s gone, he has no intention of falling in love again.
And somehow these women eat it up. The honesty.
The no-strings-attached vibe. The man could sell sand in a desert. It’s no wonder I suck at relationships.
Whenever I ask him—usually after we’ve split a bottle of wine—how the hell I’m supposed to find love when he’s the example I grew up with, he always says the same thing.
That I shouldn’t overthink it: “Find the man who’s honest. The one who can’t live without you.
Find the one who gives you their whole heart without question.
That’s what you wait for. That’s what I had with your mother. ”
Then he reminds me he’s still being honest with these women he goes out with today, which is why he feels no guilt about his bad boy image and the fact he’ll never settle down again.
I usually roll my eyes because only men could get away with that logic.
I say my goodbyes to the bride squad, promising Alaya I’ll be back in time for her sunset wedding tomorrow—hopefully minus the tequila still coursing through my veins and the simmering rage that’s clinging to me like bad perfume.
“Go sleep it off,” Alaya says, giving me one last hug. “You’ll feel better tomorrow.”
Sarah leans in for a hug. “And hey—no drunk-texting Jeremy, ok?”
I hold up three fingers. Then burp. “Scout’s honor.”
As I’m weaving my way through the casino toward the car queue, I pull out my phone and shoot my dad a quick text.
Me: Heading back to the villa to sleep off tequila. Have fun tonight but not too much fun. I’m not bailing you out of jail…again.
A minute later, the three little dots pop up.
Daddy: The hooker said her pimp will bail me out.
I laugh to myself and slide the phone back into my clutch. Pretty sure he’s joking.
It’s nine p.m. on a Saturday night and I’m wearing the cutest Crash Steele dress I had made especially for this weekend.
The bodice is pure art. It’s strapless, with intricate black lace that curves in all the right places, hugging my body like a second skin. The layers of soft, inky-black tulle float out from my hips in an asymmetric sweep that hits mid-thigh. It’s sultry, dramatic, perfect for a night out in Vegas.
I should be out partying, dancing, giving my best friend the biggest, wildest send-off before her wedding. But no.
Instead, my night is currently being ruined by a man who has never—not once—given me an orgasm.
The audacity.
As I round the corner near one of the side entrances, I pass a guy standing behind a branded pop-up table, a big neon sign flashing SightUnseen above his head.
He’s calling out to people as they walk by, waving a clipboard in one hand. “Sign-ups open now! Condensed version of the show! Ninety minutes to meet the love of your life!”
I slow my steps, curiosity tugging at me.
He spots me immediately. “You look like someone who is ready for love!”
I arch a brow. “SightUnseen? Isn’t that the reality show where people date through pods and end up engaged without ever seeing each other?”
“That’s the one! This is the fast-track version,” he says with a slick grin. “Ninety minutes in the pods. If you both make it through, you can either take a weekend getaway or go all in, get married, and win a million dollars if you stay married for a year. And hey—we’ve had some success stories!”
I cross my arms. “But we don’t have to marry the person at the end of the night, right?”
He shakes his head quickly. “Of course not. It’s just a fun social experiment. But you never know—sometimes love shows up when you least expect it.”
Love can show up when you least expect it.
Sure, it sounds cute in theory—but what would I even know about that? About what love really looks like? What it’s supposed to feel like?
It’s not like I’m one of those girls who grew up chasing after her father’s approval or wondering why he wasn’t around.
I had my dad. We’ve always had this weirdly close, open kind of bond—one where nothing’s really off-limits.
We talk about everything, probably more than most fathers and daughters do.
But even with that, if I’m honest, there’s still a gap in my understanding of romantic love.
Because outside of the way he talks about my mom, I’ve never actually seen a man love someone. I’ve never watched my father fall—never caught him dancing barefoot in the kitchen late at night, wrapped around a woman he couldn’t get enough of. I’ve never seen him swept up in real romance.
So yeah, I had my dad. But I’ve never had a man model what true devotion looks like. What it means to choose someone—every day, without fail.
What if there’s something I could actually learn from this little experiment?
I glance at the clipboard.
The tequila is definitely still working its magic, because this sounds ridiculous. Crazy. Utterly insane.
And yet… maybe insane is exactly what I need tonight.
I let out a breath and grin. “Screw it. Sign me up.”
The guy leans in a little. “Okay, here’s how it works,” he says, grinning.
“You’ll start by meeting at least three different people, speed dating style.
You won’t see them—there’s a screen between you.
Just voices. You’ll get fifteen minutes with each one to ask whatever you want, get to know them a little. ”
I cross my arms, tilting my head. “And if I hate them all?”
He chuckles. “You gotta talk to at least three. But if someone catches your attention, you can extend the session. Stay in there longer if you want.”
I nod slowly, curiosity piqued despite myself.
“Then, at the end of the speed dating round,” he continues, “if you and one person both choose each other, you get ninety minutes together in the pod. No distractions. Just the two of you.”
“Do I get to see him then?”
“No. Not until the end when you decide if you’ll stay together.”
“And after that? If we decide to stay together?” I ask, arching a brow.
He flashes another grin. “At the end of the ninety minutes, you’ve got options. You can get engaged, get married right here on the spot—Vegas, after all—or walk away. No strings, no pressure. But if you last the entire time in the pods, you both win a trip to a destination of your choice.”
I blink, processing.
I cannot believe I’m even considering this.
Me. Type A. Full-blown control freak. The high school senior who once cried in the nurse’s office because she had the flu and was about to ruin her perfect attendance record—one that dated all the way back to kindergarten.
This has to be the most idiotic, unhinged, out-of-character thing I’ve ever let myself even think about doing.
And yet… I find myself saying, “Alright. Let’s do it.”