9. Pageant Princess
Pageant Princess
HAYES
T ime for the talent show. I force a camera-ready smile as Skye announces the rules to the contestants gathered onstage.
Ten of the twenty beautiful women are about to compete for my attention.
If August could see me now, he’d probably quote Spock: “Fascinating, but highly illogical.” He’d be right.
Nothing about this situation makes sense, especially not after my conversation with Darren.
I shift in my throne-like chair positioned front row and center. They’ve even given me a ridiculous golden chalice filled with sparkling water to sip between performances. The whole setup screams “self-important bachelor,” and I’ve never felt more like an impostor.
“All right, Women Warriors!” Skye’s voice booms through the room, her blond hair adorned with what appears to be tiny flowers woven into braids. “Today’s challenge is simple—wow our handsome bachelor with your hidden talents, and one lucky girl will score a one-on-one date at the mansion tonight!”
The women erupt in excitement, their eyes darting between me and each other. I scan the group, not finding Brielle. Where is she?
“Remember,” Skye winks at the camera, “talent comes in many forms. Sometimes the package matters as much as what’s inside it—am I right, Hayes?”
I laugh on cue, playing my role. “I’m looking forward to seeing what everyone has prepared.”
What I don’t say: I’m dreading having to make some choices that aren’t mine to make. Darren’s instructions echo in my head: Keep Gabby and Kavita around. Create drama. Follow the script.
“First up,” Skye announces, “give it up for Gabby!”
The lights dim, and music with a pounding bass fills the room.
Gabby emerges from behind a velvet curtain, and my jaw nearly hits the floor.
She’s wearing what can only generously be described as a gymnastics outfit—a sparkly red number that covers roughly the same square footage as a cocktail napkin.
The g-string cuts high on her hips, leaving little to the imagination.
She catches my eye and winks before launching into a series of cartwheels across the performance space.
I’m immediately impressed by her athleticism—each movement precise and powerful.
She transitions into back handsprings, then a full backflip that lands perfectly.
The women applaud with varying degrees of enthusiasm, some clearly intimidated.
For her finale, Gabby executes a split leap into a forward roll that brings her directly to my feet. She looks up with practiced vulnerability, chest heaving dramatically.
“I was Iowa State Gymnastics Champion. Three years running,” she purrs, resting a hand on my knee. “I’m very... flexible.”
I smile politely, genuinely impressed by her abilities while simultaneously uncomfortable. It’s like watching someone bring a bazooka to a water balloon fight.
“That was very athletic,” I manage, aware of the cameras capturing my reaction. “Impressive.”
Gabby beams, clearly taking my diplomatic response as enthusiastic approval.
Then Chloe comes up and plays a melody on crystal glasses, which is interesting. Admittedly, my attention wanes a bit as the next three contestants do their talents, which include a hula hoop dance, poetry, and karate.
“Next up,” Skye announces, “bring it, Serena!”
A hush falls. Then, darkness.
Spotlights illuminate Serena, center-stage. Holding a lightsaber made of glow sticks, she stands tall in Princess Leia’s infamous gold bikini, her dark hair tousled into a reckless bun. Complete with chains and all. She looks… hot .
Her face is sultry, and she meets my gaze with intensity when she says, “Hope is like the sun. If you only believe in it when you can see it, you’ll never make it through the night.”
Her words, quoting Princess Leia, hit me with force. That’s exactly what this process is—believing you’ll find someone while stumbling through the darkness and confusion of it all.
Serena takes a bow, and I’m smiling when I say, “Your focus determines your reality,” quoting Qui-Gon Jinn.
Serena rises from the bow, her bikini strap slipping off one shoulder, and my dick bulges in my pants.
Brielle? Who’s Brielle?
Serena does a small, dignified turn, allowing everyone to appreciate the costume that—I can’t help but notice—fits her perfectly. She’s sexy, yes, but unlike Gabby’s performance, she’s making a deep and thought-provoking point.
She lifts her wrists to show the prop shackles then unclasps the chain with a dramatic bow. The room erupts in applause—even from some of the other women who recognize the game when they see it.
“That was awesome,” I say honestly when the noise dies down.
As Serena returns to her spot, I find myself genuinely intrigued.
Then, the stage goes dark, and when it lights up again, Jordan’s standing on a treadmill wearing a sport’s bra, running pants, and tennis shoes.
She turns the treadmill up to almost max speed as she runs, talking the entire time about the benefits of exercise on our bodies, minds, emotions, and spirits.
It’s a silly performance, but there’s no question that Jordan’s in top running condition.
“Moving right along,” Skye gestures dramatically, “here’s Annabelle!”
Sweet Southern Annabelle takes the stage, and I almost do a double take. Gone is the soft-spoken redhead who tears up. In her place stands a woman in leather pants and a fitted top, holding what appear to be actual flaming torches.
“Y’all might think I’m just a sensitive children’s author,” she drawls, her accent thicker than usual, “but back in Alabama, my uncle ran a carnival, and he taught me a thing or two about playin’ with fire.”
With that, she tosses a torch high into the air, catching it with her other hand. The flames leave golden trails in the air, reflected in her determined eyes. She begins to juggle, starting with two torches, then adding a third with a flick of her wrist that speaks of countless hours of practice.
There’s something mesmerizing about watching her—the danger, the focus, the way she transforms from the emotional, vulnerable Annabelle into this fearless performer.
At one point, she nearly drops a torch, fumbling it for a heart-stopping moment before recovering with a laugh and a wink in my direction.
“Meant to do that,” she calls out, drawing laughter.
For her finale, she extinguishes the torches one by one by seemingly swallowing the flames. The last one goes out with a dramatic hiss, leaving her standing in a pool of light, arms raised triumphantly.
“Annabelle,” I say, genuinely amazed, “that was incredible. Weren’t you scared?”
“Course I was,” she admits, wiping soot from her hands onto her pants. “But my mama always said, ‘Fear just means you’re about to do something brave.’”
Her simple honesty strikes a chord. As she walks back to her spot, I find myself watching her with new appreciation. There’s more to the crying redhead than I gave her credit for, and I’m glad to see that she is tough.
“Let’s keep the heat rising,” Skye announces with eyebrow waggling. “Here’s Luna!”
The music changes to something slow and sultry with a heavy beat. Luna emerges in a crimson dress that hugs every curve, slit up to—well, I’m enjoying it, I’ll just put it that way. Her movements are deliberate and hypnotic as she begins to dance, her body telling a story of seduction and power.
Unlike Gabby’s athletic display, Luna’s dance feels purposeful, each gesture laden with meaning. She commands the space, eyes locked on mine as she moves closer, then away, the push and pull of her choreography mimicking a more intimate dance.
I find myself transfixed, caught in her spell despite my best intentions. There’s something captivating about her confidence, the way she owns her sexuality without apology. When she finishes, ending in a dramatic pose mere feet from me, the room feels several degrees warmer.
“That was...” I search for an appropriate word, aware of cameras and the other women watching, “...expressive.”
Luna’s smile is knowing. “Dance is the rawest form of communication,” she says. “Body language doesn’t lie.”
The implication hangs between us as she returns to her place, several women shooting daggers at her with their eyes.
I take a gulp of water from my chalice, trying to regain my equilibrium.
Luna’s performance was unexpected—not just her skill, but my reaction to it.
There’s definitely chemistry there, raw and primal.
“Up next,” Skye continues, “our Bollywood beauty, Kavita!”
Kavita takes the stage in a gorgeous, jewel-toned gown that sparkles under the lights. She stands before a microphone, composed and elegant.
“I’ll be singing At Last by Etta James,” she announces, and then begins.
Her voice is—fine. Not spectacular, not terrible. The kind of voice that would get polite applause at a corporate karaoke night but wouldn’t place in any singing competition.
I smile encouragingly throughout, nodding along. When she finishes, I applaud with genuine appreciation for her courage.
“Thank you for sharing that with us,” I say diplomatically.
She nods, clearly aware she hasn’t knocked it out of the park but maintaining her dignity as she returns to the group. I respect that—it takes guts to get up and perform, especially when singing isn’t your strongest talent.
“And finally,” Skye announces with a dramatic pause, “let’s welcome Brielle!”
My heart rate kicks up a notch. What has she prepared?
I’m almost afraid to see what she’s planned because I know that no matter what she does, I can’t let my body language give me away, and I certainly can’t choose her for another one-on-one date.
And actually, I don’t want to. I’m excited to get to know the other women.
The room falls silent. And then—
Brielle waddles onto the stage in a full-body inflatable penguin costume.