"What would it take? For you to fall in love?"
I consider this. It's not a question I've asked myself in any serious way.
"Someone who sees me. Really sees me, not just what I can do for them. Someone who makes me want to be braver than I am."
Jessica scribbles something in her notebook. "Perfect. That's the vulnerability our viewers connect with."
Vulnerability as entertainment.Right. I'm starting to remember why reality TV makes me uncomfortable.
But then Ashley leads me through the main house, and I forget about my reservations because this place is insane. Crystal chandeliers, marble floors, a kitchen that's bigger than my entire bakery. A wall of windows overlook a pool that looks like it belongs in a resort.
"The bachelor's quarters are separate," Ashley explains, pointing toward a smaller building across the courtyard. "You won't see him until the Welcome Ceremony tonight."
"What's he like? In person, I mean."
Ashley's professional smile falters slightly, becoming something more genuine. "He's... different than you'd expect.Quieter. More thoughtful. The producers keep trying to get him to play up the whole 'fierce warrior' thing, but he's actually really gentle."
Gentle.Not a word I'd associated with someone nicknamed "the Destroyer."
"Has he done this before? Reality TV?"
"First time. I think he's more nervous than anyone wants to admit."
That's oddly comforting. I'm not the only one out of my element here.
Ashley shows me to my room, and calling it a room is an understatement. It's a suite with a king bed, marble bathroom, and a balcony overlooking the gardens. My entire apartment could fit in the walk-in closet.
"Dinner's at six, ceremony starts at eight," Ashley says. "Your dress is hanging in the closet. We had it tailored based on your measurements from the fitting."
After she leaves, I sit on the enormous bed and take stock. I'm in Los Angeles. I'm about to compete for a man I've never met on national television. I've left my bakery, my life, everything familiar for the chance at something that might not even exist.
What would Grandma think?
She'd probably tell me to quit overthinking and start paying attention. To the details, the timing, the person I'm getting to know.
I unpack my suitcase, hanging my clothes next to the fancy dresses the wardrobe department selected. They look like costumes compared to my usual jeans and sweaters. Like props for playing a character called "Trinity Lewis, Reality TV Contestant."
At dinner, I meet some of the other women. There's Amber, a fitness instructor from Denver who's clearly done this beforebased on how comfortable she is with the cameras. Sophia, an art gallery owner from Miami who speaks three languages and makes me feel undereducated. Madison, whose job is listed as "Instagram Influencer" and who's already strategizing about which camera angles will be most flattering.
I sit quietly, eating surprisingly good pasta and wondering what I've gotten myself into. These women are polished, confident, beautiful in ways that translate perfectly to television. I'm a baker from Maine who's never owned a dress that cost more than fifty dollars.
But then Madison mentions something about "playing the game" and Sophia nods knowingly, and I remember something Jessica said during my interview:We were impressed with your authenticity.
Maybe authenticity is my advantage here. Maybe being genuine instead of strategic is exactly what will set me apart.
Or maybe I'll be voted off first and back in Maine before my sourdough starter dies.
At seven-thirty, Ashley appears to escort us to hair and makeup. The glam squad descends like a team of fairy godmothers, transforming my usual ponytail and chapstick into something red-carpet worthy. The woman doing my makeup, Carmen, has worked on movie sets and keeps up a steady stream of gossip about celebrities I've only seen in magazines.
"You've got great bone structure," she says, dusting highlighter across my cheekbones. "Very photogenic. The cameras are going to love you."
The dress they've chosen is deep emerald green, simple but elegant, with a neckline that's low enough to be interesting without making me feel exposed. It fits perfectly, hugging curves I'd forgotten I had. When I look, I barely recognize myself.
Is this what confidence looks like?
At eight o'clock sharp, we're lined up outside the main house like debutantes at a ball. The production crew swarms around us, checking lighting, adjusting microphones, shouting directions that somehow manage to sound both urgent and routine.
"Ladies, remember," Jessica addresses us from behind the cameras, "this is your first impression. Make it count. Be yourselves, but be the best versions of yourselves."
