Women's fiction with depth, humor, and heart

I stared at the seven men of my supposed dreams. Of my nightmares, more like, and theirs too by the stunned faces staring back. The hotel ballroom's walls closed in, the multi-layered crystal chandelier I'd thought gorgeous at first sight now looming over my head, and dizziness shuddered through me.

The show's host said, "What's wrong, Princess?", his overdone innocence making it clear: this was no accident.

I had to speak, had to take back some semblance of control, but I couldn't. Knowing how many eyes, electronic and otherwise, studied my every move and reaction silenced me like a hand over my mouth. I struggled for words, but none came.

After a few seconds, the host raised well-tended eyebrows. "Nothing to say? All right, then. Gentlemen, I'm Peter Underwood. This, of course, is Madeleine-Cora Spencer. I say 'of course' because you all know her. Know her well, in fact."

He paused, just long enough for me to consider fleeing the room, then added, his tone too casual, "You've all dated her."

My exes exchanged surreptitious glances, sizing up the competition and no doubt mentally questioning my choices, as Peter's mouth formed a smile that didn't come close to warming the chill in his eyes and I fought to keep my face expressionless. Hearing the words from him made it all too real.

"Now, she expected to be on the 'Find Your Prince' dating show, but she really can't be on a dating show with her exes, can she?" Returning his focus to me, he shook his head as if sympathetic. "Especially not the ones you called 'flighty'... 'ridiculously jealous'... 'egotistical'..."

With each trait he gave, he pointed to the man it described, and my horror grew with each word. 'Flighty', predictably, didn't seem to care, but 'jealous' and 'egotistical' both looked ready to take me apart. I had to shut Peter up before he got me killed. "I did date them," I said, hating the wobbly feeling in my voice, "and you knew that since I put them all on my appli--"

"Gentlemen, Madeleine-Cora," he said over me, "we haven't quite been honest with you. You've been given various explanations for why you're here, but now it's time for the truth: the eight of you will spend the next twenty-one nights on a tropical island."

'Flighty' said, "Cool!" but Peter ignored him and went on. "You will live together in a shelter, after you build it, and scavenge for most of your food. There is a million dollar prize to the winner, and as the days go on we will explain what you need to do to win. Princess, gentlemen, the game is on."

Never had a mind been so blank. I just stared at Peter as it began to sink in. An island. Trapped with seven men. Not just any men, but these men. So much history. And cameras hungry for the men to reveal that history, reveal my most intimate secrets. Nowhere to hide.

My careful analysis of the real show's previous seasons to see which strategies worked, all the hours I'd spent considering how to get to know my potential princes. Wasted. This bunch of frogs didn't contain my prince. I'd kissed them all, I should know.

I'd regretted signing up for the show a hundred times over the past two months, starting seconds after I'd filled out the application online through tears of rage and humiliation. Meeting new men and letting them learn about me would be hard, I'd known that, but I'd been determined to go through with it anyhow, sure that finding a good man would be worth the pain. But this? All pain, no possible gain. Why had they done this to me?

"I'm so out of here."

Greg, my most recent boyfriend, stormed toward Peter and me. I took a quick step backward, but he blew past me and slammed to a stop facing Peter. "You told me I'd be the prince, the one choosing a woman, not this stupid thing. This isn't fair."

When Greg had told me he loved me on our third date, I'd been more than a little surprised and nowhere near ready to return the sentiment. He hadn't seemed to mind my not saying it back, but the words had hovered over us like a three-syllable cloud of doom, and I'd broken up with him a few weeks later because I couldn't handle knowing he wanted me to hurry up and fall in love with him so we could get married.

I'd almost left our pitifully short relationship off my application, but I'd been afraid he'd end up on the show with me in some horrific coincidence. Well, no coincidence, but here he was.

Or maybe not. "I'm leaving, and you can't stop me." Greg turned on his heel and headed for the ballroom's door.

He made it about five feet.

"I don't want to stop you," Peter said, his face calm and faintly amused, and Greg paused. "Just give me the two hundred and fifty thousand dollars you agreed to pay if you quit the show, and I'll drive you to the airport myself."

"The..."

"Surely you read the contract before you signed it?" Now addressing everyone instead of just Greg, Peter went on. "It gives us the right to change the show's concept if we see fit. If you're thinking of quitting, folks, make sure you have the money ready. It's the only way you'll get out of here. Otherwise you're ours for the duration."

Greg's defiance sputtered and died. Without another word to him, Peter ran his eyes over the rest of us. "Anyone got a quarter million burning a hole in their pocket? No? Then let's go."