Chapter 6

Valentine paused, waited for the applause to die down, and continued:

"And now, ladies and gentlemen, it is time to meet our contestants! They are already here, standing in the shadows of the stage, waiting for me to introduce them. And right now we begin with a short story about each of them!"

The overhead spotlights went out, darkness fell above the stage, and a huge screen lit up. We, the female contestants, stood on either side of it and could not see our own previews...

only hear them. But when the musical intro began, a whole crowd of goose bumps swept over my skin. Everything became too real, too irreversible.

The first intro belonged to some girl with a silky laugh:

"Hi, I'm Nastya. I'm twenty-one. I love dancing, traveling, watching sunsets by the sea, and I believe true love is like coffee: it should be strong, hot, and preferably every day. Ha-ha!"

The audience applauded politely.

Next came a confident male voice, with the kind of intonation people use when they are used to clearing obstacles at a run, no matter what stands in the way:

"I'm Vlad, a fitness trainer. I'm twenty-three. I love sports, nightclubs, and achieving my goals. To me, a date is like a workout: the main thing is to define the goal and not give up too early. After all, the heart is a muscle too, and I intend to pump it up!"

I snorted inwardly: apparently using the girl as exercise equipment. An unenviable prospect. I hoped Astralia had not meant him when she brought up the dream with the pink flamingo, otherwise I would have to work on my calf muscles. This athlete sounded as if he'd overdosed on protein powder with a confidence supplement.

Then another girl spoke, and her voice was quiet but brittle, as if she had deliberately turned the volume down:

"Hello, my name is Kate. I'm nineteen, and I'm going to be an artist. I love the silence of galleries, the smell of oil paints, and I dream of living in Paris and painting Montmartre. I believe love on this show will become my greatest inspiration and a lottery ticket to happiness!"

The audience gave an approving "aww," and I pictured this Kate in a beret, with a little paintbrush, for some reason with a glass of red wine and a poodle on her lap. French romance.

Then another confident male voice sounded:

"Bogdan, twenty-one. Future lawyer. I'm used to winning arguments, even when the argument is with myself. I'm into mountaineering, I never back down, and I'm ready to conquer any girl's heart. Believe me, I will find the counterarguments and present the evidence to sway her feelings in my favor. We won't leave our competitors a single chance!"

The viewers responded to that promise with chuckles and applause, while I mentally pitied his match. A guy like that wouldn't leave anyone anything, not even the right to be herself.

Then a girl's voice rang out, bright and sultry at the same time, with flirty notes in it:

"Hi, my name is Margot. I'm twenty-two, and I'm a retro blogger. I love vintage dresses, old mirrors, and I adore taking pictures! I can do it for hours and never repeat myself. Cameras love me, and I always know how to win... Let's see if there is someone who can see more in me than a pretty picture."

With an ego like that?!

Out of the corner of my eye, I noticed the blonde on my right, that same Marilyn Monroe type with the full lips, toss her curls slightly and curve her hip even more dramatically, all while continuing to smile. Right, then. So that was whose voice had just sounded.

Well, objectively, guys like that kind of figure and that kind of girl. But what was behind the picture... personally, I would not risk looking too closely.

Ugh, this is why I hate dates. They make me grumpy and suspicious, like I'm a hundred years old.

The next speaker was a guy, and his voice turned out simple and pleasant, with the easy friendly note that always wins people over:

"Arthur. I'm thirty-two... Kidding! I'm actually twenty-one. I just hate boredom. I'm a barista, and I'm proud of it. I make the best cappuccino in the city, and my foam hearts never leave anyone indifferent. I'm sure good coffee and a croissant are a worthy beginning to any story!"

Oh, that was sweet. I even got caught listening, picturing a brown heart on white foam, a cozy cafe, a fragrant crisp crust, and... no, the illusion fell apart without glory the moment it reached the date with the guy. But I wasn't surprised when the audience applauded approvingly.

"My name is Oksana, but my friends call me Oxy," an unfamiliar girl said in a lively voice right after the barista. "I'm twenty, a marketing student. I'm learning to sell anything at all, and I know this much: the right approach is always one hundred percent success. So why not test that rule on feelings? I'm sure falling in love won't be a problem for me if the guy has an excellent sense of humor!"

Not bad. I could agree with her, but I didn't get the chance. Because suddenly a new male voice came through the speakers in the hall, low, lightly ironic, and carrying that rasp I had always turned toward even as a kid...

"Hi, I'm Dennis. I'm twenty, and I'm planning to build my life around business. I love risk, freedom, and heights. They say a date is a step into the unknown, like a parachute jump. Well then, I'm ready to jump. Love on camera isn't for me, and I'll warn you now: I know how to get out of traps. But there are seven dates ahead, and I suppose I'll give Cupid a chance to surprise me."

I don't know what they showed on the screen, but the applause was noticeably louder. And suddenly I stopped breathing. Something inside me lurched, and my heart skipped a beat.

Demond?!

No way. Nonsense. It couldn't be. I must have imagined it. The guy's voice just had a similar timbre, and I was nervous, so my mind was playing tricks on me. The world was full of voices with that kind of rasp!

And yet the thought lodged inside me like a splinter when a girl's voice filled the hall, sweetish and a little haughty:

"Greetings, everyone. My name is Yvette, but in the fashion world I'm known as Evie. I'm twenty-one, a model, and I'm studying psychology. To me, a date is an experiment, and the show is a chance to be honest. I want to learn what feelings are born when people try to seem better than they are. What if the experiment succeeds and both people come out winners?"

"Being honest" under spotlights and full makeup sounded naive at the very least. Would the audience really believe that? But the hall applauded in perfect unison, and I realized they absolutely would.

This time the brunette on my left moved, the "ice goddess." Pushing out her barely noticeable chest, she stretched even taller, as if the invisible crown on her head had begun to shine brighter. Got it. So that had been her intro. The girl was clearly used to attention, but not to gawkers like me, because she once again shot a displeased look in my direction. For some reason at my legs. I had to tug the dress lower.

A guitar riff sounded through the hall, and someone's voice sang a line from a famous hit.