# MY PERFECT WIFE
### A Novel by Huddon S Lajah
---
# CHAPTER FIVE
## The Girl With Three Jobs
---
**Three Weeks Before the Competition**
Jawin Mendez woke at 4:47 AM to the sound of her alarm screaming like a dying robot.
She had set it to "Aggressive Rooster" because gentle alarms didn't work on someone who averaged four hours of sleep per night. The rooster sound was horrible—a digital approximation of farm life that sounded more like a malfunctioning car horn—but it got her vertical, which was the point.
4:48 AM: Out of bed.
4:49 AM: Stumble to bathroom. Don't look in mirror. Mirrors were traitors at this hour.
4:52 AM: Dressed in the first clean clothes she could find. Today's outfit: black pants from Job One, a polo shirt from Job Two, and sneakers that belonged to no job but had somehow survived three years of constant abuse.
4:58 AM: Out the door.
5:00 AM: Arrive at Job One.
Job One was the café.
Sunrise Brews occupied a corner lot in a neighborhood that couldn't decide if it was gentrifying or resisting gentrification. Half the customers were construction workers who wanted coffee that tasted like coffee. The other half were remote workers who wanted oat milk lattes with exactly three pumps of vanilla and got personally offended if you made it four.
Jawin had worked there for two years. She could make a latte in her sleep—literally, once, when she'd dozed off mid-steam and woken up with a perfect microfoam that haunted her dreams.
"You look like death," Marcus, her coworker, observed as she walked in.
"Thank you. I feel like death. It's a whole aesthetic."
"Late night?"
"Early morning. Same thing when you don't sleep." Jawin tied on her apron. "What's the damage today?"
"Mrs. Patterson called ahead. She wants her usual, but with almond milk instead of oat milk, but she's going to change her mind when she gets here and yell at you for not remembering she switched back to oat milk last week."
"Of course she is."
"Also, the espresso machine is making That Sound again."
"Which sound? The concerning grinding sound or the terrifying wheezing sound?"
"New sound. I'd describe it as 'mechanical sobbing.'"
Jawin approached the espresso machine like one might approach an unexploded bomb. The machine—an ancient Italian model that had probably witnessed the fall of Rome—emitted a low, pitiful whine that did indeed sound like mechanical sobbing.
"It's okay, baby," she murmured, patting its side. "We're going to get through this together."
The machine whined louder.
The day had begun.
---
By 11:00 AM, Jawin had served forty-seven customers, cleaned up three spills, mediated a dispute between two regulars who had very strong opinions about whether cold brew was "real coffee," and fixed the espresso machine using a combination of percussive maintenance and whispered prayers.
She had also consumed approximately four cups of coffee herself, which was either keeping her alive or slowly killing her. The line between those two states had blurred years ago.
Her phone buzzed. A text from her mother:
*Mija, don't forget dinner tonight. Your father is cooking.*
Jawin's blood ran cold.
Her father was *cooking*.
This was either a celebration or a disaster. With her family, it was hard to tell the difference.
She texted back:
*What's the occasion?*
*Can't a father cook for his family without an occasion?*
*He can. He doesn't. What's happening?*
*Just come to dinner. 7 PM. Don't be late.*
Jawin stared at the message with the wariness of someone who had survived twenty-six years of Mendez family "surprises."
The last "surprise dinner" had been the announcement that her parents were considering selling the house.
The one before that had been the news that her father's restaurant had officially closed.
The one before *that* had been Bella's coming out, which had actually been a good surprise but had still involved approximately three hours of crying from various family members.
Mendez family dinners were emotional landmines disguised as home cooking.
"You okay?" Marcus asked. "You're staring at your phone like it insulted your ancestors."
"Family dinner tonight. My dad's cooking."
Marcus winced sympathetically. He had met Jawin's family once, at a café event, and had described the experience as "aggressively warm chaos."
"Good luck. Don't die."
"I'll do my best."
---
**Job Two: The Catering Company**
Jawin clocked out of the café at noon and walked six blocks to Elegant Events Catering, where she worked as a prep cook three days a week.
The kitchen was controlled chaos—a symphony of shouting, clanging, and the occasional curse in four different languages. Head Chef Rodriguez ran the operation like a benevolent dictator: terrifying when necessary, surprisingly kind when you least expected it.
"Mendez! You're late!"
"I'm two minutes early, Chef."
"Two minutes early is on time. On time is late. Late is unacceptable." Rodriguez thrust a knife into her hands. "Vegetables. Station three. Move."
Jawin moved.
Station three was where dreams went to die. Today's assignment: prep work for a wedding reception featuring 300 guests, all of whom apparently required individually carved vegetable roses.
*Vegetable roses*.
Rich people were unhinged.
"Two hundred carrots," Rodriguez announced, dropping a crate beside her station. "Roses. Each one identical. You have three hours."
"Three hours for two hundred—"
"Two hours fifty-nine minutes now. Clock's ticking, Mendez."
Jawin started carving.
---
The thing about prep cooking was that it left your hands busy but your mind free. Which meant Jawin spent three hours carving vegetable roses while contemplating the life choices that had led her to this moment.
Twenty-six years old.
Three jobs.
No degree (yet).
Living in a studio apartment the size of a generous closet.
Sending half her income to her parents, who refused to admit they needed help but definitely needed help.
It wasn't supposed to be like this.
Five years ago, Jawin had been on track. Community college, culinary program, plans to apprentice at her father's restaurant and eventually take over the business. The Mendez family dream, passed from generation to generation.
Then her father's restaurant had failed.
Then her mother had gotten sick—nothing fatal, thank God, but expensive enough to drain their savings.
Then Bella had started college, because someone in this family was going to get a degree even if Jawin had to work herself to death to make it happen.
So Jawin had put her own dreams on hold. Picked up extra shifts. Started working three jobs instead of one.
*Temporary*, she'd told herself. *Just until things stabilize.*
Three years later, things had not stabilized.
But Jawin had become very, very good at carving vegetable roses.
---
"Two hundred roses," Rodriguez announced, inspecting her work. "Perfect. Identical. Excellent work, Mendez."
"Thank you, Chef."
"You have talent." Rodriguez's voice softened slightly—a rare occurrence that meant something significant was coming. "Wasted in prep. You should be on the line."
"I don't have formal training."
"Training can be acquired. Talent cannot." Rodriguez handed her a card. "Culinary institute downtown. They have scholarships. You should apply."
Jawin looked at the card. The culinary school was prestigious—the kind of place that launched careers, opened doors, made dreams possible.
It also cost fifty thousand dollars a year.
"I'll think about it," she said.
She wouldn't think about it.
Thinking about it hurt too much.
---
**Job Three: The Night Shift**
Jawin's third job was at a 24-hour diner called Rosie's, which had been owned by someone named Rosie approximately forty years ago and had changed hands seventeen times since.
The current owner was a Greek man named Dimitri who had never explained why he kept the name Rosie's and responded to questions about it with ominous silence.
Jawin worked the 6 PM to midnight shift, serving coffee and eggs to an eclectic clientele that ranged from "college students studying for finals" to "people whose stories you did not want to know."
Tonight, she was running late.
The family dinner.
She'd almost forgotten.
---
**The Mendez Family Home — 7:15 PM**
The Mendez house was small, weathered, and filled with more love than its square footage could reasonably contain.
Jawin pulled up in her unreliable Honda—a vehicle that ran on hope and prayer and occasional mechanical intervention—and sat in the driveway for a moment, steeling herself.
The front door was already open. Her mother stood there, silhouetted by warm kitchen light, arms crossed in the universal posture of "you're late and I'm judging you."
"You're late," Rosa Mendez announced.
"Traffic."
"There's no traffic between here and Elegant Events."
"I took a scenic route."
"There's no scenic route between here and Elegant Events."
"I got lost."
"Jawin Elena Mendez, you have lived in this city your entire life."
"It's a very confusing city."
Rosa's expression suggested she was not convinced. She was never convinced. Rosa Mendez had developed a finely tuned BS detector after raising two daughters, and Jawin's attempts at deception had not improved since age six.
"Come inside. Your father made *caldereta*. He's been cooking for five hours."
*Caldereta*. Beef stew. Her father's specialty from the restaurant days.
This was definitely a significant occasion.
"What's going on, Mama?"
"Dinner. That's what's going on. Stop asking questions and eat."
---
The Mendez family gathered around a table that had witnessed thirty years of celebrations, arguments, revelations, and one memorable food fight during Jawin's fifteenth birthday.
Jawin's father, Eduardo, presided over the meal like a general surveying his troops. He was a big man—thick arms, broad shoulders, the kind of presence that filled a room. The restaurant's failure had diminished him somehow, though he'd never admit it.
Bella sat across from Jawin, texting under the table with the dedication of someone conducting international diplomacy via smartphone.
"Phone away," Rosa commanded.
"I'm texting Salma."
"Salma can wait."
"Salma's flight lands in an hour. She needs to know I'm picking her up."
Jawin's eyebrows rose. "Salma's coming back? I thought she was in Singapore until next month."
Bella's expression flickered—a micro-reaction that Jawin caught because she'd spent a lifetime studying her sister's tells.
"Family emergency," Bella said quickly. "Her side. Not ours."
"But she's coming here first?"
"She's... processing."
Something was happening. Jawin could feel it—the particular tension that preceded Mendez family revelations.
"Let's eat," Eduardo announced, mercifully interrupting the conversation. "Before the *caldereta* gets cold."
They ate.
The stew was excellent—Eduardo Mendez had lost his restaurant but not his skill—and for twenty minutes, the family existed in peaceful silence, punctuated only by compliments to the chef.
Then Rosa cleared her throat.
"We have something to discuss," she said.
Jawin's spoon froze halfway to her mouth.
Here it came.
"It's nothing bad," Eduardo added quickly, which was what people said when something was definitely bad.
"Salma came to us with a proposition," Rosa continued. "A business proposition. For Jawin."
Jawin set down her spoon. "What kind of proposition?"
The table went quiet.
Rosa and Eduardo exchanged looks—the kind of look married couples develop after decades together, capable of communicating entire conversations without words.
"There's a competition," Rosa said carefully. "A... marriage competition. For wealthy families."
"I've heard of those." Jawin's tone was wary. "Reality TV things. Rich people finding love in ridiculous settings."
"This one is different. It's private. Televised, but... exclusive. The Castellan family."
"*Castellan*?" Jawin's eyes widened. "As in Majestic Land? As in 'owns half the city's real estate' Castellan?"
"That one, yes."
"What does this have to do with me?"
Rosa took a breath. "Salma was supposed to participate. Her family arranged it—business connections, relationship building. But she... can't."
"Why not?"
More exchanged looks.
"That's Salma's story to tell," Eduardo said diplomatically. "The point is, she needs someone to take her place. Someone who won't actually compete to win, just... participate long enough to fulfill the family obligation."
"And she's willing to pay," Rosa added. "Fifty thousand dollars."
The number hung in the air.
Fifty thousand dollars.
Enough for culinary school.
Enough to change everything.
Jawin's mind raced. "You want me to pretend to be a contestant in a billionaire's marriage competition."
"Not pretend. Actually be a contestant. Just... without expectations of winning."
"That's insane."
"It's an opportunity," Rosa countered. "The money would cover your tuition. Finally get you into that program you've been wanting."
"By marrying a stranger?"
"By *participating*. There's no requirement to win. Salma just needs someone to fill the spot so her family doesn't lose face."
Jawin looked at Bella. Her sister was suddenly very interested in her rice.
"You knew about this," Jawin said. It wasn't a question.
Bella nodded slowly. "Salma told me first. We've been... talking about it."
"For how long?"
"A few weeks."
*A few weeks*. Her entire family had been discussing her future behind her back for weeks.
"I'm not doing this," Jawin said flatly. "It's crazy. I'd be competing against actual rich people for a man I've never met. I don't belong in that world."
"Exactly," Eduardo said, surprising everyone. "You don't belong there. Which means you have nothing to lose."
Jawin stared at her father.
"Think about it, *mija*," Eduardo continued. "You work three jobs. You send us money we didn't ask for—"
"You *need*—"
"We need you to have a *life*." Eduardo's voice cracked slightly. "You've been supporting this family for three years. Putting yourself last. Giving up everything so Bella could go to school, so we could keep this house. When does it become your turn?"
Silence.
Rosa reached across the table, taking Jawin's hand. "This could be your turn, baby. Three months. Participate in a competition you're not trying to win. Collect the money. Go to culinary school. Finally start the life you've been delaying."
"And if I accidentally catch feelings for some billionaire heir?"
"Then we have bigger problems," Eduardo said, which got a laugh from the table despite the tension.
Jawin looked at her family. Her exhausted, loving, complicated family, who had apparently spent weeks planning an intervention disguised as a dinner.
"I need to think about it."
"Salma's plane lands in an hour," Bella reminded her. "She wants to talk to you tonight. Explain everything."
"Everything like what?"
Bella hesitated. "Everything like why she can't do this herself."
That secretive look again. The one that suggested there was more to this story.
"Fine," Jawin said. "I'll talk to Salma. But I'm not promising anything."
"That's all we ask." Rosa squeezed her hand. "Have some more *caldereta*. You're too thin."
"I'm the same weight I've been for five years."
"Too thin for five years, then. Eat."
Jawin ate.
The caldereta tasted like home.
---
**Later That Night — Salma's Arrival**
Salma Al-Rashid arrived at the Mendez house at 10:30 PM, looking like someone who had spent eighteen hours on a plane and aged five years in the process.
She was beautiful—the kind of effortless beauty that came from good genetics and expensive skincare—but tonight, her perfection was cracked. Red eyes. Tense shoulders. The particular weariness of someone carrying a very heavy secret.
Bella intercepted her at the door.
Jawin, watching from the living room, saw her sister embrace Salma with an intensity that went beyond friendship. The way their hands found each other. The way they held on like they were afraid to let go.
*Oh*, Jawin thought.
*OH.*
Suddenly, several things made a lot more sense.
---
They talked in Jawin's childhood bedroom, which was now a storage room but still had her old twin bed and approximately seven hundred stuffed animals that her mother refused to throw away.
Salma sat on the bed, surrounded by plush bears, looking profoundly uncomfortable.
"Your sister and I are together," she said without preamble. "We have been for eight months."
Jawin nodded slowly. "I figured that out about twenty minutes ago."
"You're not surprised?"
"I'm surprised you kept it secret. You two are not subtle."
Salma's laugh was brittle. "My family would disagree. They have no idea. They think I'm their perfect daughter—obedient, traditional, ready to marry whoever they approve of."
"Hence the competition."
"Hence the competition." Salma's hands twisted in her lap. "The Castellan thing was supposed to be an alliance. My father does business with them. Participating would show good faith. Maybe even lead to an actual marriage, which would solidify everything."
"But you can't marry a man."
"I can't marry *anyone* who isn't your sister." Salma's voice softened. "I love her, Jawin. I love her more than I've loved anything in my life. But if my family finds out..."
She didn't finish the sentence.
She didn't need to.
"So you need someone to take your place," Jawin said. "Someone who can participate without winning. Buy you time to figure out your situation."
"Yes."
"And you're willing to pay fifty thousand dollars for this."
"It's my trust fund. My money to spend however I want." Salma met Jawin's eyes. "I know it's a lot to ask. I know it's insane. But you're the only person I trust with this. You already know about me and Bella. You won't accidentally expose us. And you're..."
"Poor enough to need the money?"
"Real enough to survive it." Salma reached out, touching Jawin's hand. "Those people, the other contestants—they're performing. All the time. You don't know how to perform. That might actually be an advantage."
"How is being bad at fake stuff an advantage in a competition that's entirely fake stuff?"
"Because Mario Castellan is drowning in fake stuff. He sees through it. Everyone who meets him says the same thing—he's impossible to impress because he knows everyone is trying to impress him." Salma smiled slightly. "You won't try to impress anyone. You'll just be you. And maybe that's exactly what he needs to see."
Jawin sat with that for a moment.
"I'm not going to fall in love with him," she said. "This isn't a fairy tale. This is a transaction."
"Absolutely. A transaction."
"I go in, survive as long as possible, collect my money, leave."
"That's the plan."
"And I help cover for you and Bella."
Salma's expression flickered. "That too."
Jawin looked around her childhood bedroom. The stuffed animals. The faded posters. The ghosts of a simpler time, before jobs and money and family obligations.
"Fine," she said. "I'll do it."
Salma's relief was palpable. "Really?"
"Really. But I have conditions."
"Anything."
"One: You tell Bella you love her. Actually say the words. She deserves to hear them."
Salma nodded, eyes glistening.
"Two: When this is over, you figure out your family situation. I'm not covering for you forever."
"I will. I promise."
"Three: If I accidentally become famous from this thing, you're paying for my therapy."
Salma laughed—a real laugh, the first real thing Jawin had seen from her all night. "Deal."
They shook on it.
Jawin had just agreed to compete for a billionaire's heart in exchange for culinary school money.
Her life was officially insane.
---
**The Day Before the Competition**
Jawin's final shift at Rosie's was bittersweet.
"You're doing *what*?" Marcus demanded when she told him. He'd shown up for moral support, which meant he was eating pie and providing commentary.
"Participating in a marriage competition. For rich people."
"That's not a real thing."
"It's a very real thing. I have a contract and everything."
"Did you *read* the contract?"
"I skimmed it."
"*Jawin*."
"There were so many pages, Marcus. So many pages of legal stuff. I got overwhelmed."
Marcus put down his fork. "Let me get this straight. You agreed to compete for a billionaire's hand in marriage, for money, and you didn't read the contract."
"The bullet points seemed fine."
"Bullet points."
"I was stressed!"
Dimitri, the diner's owner, emerged from the back kitchen. He had apparently been listening.
"The Castellan boy," he said, his Greek accent thick. "I know of him."
"You do?"
"His family. They bought the building next door. Tried to buy this one too." Dimitri's expression was unreadable. "I said no. They offered more money. I still said no. They stopped asking."
"That's... ominous."
"They are powerful. Ruthless when necessary." Dimitri studied Jawin with ancient eyes. "But the son—I have heard he is not like his father. Softer. Sadder. Alone in ways that money cannot fix."
"You got all that from a real estate negotiation?"
"I got all that from watching people for fifty years." Dimitri handed her a to-go container. "Baklava. For your journey. May it be less catastrophic than it sounds."
"That's the nicest thing you've ever said to me."
"Don't get used to it. Now finish your shift. Customers are waiting."
Jawin finished her shift.
When she walked out of Rosie's for the last time—temporarily, she reminded herself, just temporarily—she felt something she hadn't expected.
Freedom.
Terrifying, uncertain freedom.
But freedom nonetheless.
---
**The Night Before — Jawin's Apartment**
Jawin's apartment was approximately the size of a generous walk-in closet.
She had a bed (twin, from college). A kitchenette (two burners, one of which worked). A bathroom (functional, occasionally). And approximately forty-seven boxes of things she'd never unpacked because what was the point when you were never home anyway.
Tonight, she was packing a suitcase.
The competition provided wardrobe, apparently. But Jawin was allowed to bring personal items—photos, comfort objects, things that made the mansion feel less like a prison.
She packed:
- One photo of her family, from Bella's quinceañera (everyone was crying, even the photographer)
- One worn cookbook, her father's notes in the margins
- One stuffed penguin named Gerald, who had survived since age four and was non-negotiable
- Three bags of emergency snacks (nuts, granola bars, chocolate)
- Her phone charger (most important item)
- A small notebook for journaling (she didn't journal, but it felt like something a person should do)
The suitcase looked pathetically empty.
"I don't know what I'm doing," she said to Gerald the penguin.
Gerald, predictably, did not respond.
Her phone buzzed. Bella:
*Nervous?*
*Terrified.*
*You're going to be amazing.*
*I'm going to be a disaster.*
*An amazing disaster. The best kind.* Then: *Thank you. For doing this. For covering for us.*
Jawin typed and deleted several responses before settling on:
*Tell Salma to take care of you. Or I'll quit the competition and come beat her up personally.*
Bella's response was a string of crying-laughing emojis.
Jawin set down her phone.
Tomorrow, she would enter a world she didn't understand, surrounded by people she had nothing in common with, competing for a man she'd never met.
Tomorrow, her entire life would change.
Tonight, she was just a girl with three jobs—well, zero jobs now—sitting in a tiny apartment, holding a stuffed penguin, wondering what the hell she'd gotten herself into.
"We've got this, Gerald," she whispered.
Gerald's button eyes stared back, skeptical but supportive.
Jawin went to bed.
She did not sleep.
---
**The Morning of the Competition**
A limousine arrived at 7:00 AM.
Jawin had never been in a limousine. The interior was larger than her apartment, with leather seats and a mini bar and a TV playing something that looked like financial news.
"Miss Mendez," the driver said through an intercom. "The journey to the contestant mansion will take approximately forty-five minutes. Refreshments are available."
"Thank you."
She didn't touch the refreshments. Her stomach was in no condition for refreshments.
Instead, she watched the city pass by through tinted windows—her neighborhood giving way to nicer neighborhoods, then to *really* nice neighborhoods, then to neighborhoods where the houses looked like small countries.
Her phone buzzed. Her mother:
*We're proud of you, mija. Whatever happens.*
Then her father:
*Remember who you are. They have money. You have heart. Heart wins.*
Then Bella:
*Salma says don't fall in love with the billionaire. I say do whatever makes you happy. Love you.*
Then, unexpectedly, Marcus from the café:
*Saw on social media you're really doing this. Holy shit. Don't forget us little people when you're rich.*
Jawin laughed despite herself.
Then Salma:
*You've got this. Be yourself. That's your superpower.*
*My superpower is being myself?*
*Your superpower is being real in a world full of fake people. That's rarer than you think.*
Jawin stared at the message.
*Being real.*
She could do that. She didn't know how to do anything else.
The limousine turned onto a private drive.
The contestant mansion appeared in the distance—a massive structure that looked like a hotel had a baby with a palace.
"We're here, Miss Mendez," the driver announced.
Jawin took a deep breath.
Grabbed her pathetic suitcase.
Stepped out of the limousine.
And walked into the competition that would change her life forever.
---
**The Contestant Mansion — Arrival**
Twenty-three other women had already arrived.
Jawin could feel their eyes as she entered—assessing, categorizing, dismissing. She was wearing jeans and a nice blouse, which was apparently not the dress code. Everyone else looked like they'd stepped out of a fashion magazine.
"Miss Mendez?" A production assistant approached. "You're in Room 24. Last room on the third floor. Your wardrobe has been prepared."
"Wardrobe?"
"The competition provides clothing for all formal events. Your personal items should remain in your room."
Jawin clutched her suitcase. "Including Gerald?"
"Who?"
"My penguin. Stuffed penguin. Not real. I wouldn't bring a real penguin to a—never mind. Yes, my personal items will remain in my room."
The PA looked at her like she was speaking a foreign language.
"Third floor. Room 24. Orientation is in two hours."
Jawin dragged her suitcase upstairs, acutely aware of the whispers that followed her.
"Who is she?"
"Check the list. Jawin Mendez. 'Service industry.' Middle class."
"How did *she* get in?"
"Sponsored entry. The Al-Rashid family."
"Al-Rashid sponsored a nobody? That's strange."
Jawin pretended not to hear.
Room 24 was small but nice—a bed, a closet full of designer clothes she'd never be able to afford, a window overlooking gardens that probably cost more to maintain than her annual income.
She sat on the bed.
Put Gerald on the pillow.
And allowed herself exactly five minutes to panic.
---
The panic went like this:
*What am I doing here what am I doing here what am I doing here I don't belong here I can't do this I'm going to fail everyone is going to laugh at me I should leave right now I should—*
Her phone buzzed.
A text from an unknown number:
*Miss Mendez. This is Donna Lucia Castellan. Mario's mother. I understand you may be feeling overwhelmed. That's natural. Please know that you were included in this competition for a reason. Trust yourself. —L*
Jawin stared at the message.
Mario's *mother* was texting her?
How did Mario's mother have her number?
Why was Mario's mother *encouraging* her?
Before she could spiral further, another text arrived:
*P.S. — I saw your file. The culinary school dream. I think that's wonderful. The world needs more people who cook with love. —L*
Jawin's eyes watered.
She didn't know why.
Maybe because for the first time in years, someone with power had looked at her—actually looked—and seen something worth believing in.
*Thank you*, she typed back. *I'll try not to disappoint you.*
The response came immediately:
*You couldn't possibly. Now go to orientation. And for heaven's sake, find someone to talk to. Penny Huang looks like she needs a friend. —L*
Jawin laughed through her tears.
Mario's mother was apparently running covert operations behind the scenes.
Jawin could work with that.
---
**Orientation — The Beginning**
The orientation room was filled with twenty-four women, all perfectly dressed, all radiating ambition.
Jawin found Penny Huang in the back corner, looking approximately as overwhelmed as Jawin felt.
"Hi," Jawin said. "I'm Jawin. I was told we should be friends."
Penny blinked. "Told by who?"
"Someone who seems to know what she's doing. Unlike me. Unlike, I suspect, you."
Penny's smile was shy but genuine. "I don't know what I'm doing at all."
"Perfect. Neither do I. Let's be disasters together."
They sat next to each other as the producer explained the competition rules.
Neither of them understood most of it.
Both of them were glad not to be alone.
And somewhere in the chaos—the other contestants, the cameras, the sheer absurdity of the situation—Jawin felt something she hadn't expected.
Hope.
It was ridiculous.
It was probably misplaced.
But it was there.
And for now, that was enough.
---
😭END OF CHAPTER FIVE😃👉👉