Read the first 3 chapters of Finding Forever!

Chapter One – Suki, Day One

The thing about reality TV is that it's never real. Not the drama, not the tears, not the romances, and definitely not the "candid" moments they'll splice together later.

I've done my research. I've watched three seasons of Finding Forever, every post-show interview, and I've spoken to two former contestants who filled me in on the behind the scenes reality of what actually goes on.

What I didn't account for is how surreal it would feel standing on tarmac at Van Nuys Airport, the California sun beating down on me while nineteen other women mill around like nervous hens.

"Suki!" A PA yells. "Can we get you walking toward the plane again?"

I paste on my most natural smile—which is to say, a smile I've practiced over and over—and turn back toward the mark they've taped on the ground. The camera operator gives me a thumbs up.

Walk. Show off that suit in confidence. You're excited but not desperate.

I stride toward the Boeing Business Jet in my Kobayashi oversized blazer. I slide my hands into the pockets as I walk, letting the camera catch the cut. Navy linen, dropped shoulders, impeccable drape. My own design. Every piece I'm wearing for the next three weeks will be from my collection, and if I play this right, a few million viewers will be googling 'what is Suki Pendleton wearing' by episode two.

"Beautiful! That's a wrap. You can board now," someone says. "Who's next?"

At the bottom of the airstairs, I pause to take in the scene—twenty women about to board a plane to Hawaii, all of us competing for the same prize. A woman.

We don't even know who the bachelorette is yet—they're saving that reveal for the first night at the resort. All we know is she's successful, she's beautiful, and she's looking for love.

Many of the women here seem to be looking for the same thing. I can spot them easily: the nervous energy, the way they keep glancing around, assessing their competition.

Today is about establishing the contestants, getting footage of us sizing each other up, planting the seeds of rivalries the producers will harvest later."

I scan the group while a PA adjusts my mic pack. Blonde in the pink sundress—already crying about how "overwhelming" this all is. Her name is Madison. Camera loves her. She'll make it to week three on tears alone.

Tall brunette with the killer cheekbones—model, probably. She's gorgeous. We'll see.

Two women in matching designer athleisure who clearly came together—best friends, maybe? The producers will either separate them immediately or play up the "will they turn on each other" angle. Either way, messy.

A redhead who keeps checking her make-up in a compact mirror. A petite woman with a bob who seems genuinely terrified. A stunning black woman in head-to-toe white who knows exactly how good she looks.

I'm still cataloging when someone bumps my shoulder.

"Sorry! Oh my god, I'm so sorry."

I turn to find a woman about my height clutching a designer carry-on. She's got honey-blonde hair in loose waves, a beauty mark on her left cheekbone, and a face full of makeup designed to look like she's wearing none. She radiates a kind of feminine softness and innocence that could make women underestimate her.

Big mistake.

Because I've been watching her, and nothing about this woman is accidental. The way she positioned herself next to the crying blonde to get screentime. The charming laugh she gave the camera operator. The "clumsy" stumble that just gave her an excuse for more attention. She's already playing the game.

"No worries," I say.

"Crazy, right?" She glances toward the plane, then back at me. "I keep thinking I'm going to wake up."

"Nervous?"

"Excited." She smiles. "You?"

"Ready."

Something flickers in her expression — assessment, for sure. "I'm Freya."

"Suki."

Another woman joins the queue and we board. I let a few women go ahead of me. Better to choose my seatmate than get stuck with one.

The blonde in pink slips in front of me, dabbing her eyes one more time before stepping inside. The model follows, tossing her hair over her shoulder. The woman in white pauses at the top of the stairs just long enough to make the cameras wait for her.

I'm not complaining about the treatment so far. Wide cream leather seats in pairs, champagne already chilling in crystal flutes. The seats near the front are already filling up—the blonde has claimed a window seat and is telling her seatmate about her "journey to love." The model has positioned herself in the center of the aircraft for maximum visibility.

I choose a window seat toward the back. Less glamorous, but better sightlines. From here, I can see almost everyone without looking like I'm watching them. Each woman makes her entrance, each one performing for the cameras in her own way. Some are obvious—big smiles, exaggerated reactions to the luxury. Others try to project calm sophistication.

I sip my champagne and watch.

The two athleisure friends end up separated—all the side-by-side seats are taken. They exchange a worried look across the cabin.

A woman drops into the seat next to mine with a heavy sigh. Curly dark hair, nervous smile.

"Hi. I'm Priya."

"Suki."

"Is it crazy that I'm already exhausted? We've been here for like three hours and all we've done is stand around and smile and pose."

"I know. It's a little ridiculous."

"Right? And the cameras." She lowers her voice. "Do you think they're filming us right now?"

I glance toward the camera operator at the front of the cabin. "Absolutely."

"Great." She picks up her champagne and sips it. "So what do you do?"

"I'm a fashion designer. You?"

"Oh, cool! I'm a dental hygienist. Not cool at all, but it pays the bills." She laughs a little too loudly. Nerves. "I can't believe I'm actually here. My sister submitted my application as a joke, and then they actually called, and now I'm on a plane to Hawaii to date a stranger on television. What is my life?"

She keeps talking and I make the appropriate sounds. Priya is sweet but she's also a lot and I doubt she'll make it to the end.

"—anyway, sorry, I'm rambling. What about you? Why did you apply?"

The honest answer: because I need a boost for my business and three weeks of free advertising is worth more than any campaign I could afford. The camera-friendly answer is something else.

"I've always been career-focused," I say. "I figured it was time to open myself up to love."

Priya nods earnestly and squeezes my hand. "That's so brave. Let's be brave together."

A PA appears in the aisle. "Ladies! Quick housekeeping before we take off. Flight time to Honolulu is approximately five and a half hours. Feel free to move around, swap seats, chat, get to know each other once we're up in the air. We'll be filming throughout, so just pretend the cameras aren't there. Also, your bachelorette sends her love. She can't wait to meet all of you. This is going to be an incredible journey."

She disappears, and conversations break out. Priya excuses herself to find the bathroom.

Twenty women. Three weeks of filming. Weekly eliminations, starting with the biggest one tonight. If I can just make it through tonight, I'll be pleased. If I make it through another week, I'll be reaping even more benefits by the time I return. Every episode is exposure, another chance of viewers seeing my clothes and hearing my name.

My mother thought I was insane for doing this. 'Suki-chan, those shows are cruel. They'll make you look foolish."

Maybe. But she doesn't understand what it takes to break through in my industry. Kobayashi has a following—loyal customers, good reviews, steady sales—but steady isn't enough. I need eyes. Millions of them.

 

Chapter Two – Freya, Day One

"Can you walk through the doors one more time? We need you to look more surprised."

"Of course!" I smile at the producer, because that's what you do. You smile, you cooperate, you make their job easy. I've walked through these doors four times now and the surprise is getting harder to fake.

I step back outside into the Hawaiian heat and wait for my cue. I've already seen the resort, already checked in and been to my room and back, but for the cameras, this is my first glimpse of paradise.

"And... action!"

I push through the double doors and let my face do what it does best. Eyes wide. Hand to chest. Slow spin to take it all in.

"Wow," I breathe. "This is incredible."

It is, actually. The lobby is all polished wood with enormous tropical flower arrangements on every surface. Through the windows behind the check-in desk, I see an infinity pool that seems to merge with the ocean. Luxurious loungers, a beautiful terrace, palm trees. The whole fantasy.

"It's so romantic," I add, dabbing a napkin under my eye.

To my left, someone makes a sound. Not quite a scoff, but close.

I turn to look. It's the woman in the suit—Suki—leaning against a pillar with her arms crossed. She's already filmed her intro and is waiting for the rest of us to finish our performance. Dark hair cut sharp and short and a face that would be stunning if she didn't look so bored by all of it. The corner of her mouth twitches. Not quite a smile. More like she's laughing at something I'm not in on.

I give her a forced polite smile. She nods, barely, and looks away.

Right. So that's how it's going to be.

I don't have time for women who think they're above it all. Not that I'm here to make friends, but there are nineteen other contestants here, and most of them are actually pleasant. I turn back to the check-in desk and finish my scene. And after a short briefing, we all head back to our rooms to freshen up.

My roommate - Priya, according to the sign on the door - isn't here. Her suitcase is open on the far bed, clothes spilling out like she started unpacking and got distracted halfway through.

I'm tired. The flight, the heat, the endless retakes—all I want is to collapse on one of those crisp white beds and sleep. That's not an option though, because the welcome drinks are in two hours and I need to shower, do my hair, and choose an outfit that looks good on camera. And after that, I should probably walk the grounds, figure out where all the cameras are set up and learn the layout. First impressions matter, and I refuse to waste mine stumbling around looking lost.

I haul myself upright and unzip my garment bags — someone's laid them on the bed next to my suitcase — and hang my dresses in the wardrobe. The champagne-colored dress. Elegant, low back, complements my tan. I've been planning these outfits for weeks.

I turn on the shower and let the steam fill the room while I study my reflection in the mirror. I look tired, but nothing some concealer won't fix. My hair survived the flight better than expected. And the tan I've been cultivating has reached the perfect shade of sun-kissed. Not bad, Lindqvist. You've got this.

I'm halfway through washing my hair when my phone buzzes on the marble counter. I rinse quickly, wrap myself in a towel, and check the screen.

Miriam. I glance toward the door—closed, no sounds from the room—and answer.

"You're not supposed to call me," I whisper.

"And yet here I am. How's paradise?"

I move to the balcony doors and peer out. No one on the neighboring balconies. No crew in sight. I keep my voice low anyway.

"Hot. Humid. Full of beautiful women."

"Sounds brutal. Have you seen her yet? The bachelorette?"

"Not yet. We're meeting her tonight. Welcome drinks at six."

"Nervous?"

"Please. I hope you're ready to lose this wager."

"Funny, I was about to say the same to you." She pauses. "I still can't believe you went through with it."

Six months ago, I was three cocktails deep at Miriam's birthday, bragging about my latest conquest. No woman has ever turned me down, I said. I could get anyone I wanted. Famous last words. Miriam decided to test that theory—and before I knew it, my application was submitted, I was cast, and a very stupid wager was made.

If I win—if I get chosen by the bachelorette at the end—Miriam has to get a bowl cut. If I lose, I'll be the one in the salon chair. And there's no way I'm getting a bowl cut.

"You realize this is three weeks of my life, right?" I say. "Three weeks I could be working. Although I suppose the hundred thousand dollars will make up for my financial losses."

"Hey, you were the one running your mouth about how no woman could resist you. I just called your bluff. So what's the competition like? Anyone likely to knock you off your throne?"

"Twenty women and not a single one I'm worried about." I lean against the balcony railing. "Half of them are influencers. A couple of models, and then of course the clueless ones who genuinely believe they're going to find their soulmate on television. One of them has cried six times since we started filming." I examine my nails. "I'll have Maria eating out of my hand in no time."

"Famous last words. I've already found a salon."

"Save yourself the trouble. I don't lose."

Miriam snorts. "God, your ego. That's exactly why this is going to be so satisfying when you do."

A key card beeps at the door.

"Got to go," I whisper, and hang up before she can respond.

"Hi, roomie! You must be Freya? I’m Priya." She's got big brown eyes and a wide smile, her dark curly hair fighting a losing battle with the humidity.

“So nice to meet you.” I give her a hug.

Priya laughs as she steps back. "Freya and Priya. We sound like a folk duo."

A PA appears behind Priya in the doorway holding two clear plastic bags. “Phones, ladies. You’ll get them back when you leave the resort.”

“Already?” Priya drops hers in with a wince. “That physically hurt.”

“I feel you.” I toss mine into the other bag. It's strange how naked I feel without it. I can't remember the last time I went more than a few hours without checking my phone, let alone three weeks.

“Thanks. Better you than me,” the PA says. She zips the bags shut and closes the door.

Priya tilts her head and looks at me properly. "You're so pretty."

"So are you," I say. "I love your hair."

"Really?" She touches her curls like she's not sure they're still there. "It’s gone completely insane." She glances at my towel, my wet hair. "Getting ready to meet our bachelorette?"

"Yeah. Take the bathroom. I can do my hair and makeup in the room."

"Thanks. I'm so nervous. What about you?" She doesn't wait for an answer. "I keep thinking about what I'm going to say when I meet her. And, like, do I go in for a kiss on the cheek? A hug? What if I say something stupid? Or what if my mind goes blank and I can't come up with anything to say at all?"

"You'll be fine."

"You think?" She sits down on her bed, then immediately stands up again. "Are you excited?"

"So excited," I say, making sure it sounds genuine. "I barely slept last night."

Priya clasps her hands together. "Same. I have butterflies already. Anyway, I need to figure out what I'm wearing. I packed way too many options."

She starts pulling dresses from her garment bags, holding them up in front of her one by one in the floor-to-ceiling mirror while I start blow-drying my hair.

I did the prep work long before I got here. My skin is glowing, my teeth recently whitened. The beauty spot on my left cheekbone is my trademark. I used to hate it when I was younger, but women seem to love it, so I've embraced it.

I take my time with my makeup. Foundation, a tiny brush of bronzer, a subtle hint of mascara, and lip gloss, nothing more. I want to look natural and approachable.

By the time I finish, Priya has put on an elegant long, green dress. She tells me about her job, her sister, how she almost didn't come because she was terrified.

"But then I thought, when am I ever going to get a chance like this again? To meet someone amazing who might actually be my person?" She turns to me. "What about you? Why did you apply?"

"I'm tired of dating apps," I lie, stepping into my satin thin strap dress. "And I'm tired of bad first dates and women who ghost me after two weeks. I figured, why not try something different? At least this way, I know the woman I'm about to meet is here for a genuine reason."

Priya nods earnestly. "Totally. The apps are exhausting. And everyone's talking to like five people at once."

"Exactly."

I check my reflection. The dress shows off my figure. My long, honey-blonde hair flows down my shoulders. Flat sandals, no heels. I don't want to risk being taller than the bachelorette. Priya's about to make that mistake — she's holding up a pair of high-heeled sandals — but I don't point it out. She's my competition after all. If you can call it that.

Miriam really should be worried; she's seen me in action firsthand.

I've never been turned down in my life.

 

Chapter Three – Suki, Day One

The pool terrace looks far from romantic. There are cables everywhere—thick black snakes running across the tiles, taped down in places, coiled in others, all leading to a production village that's been set up just out of frame. I count nine cameras: four on tripods positioned at different angles, two handheld operators prowling the perimeter, one on a small crane for aerial shots, one tucked in a far corner, and one drone.

There's a woman with a boom mic behind me. Another woman holds a silver reflector disc, bouncing light onto the spot where the presenter will stand. Three people in headsets cluster around a monitor.

"Can we get more light on the left side?" Derek, the supervising producer says. "She's going to come through those doors and I need glow! And the wind is messing with the audio. Can we do anything about the wind?"

We're arranged in a curved line along the edge of the terrace, facing the double doors of the resort where the bachelorette will appear from. Twenty women in formal wear, trying to look natural while standing still on a mark we've been told not to move from.

Most of us are in long dresses—silks and satins, plunging necklines and long slits. The blonde who cried at the airport is wearing a pink and sparkly gown. The model has gone for classic black. The woman in white has switched to a different white suit.

I glance down at my outfit. Cream linen with a subtle pinstripe. The waistcoat is fitted, buttoned low, with nothing underneath. My pants sit low on my hips, showing a sliver of toned stomach where the waistcoat doesn't quite meet. The jacket is oversized, draped open, sleeves pushed up to show off my tattoos. It's from my own collection, of course.

"Okay, everyone, we're almost ready!" The first assistant director—a woman named Sam who hasn't stopped moving since we arrived—claps her hands. "Remember, when the bachelorette comes through those doors, I want genuine reactions. Excitement, nerves, whatever you're feeling. This is your first time seeing her, so let that show on your faces."

They haven't told us anything about her and none of us has any idea what type of woman will be walking through those doors.

"And remember," Sam continues, "after the introduction, Lacey will call you up one by one to meet Maria. When it's your turn, walk slowly, make eye contact, say something memorable. You've got about thirty seconds to make an impression before we move to the next person, so make it count."

Lacey Torres appears in a red jumpsuit. The host. She's a former actress turned TV personality, openly queer, sharp, and funny. The audience loves her. She catches me looking and winks. I give her a small nod.

The energy on the terrace shifts. Women straighten their spines, adjust their dresses, paste on smiles.

I take a deep breath and settle into myself. This is it. Weeks of planning, all leading to this moment.

"Thirty seconds!"

Lacey takes her position at the front of the group, just to the side of the doors.

"And... rolling!"

The terrace goes quiet. Even the wind seems to hold its breath.

Lacey looks directly into the main camera and smiles.

"Welcome back to a brand-new season of Finding Forever. I'm Lacey Torres, and tonight, twenty incredible women have traveled to the beautiful island of Oahu for a chance at love." She pauses, letting the moment build. "They've left their jobs, their families, their lives behind—all for the opportunity to meet one very special woman. A beautiful, single, self-made real-estate mogul with a heart of gold and a net worth of thirty-five million dollars."

Thirty-five million. Wow. That's impressive.

"And best of all, she's ready to find her forever person," Lacey continues. "Ladies... please welcome your bachelorette—Maria McAllister!"

The double doors swing open and there she is.

My first thought is: feminine. Very feminine. A sharp, shoulder length dark cut, a beaming smile, and a long sparkling silver gown. Diamond earrings. Makeup flawless. She's pretty and looks comfortable in her own skin, aware of her effect on a room.

My second thought is: good.

Femmes love me. It's not arrogance; it's pattern recognition. I've been dating long enough to know my type, and more importantly, to know who finds me attractive. Women like Maria tend to appreciate what I bring to the table. The androgyny. The fact that I can wear a suit better than most men and make them feel like the most beautiful woman in the room.

This might actually work out.

Lacey takes Maria's hand and leads her down the steps toward the poolside. Maria chuckles nervously as she gives us a wave.

"Oh my god," someone whispers to my left. "She's gorgeous."

She is. But gorgeous isn't what I'm looking for. I'm looking for tells. Signs of what she responds to, what she wants, what kind of woman is going to make it far.

She stops and scans the line, and I watch her eyes move from face to face. She lingers on Dominique in her white power suit, the commanding presence. She smiles at the blonde in pink, responding to the obvious adoration radiating off her. She passes over the model without a second glance.

And then her gaze lands on me.

I shoot her a wink, then hold her eyes and let her look.

Something flickers across her face—curiosity, maybe. I'm one of two women not in a dress. That makes me memorable. In a sea of silk and sequins, I'm the one in cream linen.

She moves on, continuing down the line, but I saw it. That moment of interest.

"So, Maria. You're finally here. How are you feeling?" Lacey asks.

Maria laughs, pressing a hand to her chest. "Honestly? Terrified. My heart is pounding so hard!"

"Well, you look incredible. And these twenty women have traveled a long way to meet you. What are you hoping to find?"

Maria takes a moment, but I can tell she's rehearsed it.

"I've spent the last fifteen years building my business," she says. "And I'm proud of what I've achieved. But somewhere along the way, I forgot to make time for love, and I'm here because I'm ready to change that. I want to find someone who challenges me, who makes me laugh, someone I can spend my life with."

"Well," Lacey says, turning to face us, "let's not keep you waiting any longer. Ladies, you'll each have a chance to introduce yourself to Maria tonight. When I call your name, please step forward."

She starts at the far end of the line, which gives me time to observe. One woman tells Maria she can already feel a connection, which seems a little much. Another reads a poem. The model walks like it's a casting call.

And then it's my turn. Maria looks me over as I introduce myself. "I like your suit."

Bingo. I can't believe my luck. Ten seconds in and my outfit gets a mention.

"Thank you. I designed it myself."

Her eyebrows lift. "You're a designer?"

"I am."

"Well." She smiles. "You're clearly very talented. I'm looking forward to getting to know you, Suki Pendleton."

"Likewise, Maria."

I hold her gaze for another beat, then return to my place in line.

The introductions continue. I half-watch, half-process while thinking about next steps. I have to charm her on our mini date. The first impression was solid, but impressions fade and tonight, Maria will decide which seven of us will stay in the villa.

"Freya Lindqvist," Lacey calls out.

It's the woman from the airport, with the honey-blonde hair and the not-quite-innocent smile. She's wearing a low-cut champagne-colored gown that shows off her figure, and she's walking toward Maria like she owns the terrace.

She kisses Maria on both cheeks — European style — and when she pulls back, she's smiling like they're already sharing a private joke.

"Hi. I'm Freya."

"Freya. That's beautiful."

"You're beautiful." She says it simply, like it's just a fact. No gushing, no nerves.

Maria smiles and Freya touches her arm. "I have a feeling we're going to get along."

Freya returns to her place in line, and I notice Maria's gaze follows her for a moment longer.

Damn it. Looks like I've got competition.

 

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