Renza took a dramatic pause, like he had practiced this part in the mirror.
“I want y’all to look around,” he said. “Some of y’all gon’ make it far. Some of y’all won’t make it past week one, but all of y’all was chosen. For your looks, your energy, your vibe, and the way you carry yourselves.”
He walked down the line, callin’ each name like it was a runway show. “Lola Reign. Milan Sweetz. Brittani Luxe. Jayla Noelle. Imani Blaze. Ariyah Skye. Zaniyah Starr. Chanel Banks. Kalea Monroe. Renae Dior. Savannah Bleu. Tamara Rose. Aubrii Gold. Taffy Royale. Nyah Roux. Soriya Laveau. Khari Belle. Toni Roc. Kashmere Charm. Pluto Monroe.”
Pluto Monroe…
She was gorgeous and dressed in all black. It was simple but clean. Her brown skin was smooth, her curls long, and she didn’t move like the others. She didn’t smile too much or do the whole performance thing. I noticed her, yeah—but I noticed a lot of ‘em, so I kept it movin’.
I blinked and reminded myself that this whole thing was supposed to be entertainment…just a game.
But as I looked across that line of women, all waitin’ to prove somethin’, I knew this wasn’t just some setup I could breeze through.
This shit was about to get real, and deep down, I knew Renza might’ve actually done somethin’ right.
“Come on, nigga. Don’t be scared. It’s just pussy,” Renza whispered in my ear with a smirk
I turned my head slow, blew out a cloud of God Smoke, and looked him dead in his face. “Nigga, shut up.”
He laughed and smacked my back. That’s how Renza was—always talkin’ wild, never takin’ shit serious. Meanwhile, I was standin’ here in my own damn foyer, surrounded by twenty women, all of ’em dressed like they was auditionin’ for a music video and I was the director. They was still posted up near the double staircase, some whisperin’ to each other, some stealin’ glances at me like I was a prize in a display case. And honestly, I was.
I stood there like I always did—unbothered, unreadable and unpressed. My blunt stayed burnin’ between my fingers while I peeped the scene, quiet but aware. I wasn’t impressed yet. Curious maybe, but not impressed.
Then one of ’em broke formation like she had somewhere to be. Her name tag said Milan Sweetz, and she was movin’ like she was the main character.
She was bad as fuck, no doubt about that. Her skin was smooth like café au lait, her body shaped like she’d paid good money for every curve and got her full refund, too.
Waist tiny, hips sittin’, lips glossy, baby hairs laid like they had their own stylist. And that walk… Yeah, she’d practiced that shit. She came straight to me, struttin’ like the whole room belonged to her, and the rest of these women was just extras in her scene.
“I been waitin’ to meet you, Pressure,” she said, draggin’ out the syllables like she wanted me to taste ’em. Her voice was sugary sweet as she ran her hand up my chest. “They told me you was fine, but they didn’t say you was all this.”
I didn’t say nothin’ at first. I just looked at her, then hit the blunt again.
She leaned in close, her lashes low, and mouth damn near grazin’ mine. “I can’t wait to become Mrs. Mensah.”
“Oh yeah?” I finally said, not givin’ her too much.
She got even closer as if she was tryna seduce me. I was just about to take another pull from my blunt when my eyes dropped to her feet—and froze.
Now… a nigga wasn’t tryna be shallow, but damn.
Her damn toenails was chipped like she been playin’ kickball barefoot. She was ashy around the ankles, and her sandals looked like they survived a dam hurricane.
I took a slow step back, blinked, and tilted my head. “Damn baby… you couldn’t get ya feet done before you pulled up to my shit?”
Milan blinked like she ain’t hear me right, but she heard me. Hell, everybody heard me.
She laughed it off, tryna play cute. “Boy, you silly.”
Milan giggled, but that smile was startin’ to tremble at the edges. She backed up with fake grace, like she ain’t just get embarrassed on arrival.
“That’s alright, baby,” Renza said, clappin’ once. “We gon’ get you a lil’ foot soak and a travel voucher. Maybe some socks. Shit.”
I didn’t say nothin’ else. I wasn’t tryna roast her. I was just real. And if I was supposed to be on the search for a wife, the least you could do is bring ten toes worth lookin’ at.
Some of the other women snickered, and Milan hit ’em with a death glare before disappearin’ back into the pack. She wasn’t done, but she wasn’t in the top five no more.
Then I heard, “Fuck all that!”
