You find yourself ripped from sleep by the sound of your curtains being yanked open, and although you do not open your eyes, you know a new day has begun. You flinch back, covering your face with your arms and groaning. "Get up you insolent girl," your mother spits, dragging you to your feet. You open your eyes with a huff and take in the all-too-bright room around you. Something is different.

Your mother is not in her usual robe and slippers, hair rollers stuck to her grey-streaked hair, tired eyes undecorated. No, she is dressed, makeup and hair done, and glaring. "What's going on?" you ask, suddenly much more alert. The only time she bothers getting ready like this is when someone important is coming. "Get dressed, and don't you dare leave this room until you're presentable." She turns and leaves, despite your protests. "You're not going to tell me what the occasion is? Who's coming over and why?" Part of you knows, knows she only wears white on days one of the girls is being selected. She doesn't dignify your questions with a response, just mutters, "you have 20 minutes, then I expect you in the kitchen," and slams the door.

You turn to the rest of the room, it is a spacious bedroom, once a living room, now crammed with bunks and dressers for the girls that live there. They never stay long, either selected or sent away. Your mother sees no use in a bride that no man wants, so when they are skipped over once too often, they leave. Most of these selections happen online, the convenience of the internet you suppose. But not today. Today someone is coming to select his bride in person. You sigh, knowing the girls are about to face some pig, some bastard that can't talk to women, let alone date them. Men like that turn to places like Simple Modern Prospect, her mother's business. How a woman runs a place like this you'll never understand.

You pull back your hair and start dressing, knowing you'll spend most of the day with guests, you choose a practical button-down with silver embellishments and your nicest slacks. You pull on a pair of loafers and cuff your sleeves twice on each side. You tuck your necklace into your shirt, the only piece of your father left, kept away from prying eyes. You start down the stairs with one last look around the room. The girls are all downstairs, dressed and ready hours before, and you sigh. One of them will be gone tonight, multiple if this man is the greedy type. Their belongings kept neatly as if to be easily packable, their lives here so temporary.

As you enter the kitchen, you spot Essie, the only familiar face in this house that doesn't put shivers down your spine. "Hey y/n, you clean up nice huh," they chuckle, you roll your eyes and shove them as you walk toward the wall, pulling an apron off of the hook and throwing it over your head. They come up behind you and tie the strings, looking over your shoulder at your expression. "Why the long face darling, it's just another day." "I dont understand how you can say that!" you turn to face them with a look of disgust. They put their hands up and took a step back. "Whoaaa princess, i'm just saying, you've gotta get used to it at some point." You sigh, knowing part of what they say is true, but the feeling still lingers.

The doors to the kitchen slam open and you turn to see your mother blaze into the room, eyes wide and feet moving like someone on a mission. "They're here, everyone better be on their best behavior," she turns to face you. "Y/n I dont want to hear a fucking word out of you, not today." You huff and cross your arms, but say nothing. She takes this as a good enough answer, turns, and leaves with the same vigor she entered with.

You tuck your hair behind your ears, seduring the stray strands before beginning to help the kitchen staff with plating and stacking trays. Essie works silently beside you, their sleeve brushes yours occasionally as you reach for plates and sauces. The kitchen is silent on these days, and you don't think you'll ever get used to it. You look up at the amount of work you have left and your stomach twists at the thought that you'll have to be out there soon. Holding trays, offering refreshments, and keeping silent. You place the last plate on your tray and turn to Essie. Their back is to you as they pour drinks, and you know they have that same chill in their veins as they prepare to leave the sanctuary of the kitchen. The eyes of the chefs look upon the two of you in pity as you push through the double doors and out into the living room.