Prologue: Una Noche Tan Linda

"Y la ganadora del Miss Venezuela es..."

There were two moments in my life that I would forever mourn. This was the second one, when I stood besides Miss Monagas.

Our hands were clasped together like we actually gave two fucks about each other, smiling for the cameras and an invisible audience in the Teresa Carreño Theater. With the limelights set firmly over us, it was impossible to see the mass of people congregated in the dark seats of the place as they watched, expectant like the rest of the country, to see who would be crowned Miss Venezuela.

The pageant's theme song danced a jig in my brain. Training with the tune playing in the background for a year wasn't even why. It was because every girl in this country had grown up with it.

En una noche tan linda como esta...

Sure, it was a pretty night. I looked like a Barbie who had got plastic surgery to look even more perfect. Except in my case, it was the magic of having eaten only lettuce and canned tuna for nine months, exercising for eight hours every day, and the additional help of makeup, two kilos of hairspray and absolutely no underwear under a dress so tight it was only held up by fashion tape and pins.

That was partially why my heart pounded. If I had a wardrobe malfunction, I would flash the entire country and be left only with the protection of my Miss Vargas sash. A prospect that, at that second, horrified me even more than not winning the pageant at all.

The presenter, an actress who had shot to fame after a couple of nude pictures accidentally leaked to the public, took her sweet-ass time to open the envelop with the final result, as though no one in the pageant knew the winner already.

Miss Monagas was one of the favorites all along, what with the extensive publicity her sponsor had given her. They made sure to never appear in public together, but everyone on this side of the cameras knew he was a gajillionaire businessman with ties to the government, who really enjoyed Miss Monagas' company.

Meanwhile, my backer was my reluctant uncle. He was rich, but not infallibly, and he'd agreed with my mom that I shouldn't have been a part of this contest in the first place.

Finally, the presenter produced the slip of paper and announced, "Y la Miss Venezuela es... Miss Monagas, Stephanie Abraham."

I went through the motions. As Miss Monagas' face transformed into a caricature of shock—homegirl nearly dislocated her jaw in her pretend-shock—I gave her a hug I tried to pass off as genuine for the sake of the cameras, and stepped aside to give her the big moment she had worked so hard between the sheets for. Not that I was bitter.

As I watched the crowning, clapping even as someone else came over with my First Finalist sash, crown and flower bouquet, I still convinced myself that all my hard work hadn't been in vain.

Placing so high in the pageant without going under the knife or under some gross man, was a feat in itself. And while I wouldn't go on to the biggest beauty pageant in the planet, I would be the representative for Miss World. Something good might come out of that.

Besides, there was historical precedent of many contestants who didn't earn the most coveted crown, and still went on to become successful models, actresses, TV presenters or even singers.

That was why I'd put up with a grueling year of physical torture, food deprivation and lewd stares left and right—to get Mom and I out of poverty, fast, and without depending on anyone else's help. I'd got to this noche tan linda with my uncle's money, and it had to be the last time we ever depended on someone's charity. From here on out, it'd be up to me.

It didn't work out, though.

Without a sponsor who was truly invested in me, I had no offers after the Miss Venezuela or after the Miss World.

I went for every modeling opportunity I could find. Hair products, yogurt, even lottery tickets. Despite being absolutely drop-dead gorgeous in each commercial, I didn't take off.

"Mija, ponte a estudiar," my mom would say. She wanted me to focus on my business degree and leave the celebrity world behind, even though I wasn't yet even in it.

Yet, because I wasn't ready to give up. I kept begging photographers, producers, script writers and went as far as showing up in the doors of big companies, pleading for a chance to be their ambassador.

Then a big offer came: to be a calendar girl for the biggest beer brand in the country.

It would pay extremely well and in American dollars. It would make my face recognizable by the whole country. And my ass. And my tits.

Because I would have to show pretty much everything my momma gave me.

"No!" was precisely what said momma said. "Y si tu papá estuviera con nosotras también diría que no. Yo no voy a prostituir a mi hija por dinero!"

"Pero mami," I started, scrambling my brains to come up with a decent counter argument.

I came up blank because she was right. Dad would probably not have approved of me joining the Miss Venezuela, forget about this.

"Si no hago esto no voy a poder empezar una carrera aquí," I said, going for an ultimatum.

She folded her arms. "Y si haces esto quién sabe qué más tendrías que hacer después."

Mierda. She had a point.

The stories some of the other contestants shared behind closed doors came to mind. How some of them had had to sleep with old, sloppy men who stank of alcohol and Voltaren to get ahead. Or worse, how a few of them had had to do the same with several.

It took true stomach and grit to do something like that and deep down, I knew I didn't have it in me. I would never be able to face my Dad in the afterlife if I did that.

Which would be where I'd end up, after Mom killed me with chancletazos.

My dreams of an entertainment career in Venezuela died on the day I declined that offer, suffocated under the weight of a society that saw women like me as toys—especially of the sexual variety.

I cried for days, wishing I hadn't even started down that path in the first place and at the same time, wishing I'd been successful on my first try. If I hadn't been the First Finalist, but Miss Venezuela herself, I wouldn't have to go through any of this. I'd have gone on to the Miss Universe and win or lose, my name would've made history. That alone wouldn't have let me fade in obscurity. Or only be offered vaguely pornographic jobs.

But I'd already paraded in my 1.83m tall, 90cm bust, 60cm waist, 90cm hips swimsuit glory in front of Venezuela. I'd already disappointed Mom and had nothing else to show for it than disappointment. Everywhere I went, whether it be the mall, or university or job applications, people pointed out my failures, preferably by showing me a picture of me on the night of the pageant walking in sky scraper high heels and a barely there swimsuit.

During those days I missed my dad more than ever, especially because Mom kept saying te lo dije and she was driving me crazy. Dad wouldn't have. He'd have been stern, yes, but his arms around me would've made me feel like no matter what, the Luna Diaz family would be okay. That I, Cecilia Maria Luna Diaz, would be just fine.

The fact was, we hadn't been okay since the night of December 15, 1999, the moment I would forever mourn the most for the rest of my life.

That night, Dad went out of the house to see what was going on with the neighbors and never came back.

It had seemed fitting that I'd been given the sash of my home state Vargas for the Miss Venezuela pageant. I'd even considered it a good omen—even though my dad lost his life that night in what was known as the Vargas Tragedy. Thousands more were swept away or buried under flash floods and debris flows that irreparably destroyed the state.

But I should've known better. Nothing in my life had ever been smooth.

One morning, I had enough. As I ate the first homemade tequeños in well over a year, I told Mom, "Me quiero ir del país."

"Qué?"

Why the fuck would I want to stay?

To keep being reminded of what I could have been, but wasn't? To have my failures—and my photoshoots—rubbed in my face by everyone I met?

It was a lot easier to convince Mom of emigrating than it had been to join the Miss Venezuela. The fact we'd survived the Vargas Tragedy and walked right into the steep decay of the country as a whole was enough argument for her. She, too, was fed up with acting as the umbrella for the crap I got rained on.

A couple of years later, and with a degree in Business Administration in hand, we packed up our suitcases—full of dreams, as every Venezuelan immigrant said—and landed in Orlando, Florida, where Mom would start anew as the housecleaner of none other than my uncle, and I would begin a career in waitressing until I figured out how to use my degree.

Uncle Gabriel had offered to help me, too, but I refused. I didn't want to fail him again but even more, I didn't want to depend on him anymore.

That was the only thing I wanted about my new life. I had to set a new goal for myself that steered me far from what wasn't good for me. No matter what had happened in the past, I couldn't keep disappointing my parents and more importantly, myself.

Which was exactly what I proceeded to do as I fell for, and was played by, one guy after another.

It was as though in leaving our old lives behind, I grew more desperate to find the one thing that had been good about it.

Dad. Mom and Dad, together, dancing in the kitchen. My parents sneaking a quick peck on the lips while they thought I hadn't been looking. The stars that shone in Mom's eyes when Dad looked at her. A light that had disappeared with him.

With every guy who waxed poetic to me, I hoped to find someone like him. The man who could make me love con todo.

But without fail, every single one of them turned out to only be in love with my body and when I asked for more, they would leave.

Ten years later, after much heartbreak for both my mom and I, I finally learned my lesson and vowed to steer clear off of men forever. The only one who deserved room in what was left of my heart was up in heaven.

Of course, as soon as I decided to focus on my budding career as a brand acquisition representative for a beauty store chain, was when I met him: a beautiful liar six years younger than me, and the biggest threat I'd faced.

And he came into my life precisely on a night that should've been pretty, but turned into one of my worst nightmares.

SONG OF THE DAY: The Miss Venezuela theme

i've been so excited for what feels like forever to share this book with you all. and while the excitement has been dampened by the dumpster fire situation i described in the previous author note, we will persevere 😤

i hope you're ready for a fluffy book with cute characters being cute! and because i'm just lovely, i'll give you three chapters all at once ✨

♫

and now, the rules of engagement you accept the second you continue to read (no ifs or buts):

- i tried to represent the love interest's culture as best as i could but given i am not South Korean, there may be misses. i profusely apologize and if that is that case i will strive to fix any issues 😬

- my pov character is Venezuelan, born and raised. this means that she'll speak in Spanish, SURPRISE!!! i will not translate it because no one says the same thing in two different languages at the same time. so, Google Translate is your best friend. does it pull you out of the story and you're already beginning to craft your complaint? ion curr but let me give you my answer anyway: thank you for reading up to here and i wish you the best in your life endeavors 👋🏼

- i did do some research on immigration topics for this book but again, i am not an expert so get ready to suspend your disbelief if you are.

- there will be some cuss words here or there but nothing terrible.

- you won't find smut in this book. there's nothing wrong with it but i don't write it. everything here will be tastefully implied or fade to black, and will artfully leave you hanging and wanting more.

- i eat haters for breakfast*. in other words, be kind and i will give you kindness in return 😌

*figuratively speaking

- do. not. steal. my. shit. not for a single reason in this whole wide world. this applies to the way i string words into somewhat coherent sentences, my concepts and plots, my graphs or my vibe. get your own. 

©Copyright by Marianna Leal / Hubrism. All rights reserved. Any reproduction of this content in any form is illegal and fraudulent, and you are liable for prosecution. If you are reading this on NOVELHD or another website, you may be at risk of malware. Please inform Marianna Leal / Hubrism of any unauthorized copies.