You used to dream about moments like this—something soft, golden, romantic—yet for most of your life, everything felt like the opposite of a fairytale. High school had been hell. You were the “ugly duckling,” the girl people whispered about, snickered about, threw cruel looks at. Too big, too awkward, too sensitive, too everything.

But eventually… you changed.

You grew into your bones, into your beauty, into a confidence you’d never been allowed to have. You learned how to take care of yourself. You learned your worth. Your skincare line—born from years of sensitive, reactive skin—exploded with success. Your body transformed. Your skin glowed. Your life blossomed in ways you weren’t sure were ever meant for you.

A beautiful house. A thriving business. A peace you’d built from the ashes of old pain.

Only one thing was missing.

Someone to share it with.

Dating apps? A circus. Set-ups? Disasters. Matchmaking services? They introduced you to the kind of men who said things like “I don’t date women who work more than me.”

Your mom, ever dramatic and full of schemes, signed you up for The Bachelor. You told her, “Mom, those shows get like ten thousand applicants.” She just waved you off. “If it’s meant to be, you will be chosen.”

And… somehow… you were.

Twenty-five women. One man. A man who was, frankly, unfairly gorgeous.

Jerry Anderson. A doctor in Salt Lake City. Single father to a four-year-old daughter named Abby. Strong jaw, dirty-blonde hair, warm blue eyes, that soft smile of a man who has seen pain and still chooses kindness. A man who looked at people like he saw them, not through them.

When you stepped out of the limo that first night, the world did that movie-thing—everything slowed, the background blurred, and for one dizzy, breathtaking heartbeat, it was just… him. Jerry. Looking at you like he wasn’t expecting to be caught off guard, yet there he was, caught anyway.

You weren’t shy—not normally. You’d faced boardrooms, investors, television cameras. Men didn’t intimidate you.

But Jerry?

He scrambled every nerve ending you had.

The way he shook your hand—gentle, lingering just a moment too long. The way his eyes softened when you told him you were nervous. The way he complimented your dress without sounding rehearsed like so many Bachelors before him.

From that first moment, something fluttered beneath your ribs and refused to quiet down.

But you also knew better than to get your hopes up.

You’d watched enough seasons to know that the women weren’t friends—they were competition. And charming, sweet, beautiful men on TV could still break your heart.

Still, week after week, he kept choosing you.

Every rose ceremony… God, you were a wreck. You tried to remind yourself:

He has chemistry with other women too. Don’t assume. Don’t get burned.

But when he called your name, every time, the relief that washed over you nearly made your knees buckle.

And then… somehow… you made it to the final three.

The Fantasy Suites.

The most vulnerable, most dangerous week for your heart.

Your overnight date with Jerry was perfect. Slow, warm, full of laughter and whispered stories. He asked about your dreams, your fears, what high school had been like for you, and you didn’t expect to open up the way you did. You didn’t expect him to listen like every word mattered.

When you finished your date, producers were already holding the little white envelope—the invitation to the Fantasy Suite.

He took it from them, but then he looked at you… differently. Like his mind was already made up.

He held the card for a long moment, thumb grazing the edge, before he finally spoke.

His voice was soft—so intimate you felt it in your spine.

“I only want to give this to one person… and that’s you.”

You blinked, confused. “That’s… not usually how this works.”

“I know,” he said with a small smile. “But intimacy means something to me. My job is stressful. My daughter is my entire world. I don’t give myself lightly.” He looked at you like you were something rare, something precious. “I don’t want to explore that side of things