The billionaire stranger I claimed

Everyone in New York wants to be one person. Her name is Gloria Gilbert.

But honestly, why wouldn't they want to be like her? Have you seen this girl?

I'm talking about the girl who doesn't just wear clothes, she wears statements. Latest brands before they even hit the runway. Dior, Schiaparelli, vintage Chanel like she was born in it. Hair always done — sleek bob today, honey-blonde curls tomorrow, laid edges that have never known struggle.

God, her style? Insane. Her fashion sense? Unmatched. You see her and you just stare. You fall a little bit in love without meaning to.

She's a model ambassador for like, half the agencies in Manhattan. She's been modeling since she was two years old. TWO. She has houses scattered around New York — SoHo, Upper East, a quiet one near Central Park where she goes to disappear.

And she looks twenty years younger than her age. Skin like glass, smile like she knows a secret you don't. She is everyone's dream. Literally everyone's dream.

But...

I don't want to be like Gloria Gilbert.

Because I am Gloria Gilbert, girl!!!

Not to sound boastful or anything, but apparently I was born a cute baby. And I mean cute cute. With emphasis on the cute. These love-shaped lips of mine? They've been doing a lot of work since day one.

My mother's friend who owns a baby fashion house decided to use me as the face of her brand like 34 years ago. So, I think I became famous before I even learned how to form a complete sentence. Dumb, right? But that's how my modeling career started.

And since then — God.

I've been smiling at cameras that worship my skin. Controlling my diet like my life depends on it. Smiling at events, nodding at people, appearing like the perfect fashion guru. Doing all those things celebrities do even when it's completely against your personality. You know how it is. You smile when you want to scream. You pose when you want to disappear.

I have done it all. Perfectly.

But there's a big problem.

I was cursed.

Yeah, it's not easy admitting it, but it's a fact. And the curse says I will never find true love. Forget true love at this point — I don't even mind if it's fake. I will take fake.

But in my world, only two types of men seem to exist. The ones who are too afraid to come for me — I mean, I'm Gloria Gilbert. And the ones who can't come for me because I'm still Gloria Gilbert.

So now you know it. I'm a single New York bitch.

Did I tell you how old I am? I'm thirty-six. I'm not proud of that, but let's continue.

My cousin Martha is getting married tomorrow.

I honestly wish I could pen down how happy and excited I am, but I can't. Because I'm not happy. You read that right. It pisses me off that Martha, who I literally remember feeding when she was a baby, is going to have the title "wife" before me. I would rather be found dead than be at that wedding smiling like my world is made of roses.

Me and Martha — it's complicated. She models too, for some companies, but let's be honest, she's not as popular as me. And she always acts like there's some sort of competition between us. When we see each other, we smile, we hug, but there are a lot of words we don't say hidden behind that smile.

And my mother — don't even get me started. She is not your typical mummy who accepts that you are grown and no longer under her wings. Even at thirty-six, she's still my manager. Deciding what I eat, where I should be, where I shouldn't be.

Have you seen Sarah Gilbert? God. Sexy body with touches of modern figure, face that refuses to age. Internet people say she grows younger with every additional year and I couldn't say otherwise. She still looks twenty and maybe that's why she thinks she can still run my life.

And because of my her, I have no other choice than to show up at that little brat's wedding tomorrow doing what I've been faking my entire life — being happy.

Diary, I really do not want to go there. They've been doing it behind my back since I turned thirty, you know. Gossiping about my marital status. How no man wants me because of my disgusting attitude.

Have you seen my Instagram comment section? On all my viral posts — those people are crazy. They are literally obsessed with my life.

"Get married oldie."

"Find yourself a man bitch."

"She thinks no man deserves her, her ego is top notch."

"No man wants a red flag like Gloria Gilbert."

For so many nights I soaked my pillow in tears crying over those comments.

But that was a long time ago me whose words you are reading right now, doesn't give a fuck about some losers somewhere in the trenches who haven't even sat in a Benz truck but can't keep their nose out of my glorious life.

I should be preparing for the wedding now, but preparation for me is really just strategizing how to appear gracious while still being myself.

The dress dilemma is real.

I pulled out two of my favourites I got from kalvin Clane yesterday. Both short, both sculpted to perfection. If I wear the shorter one, I will completely upstage the wedding. The bride, the groom, the décor — everything will fade. And I could. Effortlessly. But should I? On her day? Perhaps a little restraint is required.

I considered the green one. Green is sophisticated. Green is understated and demure. But the ballroom lighting is dim, and green would swallow me. I do not get swallowed. I never have.

Then there's pink. Pink is bold. Pink is unapologetic. Pink says, "I have arrived." And that is the truth. Even in sweatpants, even with no makeup, people look. I am a model. It comes with the territory.

For makeup, I am thinking soft glam. Defined, but not dramatic. Lashes, but not the ones that look like they could take flight. Just enough to look flawless, like I woke up this way.

And the entrance — should I drive myself in the G-Wagon? Bring my driver for a proper entrance? Or bring a date just to unsettle everyone? If I walk in alone, they will whisper, "She's still single." If I walk in with someone handsome, they will whisper even louder.

I have made my decision.

I will smile — warmly, but briefly.

I will laugh — softly, with poise.

If anyone dares to ask, "When is your turn?" I will keep it short, elegant, and final. Something like, "Soon, darling." And I will walk away.

Martha is the one getting married.

But I will be

there looking expensive, looking unbothered, looking like everything she wishes she were.