1. Gemma

The shrill ringtone jolts me awake and my fingers blindly feel around for the device.

"The check is in the mail," I mumble, not even bothering to open my eyes or peel my face off the couch cushion. I make a feeble attempt to sit up, but it proves too much of a struggle so I end up flopping back down, the familiar heaviness of exhaustion weighing on me like a lead blanket.

It takes a moment for my brain to catch up with my mouth but when it does, I squint at the caller ID, bracing myself for yet another automated debt collector"s robocall. Instead, it"s my landlord. Crap.

"Gemma, that"s what you always say," the man sighs, his tone a mix of exasperation and pity. "I stopped buying your BS months ago."

I rub my eyes trying to blink away the Sandman. I was up until the wee hours editing my latest ASMR YouTube video before I passed out in a daze of exhaustion. Judging by the pinkish-orange glow outside, I guess I managed to snatch about two and a half hours of sleep.

"Yes, Mr. Finkelstein, I know, I know. Just give me a little more time to get things squared away."

Finkelstein growls on the other end. "Yeah, yeah, I"ve heard enough of your excuses to last me a lifetime. I"m sorry, Gemma, I hate to do this, but if you can"t come up with back rent and pay a month in advance by the end of the week, you"re out."

I jolt upright on the saggy secondhand couch that doubles as my bed, nearly dropping the phone. "The end of the week?" I echo, my heart sinking. "But it's Wednesday. Please, Mr. Finkelstein, I just need a little more?—"

"No can do," he says firmly. "The paperwork has already been filed with the court and stamped by a judge. If you come up with the dough by Friday, I can hold off the eviction proceedings. Otherwise..." he trails off, the implication clear. "Look, kid, I like you. And I sympathize with your situation. But I can"t keep lettin" you slide. I"ve been more than patient, and I got my own people to think about. If I don't follow through this time, the missus will eat my balls for dinner."

Eww. I need brain bleach to scrub that mental picture.

"I"m sorry," he repeats before the line goes dead.

I stare at my phone and swallow hard, fighting back a swell of panic. Stay calm, Gemma.

How did I get myself in this mess? Oh, right, I remember now. Life. It keeps trying to drown me no matter how hard I doggy paddle.

I need coffee. Groaning, I swing my bare feet onto the thin, stained carpet and stagger over to my kitchen area. Since this whole place is nothing but a one-room shoebox, the "kitchen" is merely a counter with a hot plate, sink, and a secondhand one-cup coffee maker. I reach for the coffee canister, only to find it empty.

"Great," I mutter. "Just great." Looks like I"ll have to settle for the vending machine sludge at the hospital. There"s no way I can afford the fancy coffee shop on the corner, not unless I want to sell a kidney. Although, given my current situation, that might not be such a bad idea. Maybe I should check into that.

Popping open my ancient laptop, I connect to my neighbor"s unsecured network (thanks, Linksys-3486, whoever you are). Hey, desperate times call for desperate measures.

When the WiFi finally connects, the first thing I do is check my various income streams—craft sales, AdSense pennies, affiliate links, MLM downlines. Unfortunately, my bank account is a black hole at the moment, gobbling up any funds that make their way into it to cover the ever-growing mountain of overdraft fees.

I run my fingers through my hair to make it semi-presentable for the camera. I don't have a ring light, so I need to capture the morning sunlight to record a new video for my "Multiple Streams of Income with Gemma" YouTube series. Propping my phone on a stack of books, I make sure to angle it just right to hide the peeling wallpaper and the sagging couch behind me.

"Hey, all you entrepreneurs!" I muster up as much hand-waving and faux enthusiasm as I can. "Today, I"m going to share with you my top five money-making tips. But first, subscribe to my channel and be sure to hit the notification bell..."

Fifteen minutes later, I wrap up the video and hit upload. Maybe this will be the one that goes viral and solves all my problems. Okay, not all, but some of the more pressing ones like keeping a roof over my head this weekend.

A girl can dream, right?

Dream. Ha. Who has time for dreams?

I glance at the time on my phone and realize I need to get going. If I leave now, I might be able to avoid the creepy guy who lives down the hall. The last thing I need is another awkward invitation to his "pottery class." I shudder at the thought.

Tugging on a reasonably clean pair of leggings and a second-hand t-shirt, I begin gathering my yarn and crochet hooks. While I'm at the hospital, I'll make a few more pairs of slippers to sell in my Etsy shop.

I swing open the door, then scream and flail my arms frantically as my yarn tote goes sailing through the air and out into the hall.

There"s a guy standing in my doorway, his fist raised as if he were about to knock.

Relax, it's not creepy guy. This guy is dressed in a delivery uniform and looks completely unfazed by my mini freakout. He must get that a lot.

"Sign here, please."

"Not me," I say, my hand to my chest as I try to catch my breath. "I didn"t order anything."

The guy checks the name on the big box tucked under his arm. "Gemma Carter? Apartment 3B? That you?"

"Yes, but?—"

"Sign here."

Still reeling, I scribble my name on the little electronic screen he shoves at me and accept the box. Once he"s gone, I stare at it in confusion.

I should really get going. I need to get to the hospital. But the mystery package is calling, daring me to open it.

Curiosity gets the better of me and when I lift the lid, I"m greeted by the sight of a stunning wedding dress.

"What the..." I trail off, picking up the dress and holding it against myself.

It's the most gorgeous wedding dress I"ve ever seen, all lace and beaded embroidery over delicate ivory satin. Nestled beside it are a pair of satin heels.

Okay, I absolutely positively did not order this. In fact, I think… I check the tag. Yep, it"s designer. It must be a mistake. I wonder how much I could sell it for on Ebay or Facebook Marketplace. It won"t be enough to cover the rent, but every little bit helps. As I"m admiring the dress, a card falls out of the box. I pick it up and read:

Dear Ms. Carter,

We are pleased to inform you that you have been selected for our BfB Arranged Marriage program. You will be joined to your groom in holy matrimony tomorrow at Enchanted Union Chapel, 215 East 5th St.

Please be prompt.

-BfB

BfB? Arranged marriage program? It takes a moment for the pieces to click into place.

I vaguely recall filling out some sort of intake form or questionnaire about some arranged marriage thing. But that was months ago. At the time I was desperate. (Frankly, when am I not?) I thought it might be another way to ease up on my financial burden.

Okay, I admit in the back of my mind—like deep, deep in the recesses—the website I stumbled on sparked a romance novel fantasy of meeting my handsome and wealthy Prince Charming who whisks me away from all my problems on his trusty steed and we live happily ever after in the land of Makebelieve. But in a more practical sense, I could really go for some perks of married life.

Like stability. Or companionship. Or financial security.

Hell, I'd settle for toilets that don"t require plunging every few days.

In my defense, I was exhausted and sleep-deprived when I applied. I figured nothing would come of the BfB application. That it was just another time-waster, like those migraine surveys that lurk in the corners of WebMD. But I went ahead anyway on the off-chance that it might ease my ceaseless money woes, if only a little.

Lord knows I"ve tried everything else, When you"re broke, drowning in debt, and can't do a normal nine-to-five, you don"t leave any stone unturned. Poshmark, MLMs, freelance gigs, social media influencing—I've got them all. But they're never enough. It"s like playing a never-ending game of whack-a-mole, except instead of cute little critters, I"m dealing with angry bill collectors.

I examine the card again, my head spinning. So… Like… Does this mean some random guy is expecting me to show up and marry him tomorrow? Seriously? Based on what, an eHarmony-like questionnaire I filled out for funsies during a bout of insomnia? Utterly ridiculous.

I risk a glance at the time. Crap. I need to go.

Racing out onto the busy city sidewalks, I dodge pedestrians and cars as I scurry my way down the canyon of skyscrapers and billboards.

God, I"m only twenty-seven but between the ever-mounting debt and all the near-minimum wage hustling to keep afloat I feel like I"m pushing eighty.

I pause at a busy intersection to catch my breath. I just have to remember why I bother. Remember what—who—I"m fighting for.

I'm lost in my thoughts until the crush of pedestrians jostles me forward. A stern-faced businessman in an overcoat hisses irritably as he brushes past me onto the crosswalk.

I keep moving, and soon, the towering facade of California General looms ahead. I hurry inside toward the familiar bank of elevators, punching the button for my floor. As I wait for the car to ascend to the pediatric wing, I realize I'm still clutching the card in my fingers.

Holy matrimony? Tomorrow?

It's way too absurd to contemplate, even for me. Isn't it? Yes. It is… Right?

Then I glance down at my rumpled, stained clothing, I take stock of my situation. A dismal little roach motel of an apartment. Scouring sidewalks for change. Ramen packets for dinner more often than not. Choosing between paying for electricity or heat because I can"t afford both. Days away from homelessness. Desperation, thy name is Gemma Carter.

Unless I suddenly win the lottery or inherit a fortune from a long-lost relative, this BfB marriage thing may be my last hope.

And, really, is an arranged marriage any weirder than peddling dong-shaped crystals from Mao"s Mystical Rocks, or whatever that company was called? (Don't ask. Suffice it to say, dignity sailed from this ship long ago.)

The elevator shudders to a stop in its glass carrel. Offering the candy striper manning the floor"s check-in a tight smile, I make my way down the hallway to the closed door, beyond which waits my entire world.

Pausing, I take a deep breath to gather myself then turn the knob and enter the room where an army of beeping machines surrounds the most precious sight I"ve ever beheld.

"Mommy!" Even on my worst days, her delighted greeting and radiant smile are better than a defibrillator to my heavy heart.

"All for you, baby girl," I whisper. "I do it all for you."