Flash Fiction Fridays
Bianca: Broke, Bougie, and Looking for Love ...Season 1 Episode 1
Chapter One: One-Way Ticket to Matrimony
Bianca Hartstale had the polished vowels of a Mayfair heiress and the bank balance of a bodega cashier. Her British accent imported via YouTube tutorials and repeated screenings of Downton Abbey was as authentic as the Birkin knockoff she once tried to return to Nordstrom “on principle.” Still, she insisted on being addressed with the sort of reverence reserved for royalty or Rihanna.
After a tragic and deeply misunderstood stint in Los Angeles (“L.A. wasn’t ready for me,” she often muttered, as if she’d been ahead of her time and not, in fact, behind on rent), Bianca had returned to New York, the city of second chances and, hopefully, six-figure husbands.
She’d already exhausted her romantic luck riding every subway line between Manhattan and Brooklyn, strategically clutching hardcovers by Zadie Smith, Ian McEwan, or Margaret Atwood and posing with pouty mystery on the Q train. No viable bachelors took the bait.
But today, the clouds parted.
While casually eavesdropping on a pair of Upper West Side socialites comparing Pilates studios and prenups, Bianca’s ears perked up. One of their friends had found love—and a mortgage-free existence—on the Metro-North.
“Darling,” she whispered to herself, “perhaps my king has been commuting this entire time.”
She tossed her expensive Burmese extensions over her shoulder, applied a fresh coat of lip gloss, and marched into Grand Central Terminal like it was the runway at Paris Fashion Week. The grandeur of the building felt like a sign from the dating gods.
“Why haven’t I come here sooner?” she murmured.
“One ticket to matrimony, please,” she told the ticket agent.
The man blinked. She sighed.
“Fine. What’s the best route to meet eligible bachelors?” she clarified.
He smirked. “Excuse me?”
“I want a one-way ticket, ideally across from a handsome hedge fund manager with strong wrists and no mommy issues,” Bianca explained, without missing a beat.
The agent roared with laughter. “We only sell tickets to the Harlem, Hudson, or New Haven Line, ma’am.”
Bianca studied the map he slid through the opening at the bottom of the window. She remembered the socialites mentioning Scarsdale and Pilates. That felt promising.
“I’ll start there,” she declared. “One-way to Scarsdale, please.”
The fare made her visibly flinch. It was three times her iced matcha budget and twice her dignity.
“Does that come with a chilled glass of Chardonnay?” she asked. The ticket agent burst into another round of thunderous laughter.
“You’ve made my day,” he said.
Bianca quickly composed herself. “An investment,” she whispered, tapping her card. “I’m not chasing love. I’m acquiring assets.”
She made her way to Track 30 and boarded the 4:17 p.m. train with confidence and a tote bag filled with lip balm and a pristine copy of The Alchemist by Paulo Coelho, a book she didn’t intend to read unless someone rich asked about it.
Sliding into a window seat, she took a deep breath.
Today, she would find love. Maybe.
Or at least a LinkedIn connection with a man named Chadworth and a penthouse in Scarsdale.
Preferably.
After all, if romance was a game, Bianca wasn’t here to play.
She was here to win.