Evie's mother married an eighty-nine-year-old retired CEO when she was 19 and was a multimillionaire by 21, much to the consternation of the CEO's numerous grandchildren.

The CEO wasn't Evie's father. Evie's legal father was Husband #3, a retired BigLaw lawyer, although her actual father was the gardener. "I couldn't have you be descended from any of these men I marry," Mom had explained. "Wealthy they may be, but I can't have you inherit those eyebrows or those cheekbones or that nose. My plastic surgeon is a genius, darling, but he can only do so much."

Mom always married men in their seventies or eighties. She disapproved of black widows. With wise partner selection and a little patience, a woman could have the same effect without any risk of prison time. 

Evie attended the best boarding schools ("your network is your net worth, darling!"). But her real studies were all at home. She could do flawless winged eyeliner as soon as she could read, and by the time she was twelve she was qualified to be a professional makeup artist. She memorized each month's Vogue, but also closely studied what her mother called the timeless principles of man-catching fashion. She had private tutoring in elocution, skiing, horseback riding, and hiphop dance. At night, they studied flashcards: wines, art history, the Fortune 500. 

She got straight A's in sixth grade. Mom looked at her report card, sniffed, and said, "well, you don't catch a man with intelligence, darling." Ever afterward, Evie made sure she got the golddigger's C.

Evie went to Yale as a legacy (it was Husband #5's alma mater). But she couldn't bear to take her mother's course. She went to Thanksgiving at the house of her boyfriend, Bartholomew Maxwell Worthington IV, but instead of setting her cap at Bartholomew Maxwell Worthington II, she exclusively canoodled with IV and ended up getting dumped three months later for a stripper. She often attended classes, sometimes even when everyone in the class had a net worth of less than $5 million. She graduated with a bachelor's in comparative literature, but had no sign of a Mrs. degree. 

Evie moved back home after graduation. She obediently went to golf tournaments and professional tennis matches and Dubai whenever Mom told her, but steadily failed to date anyone, much less any elderly billionaires. 

Mom didn't know where she went wrong. "How sharper than a serpent's tooth it is to have a thankless child!" she said. (Husband #6 was into Shakespeare.) 

Then Mom learned about Bimbo or Billionaire: Self-Actualization. Mom got all the latest bodywarping technologies, which was why she looked the same age as Evie. But she'd dismissed Bimbo or Billionaire as a skeevy show. Those girls were too happy and bubbly and horny. They would have sex with anyone, instead of holding out for a new handbag or a sports car or the grandkids being written out of the will. 

But, after the wild success of Leah Aarons's episode of Bimbo or Billionaire-- which briefly became the most-rewatched TV episode of all time-- the producers spotted an opportunity. Bimbo or Billionaire: Self-Actualization was guaranteed to make you your best self, at least as long as your best self was multiply orgasmic, had sex with strangers on a whim, and had tits the size of her head. 

"Well, obviously your best self is a trophy wife, darling," Evie's mom said, "and you'll have a nice little nest egg so you can buy your own tickets to Art Basel Hong Kong."

And so with no further ado, Evie was packed off to Bimbo or Billionaire: Self-Actualization.