Now the room can exhale. And it does—shoulders drop, conversations restart in hissed whispers, and parents all over the chamber recalibrate their strategies for the coming year. But not all of them. Not the ones who really care about what comes next.
I’m already composing my blog post in my head, trying out angles. “Everhart reverses rejection. Is this the end of legacy politics?” or “Omega outsmarts the Council. Watch Everhart scramble.” I can already see the comments. Half the internet will call us out for weakness. The other half will crucify us for privilege. I think of the headlines I would write if I were braver.
But then I see her.
Charlotte.
Of course she’s here. She’s everywhere she shouldn’t be. She’s sitting in the third row, squeezed between a pair of whispering Council wives, her hair a scalding halo around herface. She makes eye contact with me—just me—and holds it for a beat too long.
It’s not affection. It’s not even anger. It’s the look of someone who’s seen all your magic tricks and is waiting to see if you have any left.
Bastion sees her, too. I feel his pulse jump. Emery doesn’t. She’s too busy showing the other girls how a rejection turns into a coronation.
The Council calls a recess, a polite way to say “everybody out while we clean up the mess.” Ranier disappears instantly, probably to punch a wall or call his mother. Bastion hangs back, lingering in a cluster of well-wishers and casual enemies. I find myself orbiting near the doors, scanning the room for the next disaster.
Charlotte doesn’t approach. She lets the crowd flow around her, even as the other omegas give her a wide berth. She’s radioactive, and she likes it that way. I’m about to retreat to the back hallway when she finally stands, picks her way toward me, and pauses with just enough space between us to be plausible deniability.
“Whitlock.” The sound of Charlotte’s voice burns me from the inside out.
“Charlotte,” I reply, and regret it instantly. Too formal, too dry.
She nods toward the dais, where Emery is still being mobbed by the press. “So. You went for the glitter bomb after all.”
“Wasn’t my call.” I immediately hate myself for the disclaimer. I used to be better at this.
Charlotte shrugs. “Nobody’s ever in charge with those two. Not even you.”
I bristle, but she’s not wrong.
“You did well.” Charlotte’s neutral tone scares me a little. “It’s good optics. People like an underdog.”
I almost ask her what she’s doing here, but I already know. She’s waiting for us to fail again, so she can be the first to say,I told you so.
Charlotte glances up, locks eyes with me, and I realize she can read the whole script on my face. “You’re still a mess, Wyatt. But you’re a lot less boring than last year.”
Then she’s gone. Not in a dramatic swirl, just a smooth slip into the tide of bodies.
I find Bastion next, propped against a pillar, hand gripping the back of his neck like it might fall off if he lets go. He’s watching Emery pose for photos, but his gaze is somewhere else. I nudge him with my elbow.
“You think she’ll actually go through with it?” I ask. “Join the line, make it stick?”
Bastion snorts. “She’s already won. Why wouldn’t she?”
I want to say “because it’s a terrible idea,” or “because you’re all poison,” but I bite it down. I’m not here to fix anyone.
“Charlotte was watching,” I say instead.
His jaw locks, but he doesn’t react otherwise. “Let her. She’s old news.”
But the scent of him, bitter and sharp, says otherwise.
Onstage, Emery is soaking in the attention, fielding questions from the Council reps and swatting away the hungry gazes of the legacy packs. She looks like a queen.
I see her glance in my direction once, just a flicker, like a silent, “Did you see that?”
Of course I did.
The next hour is a blur of handshakes, staged photos, and the slow, stunned drip of social recalibration. I work the edges of the room, trading barbs with the press, planting half-truths and rumors with the precision of a watchmaker. When Bastion and Emery finally escape to the VIP lounge, I loiter in the hall, gathering the fallout.
