Fucking idiot.
My father’s desk is made from old oak. I keep expecting the wood to warp under my hands or buckle under the weight of the day. Nothing in here has ever collapsed under pressure before, least of all me.
I might tonight though.
I set the phone down, expecting it to combust.
Not my phone, not my account, not my problem. That’s what I tell myself. But something is possessing me far beyond my sense of control and it’s only partially because Emery is so fuckingperfect.
The public loved her. The press didn’t manage to dig as deep as they wanted. And when they did, it was only to acknowledgemyshortcomings.
Nothing I’ve done to keep to the plan has survived first contact with Emery and her genuine determination, and I hate it.
I also love it at the same time.
But both of us can’t win. One path might lead to a happy pack but it also brings with it a displeased family of mine. One who’s put this weight and expectation of me I’m stuck holding.
The other spells what might be theendof this pack. Which also means breaking every promise I made to Christopher about Wyatt.
How ironic that the very tool I may use to break it all belongs to Wyatt.
Wyatt left his phone in the car after the event and didn’t notice. I took it as a sign when the driver flagged me down to give it to me.
Or a dare.
The debut was supposed to be a formality: bring the omega, let the Council reps shake her hand, get the press photos, and escape with our reputation intact. I was ready for it, the expected glares and rehearsed lines. I even planned the exact number of paces I’d keep between myself and Emery onstage, so nobody could accuse us of spontaneous affection.
Instead, she debuted in front of the entire city and made it look effortless.
Emery answered every question with a joke. The mayor laughed so hard she spilled her own coffee. The press ate it up. Wyatt and Bastion orbited her like twin satellites, both trying not to get caught staring, both failing. And I—head of house, last best hope for the Everhart line—stood at the podium like a mannequin with a mouth sewn shut.
Afterward, the blogs called me “distant.” The Council liaison called me “cautiously prudent.”
And then, of course, there was the backchannel: DMs, screenshots, voice memos forwarded to my personal email. An orgy of speculation about whether the Everhart pack could “survive such an obvious mismatch,” or whether I’d “accidentally imprinted on the omega and was now too emotionally stunted to admit it.”
If I could burn the internet, I would.
There’s been one site quite obviously silent. Royals Anonymous. Wyatt hasn’t bothered even pre-writing something for this event.
I unlock Wyatt’s phone and scroll through the notes app. He’s got half a dozen drafts of Royals Anonymous posts, some finished, some just a sentence fragment and a string of emojis. I add a new draft and type:
You ever get the feeling your whole life is one long dare, and if you refuse it, you cease to exist?
It’s not what I want to say, but it’s the only thing that doesn’t sound like a confession. I delete it and try again:
Saw the "commoner" omega at the Council debut today. Blue hair like a gas station slushie and a dress from the children's department. Everhart's new pet talks like she's auditioning for a comedy special nobody would watch. If this pack is desperate enough to claim street trash with no bloodline or breeding, they deserve extinction. #OmegaFail #TrashPack
I almost send it. I really do. Instead, I close the app and power off the phone.
I’m not a coward, but I’m not suicidal either.
I also most definitely cannot decide which path to take. Pack happiness or family duty.
Why must they have to carry the same weight?
I stare at the wall and try to remember what my father used to say about legacy.It’s not about the name,it’s about the noiseyou leave behind.If you’re loud enough, they remember you. If you’re quiet, they turn you into a ghost.
I don’t want to be a ghost, but lately it feels like I’m already halfway there.
