I didn’t tell them, and I don’t intend to.
Even if Piers were not a factor, I would still need to pretend.
That is what it means to be royal.
Duty, above all else.
The rest of our pack is lingering by the door of our suite, all dressed in suits, all color matched so we blend into one cohesive unit. A united front. The Royal pack.
The noose tightens. My grandmother's leash has never felt tighter.
I let my gaze sweep over my packmates, this small group of men I’ve chosen—men she would never have chosen for me. If a pack’s primary focus wasn’t to keep alphas from going feral, I’m pretty sure my grandmother would have preferred for my sister and I to remain packless, take a single mate and ensure the Ashbourne bloodlines.
Courtland is buzzing with barely suppressed energy. He’s the most excited by this turn of events. A month in a luxury resort with the blessing of the queen to flirt with whomever he deems worthy of his time, so long as it doesn’t go beyond that. So long as we do what she demands of us at the end.
Grieves, steady as stone at my right, jaw tight, eyes scanning every visible path like he’s mapping exits in case we need them. Thayer, quiet and buttoned-up, smoothing his grey tweed lapel, glasses slipping down his nose as he mentally catalogues all the ways this production could go wrong.
And Piers…
Piers standing just behind them, straight-backed but carefully neutral, the way he’s trained himself to be in public—a shadow instead of our heart. He’s the only one of us not in grey, not wearing the family tartan. I hate it more than I can ever admit.
They are everything I choose.
Everything my grandmother condemns.
“Let’s go,” I say, because staying in this room will only make the dread worse.
We move as a unit down the hallway, into the elevator and to the entryway of the hotel. When we reach the stagingarea beside the set, the producers swarm immediately, checking mics, smoothing jackets, adjusting hair. Making sure we are camera ready.
A beta woman comes up and brushes a powder over my cheeks, glancing over her shoulder to where the director gives her a thumbs up and then she moves along to the rest of my pack. It’s all familiar, almost as natural to all of us as breathing.
This is the truth of always being in the public eye.
It becomes second nature to stand under hot lights, with fifteen people watching on as we pretend we aren’t sweating through the suppressants they’ve forced us to take.
“Alphas, you’ll stand here,” a producer with a clipboard in her hand chirps, tapping marks on the floor. “Yes, perfect. Hold that pose when the omegas enter. They’ll come to you. Greet each one and then they’ll precede you into the ballroom to wait while we finish out here.”
I almost snort at the audacity of calling the space a ballroom. It is, at best, a conference room, meant to host businessmen and self-help gurus. Nothing like the ornate ballroom of the Bravonnian Palace. But then, I suppose they’re working with what they have.
Cleo Hartwell saunters onto set, taking position to my right, flashing our pack a quick smile that I might have thought was flirty, if I wasn’t aware that she’s a happily packed up beta.
“Piers,” that same producer says to my beta, drawing my attention away from the woman. “If you can just stand out of the view of the cameras.” My beta is already moving before she’s finished her direction. This is well worn territory for him, for us. Always shuffled out of the view of the camera. Always leaning against a wall, waiting for us to finish.
It's worse today than it ever has been before.
A producer calls for quiet. Everyone rushes to obey.
“All omegas, to positions!” someone shouts outside my line of sight. “First entrance. Ready!”
My pack straightens.
This is it. The start.
Isadora is first. Of course she is. The woman doesn’t know how to be anything but.
Cleo announces her name as she drifts toward us in a red gown meant to shimmer under the spotlights, her smile polished to a jewel. She’s been preparing for this moment her entire life. Groomed for it by her family… and mine.
Her dark hair shines in the lights, a silky wave over her bare shoulders. Her dress is far from demure, more daring than anything I’ve ever seen her in, bright red, strapless, low back with a slit up to her thigh. It appears she’s taking advantage of the less formal setting, trying to fit into the expectations of reality television, rather than a noble born lady.
