I can’t even fully understand why she came on this show.
Piers and Court were right, there is a certain amount of reluctance to get close to us, a wariness in her eyes, a hesitation to get too close. Particularly at the start of the game, like she was waiting to see if I would lord my alpha dominance over them, order them through the tasks.
It's half of the reason I didn’t take the lead, even though my alpha wanted me to. He’s just as competitive as Florence is, but neither of us wanted to make her uncomfortable or worse prove her wariness of alphas right.
There’s an itch under my skin to find a laptop or a tablet or mobile phone and do a deep dive on Florence Karlin. Unfortunately that won’t be happening, seeing as its part of the rules to have no access to the outside world. Which means no internet. No snooping on her socials. No Googling her name and seeing what comes up.
I’m limited to the frustration of getting to know her face to face in front of countless cameras and for the viewing pleasure of millions.
“Someone has to go,” Forsythe repeats through gritted teeth.
“Dierdre,” I’m quick to offer someone from my team in place of Florence. “She basically just stood around and posed for the cameras the entire time. She also complained about each of the tasks and asked me to do them for her.” I grit my teeth. “Shewhinedat me to try to get me to carry her on the balance beam.”
“She did what?”
I nod. It was manipulative as fuck since she wasn’t genuinely feeling scared or frustrated. I got the impression she just wanted to see if she could get me to do it. Isadora does the same thing, but we have to tolerate it from her.
Court nods slowly. “Now that I think about it, Darla did the same thing.”
Forsythe eyes the two of us for the longest time and then sighs, scrubbing a hand over his beard. “Deirdre and Darla, then. Are there any other omegas we need to discuss?”
“Isadora,” Court says. “Can’t we just get rid of her? Find someone we actually like? By the time the queen finds out, it’llbe too late. We’ll have rejected her on international television. There will be no coming back from that.”
“You know we can’t do that,” Sythe says, sounding weary as hell. This whole thing has been weighing on him.
“But why? Any of the other omegas here would be better than her. Literally. Why can’t we just pick one of the others? Someone who we know doesn’t smell like sweaty feet?”
I choke on a laugh. Isadora does not smell like sweaty feet. But she certainly doesn’t smell good. Never has. Her scent is too sweet, cloying and heavy, thick and unctuous. I’ve always preferred something lighter with a hint of tang.
What does Florence smell like?I wonder. Surely she must have something gorgeous. Something bright and sweet, maybe a lemon drizzle or champagne and strawberries. Yeah, something as bright and bubbly as she is.
“No,” is our prime’s only response. Which is fair. We’ve been over this particular subject repeatedly so often that I’ve started to think of it as “the Isadora problem”. And I’ve tried to come up with a solution that would work for everyone.
So far I’ve been unable to.
Leave it to Courtland to come up with something on the fly that would be as close as we can get. Though I suppose the queen would be angry and Isadora would be pissed. But I can’t really bring myself to care all that much about either of the females’ reactions. If anything, imagining it brings a sense of relief.
Yes, so much relief.
And the Queen wouldn’t be able to force our hand once that decision has been made.
I know Forsythe is worried about her reaction to us picking an omega we like, but Courtland’s suggestion has merit. We might not be able to find our mate in this group of twenty omegas, but we can surely find someone better suited to us than Isadora.
They line the omegas up beneath strings of lanterns, the light soft and golden, as if production is trying to bring to mind a dream sequence. A long table gleams behind us, stacked with eighteen gold coronets—delicate things shaped like laurel leaves. A symbol of favor, of potential. Of continued hope.
Twenty omegas stand before us.
Eighteen tiaras.
Two will go home.
I try—fuck, I try—not to stare at Florence. But it’s impossible when she looks like that. So beautiful in her pale pink gown. Her make up is flawless, soft in peachy pinks. Her hair is down in silky honey waves, flowing to her mid back.
She’s gorgeous.
In a sea of noble omegas, of influencers and models, of glitz and glamour, she could be considered a little plain. A little simple. Even if her dress is exquisitely molded to her body like it was made for her.
So why can’t I stop looking at her? Why can’t I stop scouring her face, looking for a sign of those sweet faint freckles over her nose and cheeks that grabbed my attention while I held her on the obstacle course earlier.
