She could be considered simple among the sea of brilliant, over-styled noble omegas… and yet I can’t look away.
Maybe it’s because she looks real.
Maybe it’s because she looks like mine.
Or rather, how I would want my omega to look. Simple, understated, letting her natural beauty shine through.
She’s not mine though. And I need to remember that.
The cameras are already rolling, the set quiet as Cleo gives us all a practiced smile, not too big in consideration for the twoomegas going home. “You highness, Pack Ashbourne,” she tips her head to us. “Please make your first selection.”
Grieves shifts beside me, tension radiating off him in waves. Courtland, for once, isn’t smiling. Even Forsythe looks grim as he steps forward, lifting the first coronet.
He clears his throat. “When I call your name, please step forward.”
The omegas all hold their breath. Most of them look excited. Florence looks… bored.
“Isadora.”
She’s moving before he’s even started speaking, before the last syllable of her name has faded. She knew she would be first. We all did.
She glides forward like she’s floating, smiling the practiced fake smile for the cameras, for us, for anyone watching. Forsythe places the coronet on her head, and she bows—too low, too eager—and steps aside. Smugness drips from her pores, though she tries to hide it.
She’s just not that good of an actress.
Several more names follow.
Odette.
Joanie.
Tristan.
Petal with her pink hair and sweet smile, beams like sunshine when Forsythe places the crown on her head.
One by one, coronets disappear from the table.
We didn’t discuss the order. Not beyond who we would be sending home, but I can’t help but feel that Forsythe is being deliberate in his choices. In whom he picks and who he leaves waiting. Bravonnian nobles first. Bravonnian celebs second. Everyone else third.
When Forsythe reaches for the last coronet on the table, I know I’m right.
There are three omegas left without one: Darla. Deirdre. Florence.
Choosing her last is a message. To her. To the public who will watch this in a few days. To us, his pack. By putting her last, he’s all but warning her not to get comfortable, reinforcing what she’s already been told. Reminding us that no matter how much we might like her, she’s not the omega for us.
I’ve avoided looking at her, keeping my attention on whichever omega Forsythe has called forward. But now I can’t keep my gaze away.
She looks… resigned.
To going home.
Of course she does.
She’s been told we’re not the pack for her, that we will not pick her. Of course she thinks we’d send her home first. Why wouldn’t we when there’s a noble Bravonnian lady next to her?
Forsythe’s message has reached her loud and clear.
Her chin firms, her lips pursing into a tight little line, shoring herself up to keep her reaction to our inevitable rejection hidden from the cameras.
