I hate everything about this. Truly.
Forsythe turns toward Darla first. “Darla, step forward.”
She brightens, clearly not as aware of the situation as Florence is. Stepping right up to Forsythe and fluttering her lashes coyly. Her smile falters when his expression shutters into the one I know he practices in the mirror. Royal aloofness. Polite respect. The prince who cares, but not too much.
“I’m sorry, Darla,” he says, not sounding sorry at all, but rather like a robot. “But you are not our omega.”
The words fall like an axe. Darla’s face crumples. She nods tightly, dignified even as tears gather, and production escorts her off to the side.
One down.
Deirdre lifts her chin, smoothing the front of her glittery blue dress. She gives Florence a sideways glance dripping in smug certainty. Florence doesn’t see it, staring straight ahead, at the wall behind us, her expression one of intense concentration, like she’s having a conversation with herself. A pep talk, perhaps?
What I wouldn’t give to know what she says to herself in the quiet corners of her own mind.
Forsythe gestures. “Lady Deirdre.”
She strides forward, hips swinging, already tilting her head to present her crown before she comes to a stop in front of him.
“You are not our omega. I’m sorry.”
She freezes, her head jerking up to stare at him in surprise. The already safe omegas suck in sharp breaths before the silence descends. Deirdre blinks twice, genuinely stunned. I think for a moment she might argue. But she just tips her head graciously and murmurs a quiet, “Thank you for the opportunity, Your Highness” before she follows a crew member out of the shot.
And then there is only Florence.
Standing alone, looking utterly befuddled in her blush dress, eyes wide, lips parted. Her kaleidoscope eyes drop to the crown in Forsythe’s hands, then drag up to meet his, confusion clear.
A glance around her like she’s looking for any other remaining omegas for him to give it to, but she finds none, which seems to shock her all over again.
Forsythe lifts the final coronet. “Miss Karlin?”
My chest tightens painfully.
I should be the one giving it to her. The instinct hits me like a fucking truck, but the show demands our prime do it. So I stand there and burn silently as Forsythe steps toward her.
She notably doesn't move, as if her dainty heels are glued to the floor.
“Florence.”
Her shoulders jolt. She lifts her chin, eyes wide and flustered. “Y-yes, Forsy-Your Grace? Er, Your Highness?”
“Come here, please,” the prince says, sounding amused. I can’t see his face from where I’m standing, but I can imagine he’s got the beginnings of a smile on his lips.
Florence stumbles forward, the silk of her skirt moving like water around her legs.
“Will you accept this crown and stay?”
Florence stares at him, dazed, stunned, unbelieving. “Are you sure?” She whispers like she doesn’t want the microphone pinned to her bodice to pick it up. “I-I mean, I just thought…” She wants to ask why we’d keep her. I can practically see the question dripping off the tip of her tongue, but she swallows it back.
Forsythe takes advantage of her hesitation to say, “Yes, we’re sure. It would serve you well to learn to not question a prince.”
From my prime that could come off as chiding, a rebuke, but when he says it to Florence, it sounds like gentle teasing.
She flashes a shy smile up at him. “Of course, apologies to Your Highness and your pack.” She drops into a sweet little curtsy, and then straightens. “I would be honored to accept this crown and stay.”
My lungs burn as he lifts the coronet, cheap plastic and nothing more, and places it carefully on her head, lingering perhaps a little longer than he did with any of the other omegas. God, what I wouldn’t give to see her with a real crown on her head, real gold and dripping in jewels.
“There,” my prime murmurs, adjusting the crown just so. “Perfect. Just like a princess.”
