She sips her drink, then adds, casually, “You know, the public loves an underdog. Especially one who looks surprised to still be here.”
My stomach dips. Iamsurprised to still be here. Is she implying that I’m acting? That I’m playing a doe-eyed, naive omega for the cameras?
“I suppose they do,” I say, slowly.
Isadora hums. “Just be careful not to confuse attention with affection.” Her eyes flick briefly toward the pack—toward Forsythe—before returning to me. “The Ashbournes don’t choose with their hearts. They never have.”
I meet her gaze now. “And yet you’re here.”
She smiles, sharp and certain. “Exactly.”
I frown. I wonder if she realizes how… sad that is. Admitting that their hearts aren’t in it when they choose her first, spend time with her. I wonder if she even realizes what she’d be giving up by bonding this pack without any soft emotions involved. How hard that’s going to be on her, on her omega.
I hadn’t expected it, but I feel a stab of pity for this impeccable noble omega.
Silence stretches between us, taut as a wire.
Then she straightens, crown catching the light. “Try not to get attached, Florence. Leaving will hurt more if you forget why you came.”
With that, she drifts back into the crowd, swallowed instantly by admirers and expectation. The other omegas cluster together, casting glances in my direction, pretending like they weren’t just straining to hear our conversation.
Or maybe they don’t have to strain, given how I catch snippets as I drift closer to the edge of the pool, to the pack, pretending to be absorbed by the water.
“…did you see her dress?”
“…American, right?”
“…she doesn’t even try to fit in.”
“…maybe that’s the point?”
“Her surprise seemed genuine…”
“Please, that was all an act.”
I tighten my grip on my glass.
It’s strange how quickly people decide who you are when they think you won’t hear them.
I glance up despite myself, toward the pack. They’re clustered together on one of the lounge beds, other omegas orbiting them like moons. Courtland laughs at something someone says, his head tipped back. Grieves stands a little apart, watchful as ever. Thayer’s attention is split, gaze flicking between conversations like he’s cataloguing them.
And Forsythe…
My breath catches.
For just a second, his eyes lift. They sweep the space, measured and practiced, until they land on me.
Something shifts in his expression, subtle but unmistakable, like he’s surprised to find me still standing here amidst these posh omegas.
Then someone says his name. Isadora.
He looks away toward her, a small smile curving his lips, but it's tight around the edges. I think his smile mightalwaysbe tight. Forced.
I wonder if there’s ever a time when it's not. When he’s genuinely happy or excited to see someone. When his smile isn’t just for show.
I’m going to make him smile for real, I think, nonsensically. Nonsensically, because who am I to make a prince smile? But still thinking about the way he’d said my name. The softly teasing tone he’d used when telling me not to question him.
I think I could actually do it. And I think he deserves someone to try.
