Episode 13: Fairest of Them All
The production crew shuffles us outside to a platform with a table and four chairs on it. Rows of omegas sit opposite us, each with a little whiteboard in front of them, chatting to each other as we get settled in our seats. We’ve got boards and markers too. It’s supposed to be lighthearted. Fun.
It feels like a test we’re rigged to fail.
Well, not us. We technically can’t give any wrong answer. The omegas will have to try to match with us, not the other way around. But we still can very much give thewronganswer, go against what the people and the crown expect of us.
Courtland bounces his marker like he’s trying really hard not to draw a cock on something.
Forsythe folds his hands on the table like the perfect fucking prince, scanning the chattering omegas across from us.
Thayer looks like he wants to throw the entire set into the ocean. The feeling is mutual.
My eyes go straight to her.
Florence Karlin sits between Petal and Tristan, braid over her shoulder, whiteboard clutched to her sweatshirt-covered chest, even as she smiles at the pink haired omega next to her.
She shouldn’t be this far from us. She shouldn’t have to look so small, surrounded by overdressed omegas who stare down their noses at her like she’s out of her depth. Beneath them.
She’s not.
If anything, they are beneath her.
At the last elimination ceremony, she’d looked even more resigned to going home. Not surprising. Courtland told the rest of us how her first conversation with Forsythe had gone—not well—and that she’d told them point blank she expected us to eliminate her.
But when Forsythe brought up her name yet again the three of us refusedagain. I couldn’t bring myself to agree with him, to send the fierce little omega away from us. Forsythe had needed to bow to our greater number. For all that he’s a prince and our prime, he tries to take our opinions into account for most of the pack decisions.
If I’m honest he gave in much quicker than I thought he would.
Maybe because he secretly craves an omega that doesn’t bow to him, that tells him exactly what she thinks, that isn’t afraid of sharing her true thoughts. He doesn’t get that with anyone but us and his sister. And even then, we usually do what he demands, because he’s our prime.
Florence doesn’t feel the need to impress us, or be polite, seeing as how she’s been told we will not pick her. There is no artifice in her bearing, in how she interacts with us, with the other omegas. She is refreshingly real.
And that had never been more clear last night when Forsythe had given her the third crown.Third.And she looked shocked and then confused and then frustrated as she’d stalked over and hissed at him, “What are you doing?”
Forsythe had calmly placed the crown on her head and asked her to stay. She’d had no other choice but to say yes.
Cleo Hartwell floats onto the small platform between us and the omegas, a make-up artist brushing powder over her cheeks in a final touchup. “Clear the set,” someone calls and the woman scurries away. “And action.”
Cleo smiles into the camera like she’s about to crown a champion of some arena battle. “Welcome to The Compatibility Quiz! Let’s find out how in-sync our Ashbourne alphas are with this season’s omegas and vice versa.”
I see the camera in front of me shift slightly, point more fully in my direction, recording my every reaction. I grit my teeth and keep my face as impassive as I can.
“The rules are easy. The pack will write down their answers to our questions. The omegas will do the same. For every matching answer the omegas will get a point. That means there are a maximum of four points for each round if all of the alphas give the same answer to a question. The two omegas with the highest points will be heading out on a group date with the pack. Got it?”
We all nod our understanding because we’ve all been told the rules before they started filming.
“Excellent! Then we’ll get started. Question number one,” Cleo gives us all a sly look. “Describe your ideal date.”
Markers squeak. Omegas giggle and watch us like that will help them figure out what we’re going to say. It shouldn’t be that hard actually. This is a question we’ve fielded a million times before, in almost every puff piece interview. If any of the omegas did any kind of research they would be able to figure this out.
I write quicklyquiet supper at home. Somewhere safe. Somewhere real. Somewhere where I don’t have to be fucking ‘on’. Where I’m free to be just me, Grieves.
“Alphas, show us your answers!” Cleo trills. We flip our boards, each of us reading out our answers, like we’ve been instructed to do.
“Dinner and a night at the theater,” Forsythe says, even though I know that’s a lie. It's what people expect him to say. He’d probably rather spend the night on the couch with our omega curled up next to him while he reads her poetry or they play chess or something dull like that.
Court smirks. “Drinks and dancing at a club.” This is also on par with his persona. It’s what is expected of him, but not necessarily the truth.
