“I really, really don’t think I am,” he admitted, still grinning, “but thank you for lying. That was very kind. You seem kind.” His whole face went wide, like he’d just realized what he’d said. “Not that I’m surprised you’re kind! I just meant — you know what, I’m going to stop talking now before I make this worse.”
“Probably wise.” I gestured toward his pedestal, and he practically fled toward it, radiating near-death-experience energy. Instant friendzone, I decided. Absolutely zero romantic chemistry. But I liked him, in a way I hadn’t liked anyone all evening. Mason was real — unpolished, unpracticed — and in this room full of men who’d clearly memorized the manual on How to Win a Dating Show, that was a gift.
Derek Hoffman entered like he owned the building.
He prowled, each step measured and controlled, his dark eyes locked on mine with an intensity that made my stomach twist — as prey animals must feel when they realize they’re being hunted. He was beautiful in a sharp, dangerous sort of way — the beautiful that came with warning labels and restraining orders and think pieces about toxic masculinity — and when he stopped before my throne, he bypassed the bow.
He flashed his teeth — quick, practiced, predatory.
“Derek Hoffman.” No Your Majesty. No practiced reverence. Just his name and that smile, the one that didn’t quite reach his eyes. “I’ve been looking forward to this.”
“Have you?” I kept my voice light, my expression pleasant, but a chill had settled behind my ribs. I’d spent enough time around powerful men to recognize the ones who viewed women as conquests rather than people. Derek Hoffman had that energy in spades. “What is it you’ve been looking forward to, exactly?”
“Meeting the woman who thinks she can teach men how to behave.” He widened his grin, but nothing behind it moved. “Should be… educational.”
Red flag, I thought, filing him away under “Potential Supervillain.” Red flag the size of Texas wrapped in a custom suit and expensive cologne.
“Welcome to the Games, Derek.” I bared my own teeth right back. “I hope you’re a fast learner.”
The remaining contestants blurred together — a parade of jawlines and rehearsed introductions, each man trying to distinguish himself from the last with varying degrees of success. There was a tech entrepreneur who mentioned his startup three times in sixty seconds. A former model who couldn’t stop checking his reflection in the nearest shiny surface. A self-proclaimed “feminist ally” who called me “sweetheart” within the first minute of conversation and seemed confused when I didn’t respond warmly.
By the time we reached contestant number nine, my face hurt from smiling and my hope meter was hovering somewhere around empty.
And then the doors opened, and everything stopped.
He didn’t walk in so much as materialize — one moment the doorway was empty, the next he was there, filling the space with a presence that seemed to suck all the oxygen out of the room. Tall, dark-haired, with a sharp-angled face that belonged on a statue or a wanted poster or the cover of a book you’d be embarrassed to read in public. His suit was expensive but understated, charcoal gray with no tie, the top button of his shirt undone like he couldn’t be bothered with formality. His eyes were the color of a winter storm — pale blue-gray, cold enough to burn.
He surveyed the room like he was cataloging exits. Neither nervous nor excited — just assessing. Taking stock of his surroundings like he’d already decided nothing here was worth his time.
His gaze landed on me like a physical impact — neither warm nor admiring but a sharper attention, an expression that looked past the crown and the couture and the carefullyconstructed Queen persona and saw… what? I couldn’t tell. But whatever it was, it left me exposed in a way nobody else had managed all evening.
“That’s Rhys Callahan,” Tessa’s voice crackled in my earpiece, low and fast. “His brother submitted his application as a joke. We tried to cut him in pre-production but the network insisted — they thought he’d be good for drama. He’s an architect, thirty years old, and according to our background check, he hasn’t had a serious relationship in about four years. Also, he looks like he wants to murder everyone in this room, so… good luck.”
Rhys Callahan stopped at the edge of the stage. He didn’t bow. He didn’t smile. He just stood there, hands in his pockets, looking at me with an expression that suggested I was a problem he was trying to solve.
“Your Majesty.” The words dripped with sarcasm. “Rhys Callahan. I’d bow, but I think we both know I wouldn’t mean it.”
Someone gasped — probably Mason. I heard Tessa make a small, strangled sound in my earpiece that might have been horror or might have been delight. The other contestants were staring, frozen in various states of shock and fascination.
And I — against every instinct, against everything I’d spent the last eight months preparing for — was more awake than I had been all evening.
“Mr. Callahan.” I rose from my throne, because sitting was a disadvantage when dealing with whatever this man was. “You don’t seem particularly happy to be here.”
“I’m not.” Flat. Unreadable. But his gaze tracked my movement down the steps with an intensity that contradicted his apparent indifference. “My brother thinks he’s funny. I’m here to prove this show is what I think it is.”
“And what’s that?”
His mouth curved, just slightly. “Fake.”
The word landed between us like a thrown gauntlet. I should have been offended — I was offended — but his honesty was refreshing. After an evening of carefully curated answers and rehearsed charm, Rhys was standing in front of me and telling me what he thought of my show, my concept, my entire reason for existing in this ridiculous dress on this uncomfortable throne.
“Interesting theory.” I took another step toward him, then another, watching his expression for any sign of retreat. There was none. If anything, a muscle jumped near his temple like he was bracing for impact. “Care to elaborate?”
“Not particularly.”
“Then why are you still here?”
That stopped him. For just a beat, a flicker crossed those storm-gray eyes — surprise, maybe, or a darker cousin of it. Then it was gone, shuttered behind that wall of ice, and he shrugged with an eloquence that shouldn’t have been possible in a single gesture.
