I frown. Why are we going back to the show? Four questions on the laws in Bravonne and my response to them, and now we’re back to the drama of reality dating? I thought Heather Howle was a bit more hard hitting than this.
Answer the question and maybe she’ll move on to something else. “Of course it was hard. It's never easy to share the tender parts of yourself with people and hope that they’ll be gentle with them. Doing it on an international scale was… terrifying. And foolish.”
“Royal sources suggest the pack acted under immense pressure. Do you feel any responsibility for the position they were put in?”
“Not at all. They agreed to go on the show, knowing who they are and their social standing. They knew they’d have external pressure on them. His Royal Highness has been raised under those pressures. I did nothing more than compete for their attention like every other omega there. If I bear responsibility, so does every other contestant on the show.”
“Some producers have hinted that your emotional disclosures may have shaped how the pack—and the public—responded to you. Is it possible that what viewers saw as vulnerability could be interpreted as manipulation?”
“It’s possible. But an interpretation isn’t the same as the truth. I never manipulated them into doing anything they didn’t want to do. Every emotion I showed onRoyaLove Getawaywas genuine. I have never felt that in order to find my pack I needed to be anyone other than myself. What would be the point of that? Why would I want them to fall in love with an illusion? I certainly wouldn’t want to spend the rest of my life being someone I’m not.”
“How would you respond to accusations that you benefitted from sympathy?”
“I’m not sure what you mean by that?”
Heather’s mouth tightens the slightest bit. “I mean, that your past, your story, created a sympathetic persona and you leaned into it.”
“You’re saying that my life has been so tragic that people can’t help feeling sorry for me?” Before she can confirm or deny, I shake my head. “My life hasn’t been tragic. There has been some tragedy, yes. I’m not wealthy. An accident took my ability to dance professionally, but I also have a family that loves and supports me, that will do anything for me. I’ve been lucky enough to attend the best omega academy in the US. I danced for one of the most prestigious ballet companies in the US. I was asked to be a contestant on a dating show for royalty. I’ve been very blessed in my life. I think if my life generates sympathy in some of the viewers, if they view me as some sort of charity case, then I think that says more about them than me. I’d say my life is… normal. Completely and utterly normal.”
“Normal?” I nod and her lips tighten even further. “Is it true that most of the clothing you wore on the show was designed and sewn by you?”
This wasn’t on the agreed upon questions list, but I don’t see a reason not to answer. “Yes. It's something I’ve always enjoyed doing. And I prefer wearing clothes that are made for me, rather than something off the rack. Especially for special occasions, like the show was.”
“You’ve just announced the debut of your fashion brand, Flo and Behold. What do you say to the people who believe that you only went on the show in order to launch a business?”
I frown at her. “Did I go for the money? Or to launch a business? People should pick one and stick with it. But the truth is, I didn’t go to do either. The idea for the fashion house came after the show, when people continued to reach out to me about where I’d purchased my clothing. It appears that there is ademand for my designs and so I’m going to fulfill that demand. That’s just good business sense.”
Heather hums and her eyes flick over my shoulder, no doubt to the producer behind me. When she looks back at me there’s something almost predatory in her eyes. Like she’d hoped I’d give more drama with the questions already asked, and now that she hasn’t received it, she’s been let off her leash.
My stomach tightens. My fingers ache where they’re gripping the arms of the chair.
“I see. And what about the rumors that you collapsed in the Granton airport after leaving the show? That you were rushed to the hospital?”
She blurs at her edges, my vision going spotty. This is something we told them not to ask about. Not on live television. Not when the Ashbourne pack might see.
My lips curve into a forced polite smile. “I’m not sure what you are referring to. I was tired and emotionally exhausted after being on the show and travelling home, but I never… I didn’t collapse.”
Her smile turns sharp and she motions to someone standing behind me. “Are you sure? We have a video, and the woman in it looks remarkably like you.”
Fuck. A fuzzy memory of stumbling through the airport comes back to me, of people saying my name, of lifting their phones to record me. Jude tried to delete every instance where that video popped up online, but we always knew there’d be the chance of it sneaking through.
A tablet is thrust over my shoulder, the video already open. Nausea swells. This is too similar to my last confessional on the show, where Marshall and Lulu tried to warn me I would be sent home that night, and I just didn’t listen.
The videos playing before I have the chance to thrust it back. And it’s not like it matters anyway. I'm sure there's a splitscreen on the television right now. One side showing the video, the other side showing my reaction to it.
I make myself watch, barely recognizing myself. Pale and stumbling, looking sick or drunk. My family greets me, and down I go like a sack of bricks, just barely being saved from cracking my head on the tiled floor by Tic.
“That’s you, is it not?”
My mouth feels like it’s full of cotton. The silence stretches for too long and I realize I have to say something. Something that is believable, that doesn’t even hint at the truth. “It is. But like I said… jet lag, emotional exhaustion, just being on that show is a lot for an omega to take. I was finally home, safe with people I love. It makes sense for it to overwhelm me at that moment. But as you can see I’m fine.”
“Indeed. Fine and without a scent. You’re on suppressants?”
All the blood drains from my face.
“I don’t see how that’s relevant.”
She hums, leans back and grins like the cat that got the cream. “What about the hospital visit immediately following your collapse? What do you have to say about that?”
