5 Not for a Million Credits #2
“Uh”—Nix twisted in his chair and looked at some point behind him. Probably the direction of the hidden camera. He turned back. “I’m not joking, Artemis. I’m offering you your planet’s spot in the show. I wanted to do so personally.”
Temmi blinked. And blinked again. And then a third time for good measure.
The delicious food in front of her suddenly lost its appeal.
She pushed the tray away. This wasn’t happening.
This couldn’t be happening. There was a camera somewhere recording this, right?
Streaming it across the universe? A gimmick to get her back for what she’d said to his sister.
She found herself searching the back wall of the conference room, but whatever camera existed was well concealed.
“Look, I’m sorry for what I said this afternoon”—she wasn’t sorry, but she needed this nightmare over with—“and I’m willing to give a statement or whatever, but I’d really just like to go home.”
The prince looked genuinely taken aback. “You’re saying you don’t want to represent X72?”
“This is real? You’re genuinely asking me to? Me? I’m not some long-lost princess. I collect other people’s trash for a living. I’ve got a fucking record, for nebula’s sake. I thought today made that very clear.”
“Good. I’m sick of princesses. Been surrounded by them my entire life.” He smiled a heart-shattering smile: half-crooked, wholly beautiful. Goddamn, that should be illegal. “Come on the show, Artemis, I want you there.”
Not even Temmi, who’d sworn off relationships, could stop her breath from hitching at that smile. Which, yeah, was annoying. This entire situation was absurd. The prince of the nebula-combusting Expan Empire did not just ask her to join his dating show.
“I— Um— Why? ” It seemed the only appropriate question. She added, “Your Highness,” a beat later. Perhaps a touch too drily.
He shrugged one shoulder. “Optics, for one. Engagement, for another. One of our casting goals for this season is to bring on contestants from historically underrepresented territories, hence X72’s inclusion in the lottery.
Viewers want to feel there’s true representation on the show, not just the children of prominent government officials.
But also”—he dipped his stupidly pretty head—“you called Spie a narcissist. I like you.”
“Where are the cameras?” Temmi narrowed her gaze at the wall behind him. “Am I being filmed right now?”
“There’s a live feed above the upper vent on the wall behind me, but the only people watching it are Kalvin—he’s the executive producer, I believe you’ve met—and my sister.”
The damn prince seemed sincere. And the princess was spying like a little coward? “Permission to speak candidly?”
His mouth quirked as though to say he hadn’t realized she’d been holding back. “Of course, please.”
“Great. Then I think this is bullshit. You don’t like me.
I’m a nebula-cursed trash collector from a planet you probably hadn’t heard of before today.
I think you’re a sweet talker with an agenda, and I’m not easily duped.
” She directed her gaze toward the vent across the room.
“And I think your ridiculous show is a farce. I wouldn’t go on for a million credits. ”
She regretted the words the instant they left her mouth.
In her mind, she imagined Ollie throttling her, screaming that she was being shortsighted.
That this was an opportunity. The kind of opportunity that was never afforded to people like them.
Did reality holovision stars get paid? Something told her no.
But they got exposure, and exposure might mean sponsorship deals and any number of financial returns, not to mention the fact that Shrimps might not evict them if she became famous.
But that was a lot of mights. And she’d already secured rent for the next few months. She wasn’t desperate.
There was also a strong possibility that she would only incur more debt by going on the show, depending on what expenses were and weren’t charged to the contestants. The price of jumpgate tariffs between X72 and Expan Proper was astronomical.
Then there was what going on the show actually entailed: complete abandonment of her mother and brother, who needed her to caretake them daily, in order to willingly debase herself before trillions of people, including her ex-boyfriend and absentee father.
The orrist mines sounded more appealing.
“I see.” The prince’s face fell. He recovered quickly, scooting his chair backward and standing. “I’ll have Captain Glossen escort you back to the surface. Lovely meeting you, Artemis.”
“Call me Temmi,” she said, not exactly knowing why. She’d made her decision; Love Galaxy was someone else’s pipe dream, not hers. She’d never see the prince again. “My name. I go by Temmi.”
Nix inclined his head a precise inch, his ink-black hair obscuring his eyes. “Goodnight, Temmi.”
“Goodnight, Your Highness.”
He crossed the conference room but paused before exiting, his back to her. “It’s Nicky.”
The doors slid open, and he left.