18 Pride is a Hard Thing to Part With
Pride is a Hard Thing to Part With
“Okay, Artemis, I’m going to ask you a few questions. Enough for a soundbite or two. When you answer, please do so in full sentences, restating my question in your answer. Please look at the camera.”
Temmi’s mouth went dry as she stared at the camera’s blinking red light. “Soundbite?”
“A bit of interesting dialogue for promos and preview reels. But you don’t need to worry about that—that’s my job. Here’s my first question. How do you feel about coming into this as an underdog?”
“Oh. Uh. I don’t know.”
“Remember, restate my question. So, you’ll say, ‘Coming into this as an underdog, I feel...’ and then give me your answer.
And be confident. Loose. Take a deep breath.
I’ll give you a new question. How do you feel about having the chance to fall in love with Nix or Spie?
You could be the next imperial consort of the whole empire. ”
Temmi scoffed. “Oh, you’re being serious? I feel like I’d be an unlikely choice for either Nix or Spie, don’t you? And that’s saying nothing of falling in love with them. I don’t exactly come from a proper background.”
“And do you think that’s important? Having the right background?”
“Isn’t having the right background important? Have you seen the other girls here? One of them’s a fucking princess herself. Most of them are rich. I spent my teens bouncing between lockup and a homeless camp. They’d be insane to pick me.”
“You don’t think you deserve a second chance? At life, at love? At showing the world you’re more than your past?”
Temmi had never thought about it that way. “Do I deserve a second chance? I think the concept of deserving is a dangerous one. But I’d love to show the world I’m more than what some files from my adolescence say I am. That I have real talents to offer.”
“And how do you feel about the other contestants? Started making friends yet?”
Temmi shrugged. “I only just got here. Though, historically, making friends hasn’t exactly been my strong suit.”
Justine scratched beneath her cap. “So, it’s safe to say you’re not here to make friends?”
“Yeah, I guess.”
“Restate for me, please?”
“It’s safe to say I’m not here to make friends?”
“Perfect. I think we got it.” Justine pushed herself to standing.
“Keep your mic on and head back down to the mezzanine. I’ve gotta make a run to the producer’s room.
When your turn comes to head down the stairs, talk to the heirs like you just talked to me, okay?
Be loose. And don’t forget—you do a five-sixths bow. As precise as possible.”
Back in the mezzanine, Temmi squished a pair of earplugs into her ears.
The noise from below softened, and her nerves immediately ameliorated—not entirely, but enough.
Her world felt safer when sound wasn’t a threat.
To center herself, she thought about everything her brother would say if he were there.
How much he’d love all the fancy outfits, the busyness of the crew, the intricate art plastered across the manor walls.
Steadily, the number of contestants waiting with her dwindled.
Was it possible that, even after their two weeks on the starship, Nix would send her home tonight?
Spie wouldn’t keep Temmi there if Nix decided against continuing their relationship.
They’d established an understanding, but how much was that worth in reality?
She barely knew Nix; he barely knew her.
He owed her nothing. And Temmi couldn’t picture a world where someone like Nix Expani kept her around when he had these other women to choose from.
Idly, she tapped her CB. Her most-recent message was from the unknown sender. She’d read it a million times.
Unknown: By the way, those boots with that dress? Excellent choice.
Temmi knew only one person who spoke with such amused self-assurance. Her gut tensed at the thought. But surely, Spie Expani had better things to do than message Temmi.
And, if she was wrong and it wasn’t Spie?
The thought was unsettling. She would’ve asked Kalvin about the message, but she hadn’t seen him since his exit from his Cavaller .
And asking Justine was out of the question.
What if the sender came from outside the manor?
Blessing Stone had made it very clear that such communications were against the rules.
And, though Temmi had never been big on rules, she refused to be sent home for something so trivial. Not with two million credits at stake.
A pair of hands clapped in front of her face, inches from her eyes.
Temmi tripped backward, landing fully on her ass, the skirt of her dress riding up to her thighs and—oh, fuck—catching a loose screw jutting slightly from the side of her CB (her own fault for taking the device apart so many times).
The dress tore, the rip loud enough to pierce her earplug sound barrier.
Blessing Stone towered over her, pale cheeks red with something that was probably fury.
Temmi plucked out one earplug with a preemptive wince.
“. . . been calling for you for over ninety seconds!” Blessing-Stone whisper-shouted.
“Do you have any idea, any , how long that is on a live broadcast? I’m going to ream Justine for this.
And now you’ve gone and ruined your dress.
Nebulas above, why anyone let you on this show, I’ll never understand. Get up and get down those stairs. Now.”
Temmi untwisted her legs and hopped to her feet, assessing the damage. At the peak of her dress’s natural slit, the fabric had been torn inward so that her upper left thigh was almost entirely on display, as well as the inner flesh of her right. The fabric hung outward, like a flap of severed skin.
Just her fucking luck.
“I said get down those stairs!” Firm hands shoved Temmi’s back. “Do you know how bad this looks? Do you know who they’ll criticize? My entire career is on the line right now.”
Temmi stumbled forward, the top of the stairs coming at her like a guillotine. She shoved the loose earplug down the front of her dress and attempted to assemble her dignity. (Who was she kidding? She’d surrendered all dignity the moment she agreed to Spie’s terms).
She pinched her severed skirt together with one hand and braved the top stair.
The attention of several cameras focused on her.
The cool brush of air against her inner thighs made her cheeks sting with an unwanted flush.
Ollie was watching this. Her mother was watching.
Gods and nebulas, Scot Meridan was probably watching.
Maybe even her absentee fucking father. If she hadn’t already been the laughingstock of the entire empire, she was now.
Her skin prickled and her vision narrowed.
She became acutely aware of her boots pressing against the hardwood steps, the smooth chill of the banister beneath her palm, the mechanical buzzing of the drone directly above her head.
Don’t look, she reminded herself. Pretend it isn’t there. Easier said than done.
It was the warmth of the orrist basalt necklace against her ankle that ultimately steadied her. She focused all her attention on it, pretending nothing else existed outside the subtle burn. By no small miracle, she reached the bottom of the stairs without tripping.
A boyishly handsome man with a mouth too big for his face greeted her with a charming smile.
“Ambassador Artemis Ialan! Our X72 wildcard! The final contestant of the night! Such magnificent hair you have!” He spoke almost entirely in exclamations, and it gave Temmi a headache.
“Welcome to Love Galaxy ! Tell me, and all our viewers at home, how are you feeling tonight?”
Don’t cuss. Don’t cuss. Don’t cuss. “Fucking terrified,” Temmi said, cussing. Two weeks on a star cruiser with Blessing Stone couldn’t change who she was at her core. She’d already fucked this up spectacularly. Might as well start packing her bags.
The host’s eyes bugged for half a millisecond. Temmi honestly couldn’t remember his name. At this point, she didn’t care to learn it.
“That’s, well, um, colorful language.” He coughed, disguising what sounded like a laugh. “But I’m sure the nerves are getting to you! It’s a big night! Good luck!”
Temmi turned to face her next obstacle: the princess swathed in a strapless burgundy gown, standing with one hand on a literal throne.
She looked like seduction personified. Like everything that was wrong with the empire: an eye-catching exterior that distracted from the rot within.
Temmi refused to want her. To want any of this ridiculous spectacle.
Her steps became leaden as she trudged slowly and awkwardly—still trying to hold together her torn vestment—toward the woman who held in her hands Temmi’s fate. Temmi’s gut knotted. Her heart became a mallet, slamming against the gong of her rib cage.
Spie’s piercing violet gaze dropped to the tear in Temmi’s skirt. “Get into a tussle already? Staking your claim on me, perhaps? How’d the others take it? Seeing as you’re the only one with a rip in your dress, I daresay you didn’t come out on top.”
A blush rose to Temmi’s cheeks. No, blush was too gentle a word. A fucking firestorm of heat. Fuck Spie Expani. Fuck her for giving Temmi this impossible-to-turn-down opportunity, and fuck her for laughing at Temmi now.
Temmi was supposed to bow. Proper decorum demanded a five-sixths bow, the lowest one could make whilst remaining standing.
Nearly a full prostration. Temmi had practiced it countless times with Blessing Stone.
Not bowing would be a political statement.
Worse, with the whole empire watching, it’d be a seditious act, a denial of Temmi’s allegiance to the great human race. It’d result in her immediate arrest.
Fuck Spie Expani, but more than that, fuck Temmi’s own pride.
The princess raised a curious eyebrow. It seemed to say, I can’t help you if you choose to be a fool.