Chapter 1 #3
“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.
“Maybe I’m curious.”
“About what?”
His gaze dropped to my mouth, then back up. The entire exchange lasted less than a second, but I felt it everywhere. “Haven’t decided yet.”
The Kneeling Ceremony was the cornerstone of the show.
It was simple in concept: at the end of each week, the remaining contestants would kneel before the Queen, symbolically acknowledging her authority and their willingness to put her needs first. The men who refused, or who couldn’t do so with genuine respect, would be eliminated.
It was controversial. It was theatrical.
It had spawned approximately three million TikToks and at least forty think pieces about gender dynamics in modern dating.
“Gentlemen,” I announced, returning to my throne and settling the crown more firmly on my head, “welcome to the first ceremony of The Good Boy Games. Those of you who wish to continue in this competition will now demonstrate your willingness to participate. The rules are simple: kneel before the Queen. Not because I demand it, but because you choose it. Because you understand that putting someone else first isn’t weakness — it’s strength. ”
Julian sank to one knee immediately, the movement as smooth and practiced as everything else about him.
Mason followed, nearly tripping again but making it down with a grin that suggested he was having the time of his life.
Derek knelt slowly, his dark eyes never leaving mine in a way that transformed the gesture from submission to challenge.
One by one, the other contestants followed. A wave of designer suits and bowed heads, until only one figure remained standing.
Rhys hadn’t moved.
He stood at his pedestal with his hands still in his pockets, watching the other men kneel with an expression that hovered somewhere between boredom and contempt. When I met his gaze, one dark eyebrow rose in clear challenge.
Well? What are you going to do about it?
“This is gold,” Tessa breathed in my earpiece. “Hold your position. Let him sweat.”
But Rhys looked untouched. Like he could stand there all night, immovable as a glacier, while the rest of the world bent around him.
And that — the complete refusal to perform, to play the game, to be anything other than exactly what he was — made me want to get closer.
Made me want to figure out what was hiding behind all that ice.
I rose from the throne and walked toward him.
The other contestants stayed kneeling, frozen in place, watching our confrontation unfold with varying degrees of fascination and concern.
When I reached Rhys, I stopped close enough to feel the heat radiating off his body, catching the scent of him — cedar, smoke, a darker note underneath.
This close, a muscle twitched near his temple.
He was more affected than he wanted me to believe.
“You’re still standing,” I observed.
“Astute.”
“Is this your idea of making a statement?”
“I don’t kneel.” Quiet, but with bedrock underneath — old pain, compacted into three words. “Not for anyone. Not for anything.”
“Ever?”
A flicker in those winter eyes. Pain, maybe. Or memory. Gone so fast I almost missed it. “Not anymore.”
It wasn’t an answer. But it was more than I’d expected. More than he’d probably meant to give. And for one unguarded second, I was seeing past the walls he’d built, catching a glimpse of whatever had made this man decide that surrender in any form was unacceptable.
“You don’t have to kneel.” The words surprised me as much as they surprised him. “But you do have to play. Those are the only rules I actually care about.”
His eyes narrowed, searching my face for an answer I couldn’t name. “And if I won’t?”
“Then you’re welcome to leave. Tonight. Right now.” I held his gaze, refusing to back down. “But I don’t think you will.”
“You don’t know anything about me.”
“Not yet.” I let my mouth curve. “But I’m going to.”
The words landed between us, charged with a voltage that felt bigger than television.
Rhys stared at me for a long moment, and he was calculating — weighing his options, his exit strategies, whatever internal battle was raging behind that ice.
I held my breath without meaning to, more invested in his answer than I had any right to be.
Finally, his mouth curved to match mine. A challenge accepted.
“We’ll see.”
The ceremony ended. The contestants dispersed — but not before I caught Mason’s raised eyebrows from across the stage and Derek’s sharp smile, the one that filed away other people’s advantages for later.
They’d all kneeled, and they’d all noticed who hadn’t.
The crew began breaking down the stage while I sat on my throne, crown still perched on my head, replaying the evening behind closed lids.
Julian’s algorithmic perfection. Mason’s golden retriever chaos. Derek’s unsettling intensity. And Rhys — standing there like a monument to stubbornness, refusing to bow, refusing to play, refusing to be anything other than himself.
He was going to be a problem. It settled in my bones, in how my pulse still hadn’t quite settled, in how I kept glancing toward the exit where he’d disappeared as if expecting him to reappear and pick up our conversation where we’d left off.
I should want him gone. He was arrogant and cold and impossible, the exact opposite of everything this show was supposed to represent. I should be planning his elimination already, crossing his name off my list, moving on to contestants who actually chose to be here.
But I couldn’t stop thinking about that split second when his mask had slipped and I’d glimpsed the real underneath — wounded, raw, a mirror of my own reflection.
My phone buzzed. A text from Tessa: Network is THRILLED. Rhys Callahan just became our season villain. You’re welcome for not cutting him.
I typed back: He’s going to be a problem.
Her response was immediate: The BEST kind of problem. Trust me.
I set down my phone and stared at the empty stage, at the pedestals where ten men had stood, at the spot where one man had refused to kneel.
Villain. That’s what they were calling him. That’s what the network wanted him to be — the arrogant outsider, the man who wouldn’t play the game, the ideal foil for a Queen who’d built her crown on the idea that men should learn to bend.
But I’d looked into his eyes when I’d told him he didn’t have to kneel. And what I’d seen there wasn’t arrogance.
It was fear.
Tomorrow, the cameras would roll. The games would begin. And Rhys would stand across from me, pretending he didn’t care, while I pretended indifference. I touched my crown one last time.
Then I went to find out what kind of Queen I was going to be.