Episode 9 Mirror, Mirror
I’m in shock. Utter freaking shock.
I was certain they were going to send me home.
I mean, I was all but told that I would be. And yet I’m still here. With a weird gold plastic crown on my head like the other omegas and a bubbly mocktail in my hand, just staring across the expanse of the pool at the pack surrounded by other omegas.
They should have sent me home. Right?
I’m American.
Lower class.
No etiquette training.
I’m weird and unpolished compared to these other omegas.
They should have sent me home.
So why didn’t they?
The soft tread of bare feet on the tile reaches my ears and I look away from the pack to find Petal tip toeing toward me. Not like she’s being sneaky. More like she just naturally walks on her toes, leaning forward just slightly.
She gives me a smile when she comes to a stop next to me. “Are you as shocked as I am to still be here?” Her accent is softer than everyone else’s, smoothed out. But still there.
Though I realize with a start in this group, I’m actually the one with the accent. Me and the other two Americans. Well, one, now that Darla’s gone.
“I am,” I say with a nose wrinkle. “It's um… pretty clear that I’m the odd one out here.”
Petal nudges my shoulder. “Not so odd.” I give her a look and she giggles. “Okay, so most of us are Bravonnian. But I don’t think it's a bad thing for you to be here. Keeps it interesting.”
Her eyes flick toward my dress, and she gives a low appreciative hum. “Also, can we talk about that gown? Because you look incredible.”
I blink at her. “Oh. Thank you.” My fingers brush the skirt absently. “I made it.”
Her mouth drops open. “You did not.”
“I did,” I say, a little sheepish. “I, uh… sew. A little.” A lot, actually, but she doesn’t need to know that.
Petal lights up like I’ve handed her a secret. “That explains it. It fits you like it likes you, like it wants to hug you all the time. Like it was made for you, which of course it was!” She squints thoughtfully. “You should be proud. You don’t look like you’re trying to be anyone else.”
I’m sure she doesn’t mean it to be an insult, she’s too sweet for that. But it hits my already tender ego like one. A reminder that I’m not like the rest of them. Too different. Alien. Foreign.
Her shiny smile falls, a wrinkle forming between her brows like she can read that she hurt me but she doesn’t know how.
“So,” I say to distract from my slip. “Are you a noble lady?”
She smiles. “Will you hold it against me if I tell you yes?”
“Of course not. I couldn’t care less about where you were born or who you were born to, I much prefer to look at the way you treat people. And you seem… very nice.”
Her cheeks flush a peachy pink that matches her hair.
“I try. And to be fair I wasn’t really raised as a lady, per se.
I was… My mother was a commoner." Her nose wrinkles as she shakes her head. “God, I hate that word. But that’s what she was, and so she has her own very firm ideas of how her children should be raised, and my father loves her enough to let her.”
I smile. “That explains the hair. I never would have thought a Bravonnian lady would have anything but a natural hair color. This is gorgeous. I’m always jealous of people who can pull off color like yours.”
She tilts her head. “I don’t see why you couldn’t. In fact, with your blond hair, I should think it would be easier. My hair is naturally a dark brown. Takes forever for them to lift it light enough for peach colored hair.”
I shake my head. “I was a dancer in a ballet company. They don't like that much individuality in their ballerinas. Have to be able to blend into the background.”
“You’re a dancer too!” Petal exclaims. “No wonder you're so graceful. Some of the other omegas mentioned how you have the bearing of a lady, even though you obviously weren’t raised as one.”
“Obviously,” I say drily. At the same time someone else echoes the word in a cultured drawling voice.
Isadora.
She joins us at the edge of the pool, a beatific smile on her face. Welcoming.
And fake as hell.
I’ve noticed she’s been making the rounds, speaking with each omega, like a hostess at a cocktail party, making sure to touch base with everyone present.
Which is probably very smart, a good show for the cameras and a better show for how seamlessly she can step into that role, the gracious, welcoming princess.
She’s flawless. As always. Hair smooth, crown perfectly centered, expression pleasant in a way that doesn’t quite reach her eyes. She smiles at Petal first, warm and practiced. “I’m glad you stayed,” she says, voice honeyed. “I was hoping you would.”
Petal beams. “Thank you! I am too. But I wasn’t worried.” She glances at me and says almost apologetically, “I’ve spent some time with Court. I would consider us acquaintances, if not friends.”
Isadora hums. “Yes. I heard. And of course, we know each other through BOC.” She flashes a glance at me and explains. “The Bravonnian Omega Conservatory. I imagine it's something like your omega academies, but we focused on securing packs of noble lineage.”
I grit my teeth at the not so subtle dig. They were seeking noble packs, I entertained packs from all walks of life. Some rich, some… well not poor. But middle class, comfortable enough financially to take care of an omega.
Petal smiles brighter. “How lucky that we all attended such prestigious schools, isn’t it? BOC and AOA? Both excellent choices for omegas.”
The pack’s first choice hums again, while I shift uncomfortably. Is there a polite way for me to get out of this conversation? Would it be rude if I just sort of… wandered off? Probably.
Isadora’s attention shifts to me fully. Her smile thins a fraction, but remains in place, which is more than I can say for my own.
“I suppose congratulations are in order for you too, Florence.” She draws out my name with derision, making it clear that while she’d been genuine with Petal—and who wouldn’t be, the girl is just too sweet—she was lying through her teeth with me.
“Thanks,” I reply, because what else can you say when someone congratulates you for not being publicly rejected?
“Enjoying your victory?”
“I wouldn’t call it a victory,” I say carefully. “More like… a stay of execution.”
I am not a threat, I’m telling her with that statement.
A recognition of my place here, of her superiority over me, in this case at least, if not in life.
I suspect I’m a much better person than her, but I don’t know her, so who’s to say?
She could be a veritable goddess who spends her time nursing sick children and puppies back to health, but something tells me that’s not the case.
And if it is, if she does spend time with sick kids, it's not from the goodness of her heart, it's for her image.
For a heartbeat, neither of us looks away.
Petal shifts, clearly sensing the temperature change. “I’m going to grab another drink,” she says brightly, squeezing my arm and tossing a chiding look at Isadora.. “I’ll be back.”
We watch her go, before turning back to each other.
Sizing the other up. She undoubtedly finds me lacking, and I find her… intimidating. As much as I hate to admit it.
Her lips curve. “Modest. That’s refreshing.”
I barely keep from rolling my eyes. “You don’t mean that.”
“No,” she agrees pleasantly. “I don’t.”
She sips her drink, then adds, casually, “You know, the public loves an underdog. Especially one who looks surprised to still be here.”
My stomach dips. I am surprised to still be here. Is she implying that I’m acting? That I’m playing a doe-eyed, naive omega for the cameras?
“I suppose they do,” I say, slowly.
Isadora hums. “Just be careful not to confuse attention with affection.” Her eyes flick briefly toward the pack—toward Forsythe—before returning to me. “The Ashbournes don’t choose with their hearts. They never have.”
I meet her gaze now. “And yet you’re here.”
She smiles, sharp and certain. “Exactly.”
I frown. I wonder if she realizes how… sad that is.
Admitting that their hearts aren’t in it when they choose her first, spend time with her.
I wonder if she even realizes what she’d be giving up by bonding this pack without any soft emotions involved.
How hard that’s going to be on her, on her omega.
I hadn’t expected it, but I feel a stab of pity for this impeccable noble omega.
Silence stretches between us, taut as a wire.
Then she straightens, crown catching the light. “Try not to get attached, Florence. Leaving will hurt more if you forget why you came.”
With that, she drifts back into the crowd, swallowed instantly by admirers and expectation. The other omegas cluster together, casting glances in my direction, pretending like they weren’t just straining to hear our conversation.
Or maybe they don’t have to strain, given how I catch snippets as I drift closer to the edge of the pool, to the pack, pretending to be absorbed by the water.
“…did you see her dress?”
“…American, right?”
“…she doesn’t even try to fit in.”
“…maybe that’s the point?”
“Her surprise seemed genuine…”
“Please, that was all an act.”
I tighten my grip on my glass.
It’s strange how quickly people decide who you are when they think you won’t hear them.
I glance up despite myself, toward the pack.
They’re clustered together on one of the lounge beds, other omegas orbiting them like moons.
Courtland laughs at something someone says, his head tipped back.
Grieves stands a little apart, watchful as ever.
Thayer’s attention is split, gaze flicking between conversations like he’s cataloguing them.
And Forsythe…
My breath catches.
For just a second, his eyes lift. They sweep the space, measured and practiced, until they land on me.
Something shifts in his expression, subtle but unmistakable, like he’s surprised to find me still standing here amidst these posh omegas.
Then someone says his name. Isadora.
He looks away toward her, a small smile curving his lips, but it's tight around the edges. I think his smile might always be tight. Forced.
I wonder if there’s ever a time when it's not. When he’s genuinely happy or excited to see someone. When his smile isn’t just for show.
I’m going to make him smile for real, I think, nonsensically. Nonsensically, because who am I to make a prince smile? But still thinking about the way he’d said my name. The softly teasing tone he’d used when telling me not to question him.
I think I could actually do it. And I think he deserves someone to try.
So while I’m here, for whatever short time I have left, I’m going to figure out how to make Prince Forsythe Ashbourne, Duke of Fairhaven, laugh. And smile. To not feel the pressure of maintaining a facade, even if it's only for a moment, a breath.
Almost as if he can feel me watching him, his amber eyes move off of Isadora, and to me. Catching and holding. Heat rushes across my chest, up to my cheeks at being caught staring. But I don’t look away, instead arching a brow.
His own brow wrinkles, like he’s trying to figure me out. Isadora glances over her shoulder checking what—or who—has his attention, and scowls when she sees it’s me.
She touches his arm. He blinks and the tension breaks.
The moment is gone.
Even more so when he looks back at the omega at his side.
And I feel… unaccountably left adrift, as if I… needed his gaze to stay tethered, to believe that I’m still here, still technically in the running, even if nothing will come of it.
It's a relief when production announces we’ve done enough mingling, enough gossiping about the elimination ceremony.
As soon as they tell us we’re free to return to our rooms, I’m handing off my empty glass to a server, kicking off my heels, and carrying with me as I scamper off to my cabana, more than ready to be done with the emotions of the day.
If I feel eyes following my every move—the burn of alpha attention pressed between my shoulder blades as I make my escape—I pretend I don’t.