Episode 13 Fairest of Them All #3
“Florence?” Cleo calls. And my omega jumps, drags her eyes off of us and over to the host of the show. “Your answer?”
“Right, sorry. I was just…” She visibly shakes herself and flips her board around. “Home.”
It hits like a slow punch, blooming low in my gut.
“And what does home smell like to you?” Cleo presses. I’m beginning to think that the host might have a favorite omega and it isn’t Isadora.
Ren flicks her gaze toward us and then back as she licks her lips.
“I-I think it smells like all of the best things combined. And it changes over time. Like… for a long time it was clean laundry fresh from the dryer, my mom’s scent.
And then my little sister who smells like lavender.
And my best friend who smells like pineapple and chilis.
More recently um, her pack too. They all smell like home to me because that’s what they are—my home. ”
I am fucking dead.
And so is the pack of alphas that she thinks smells like home and isn’t us.
“We’re gonna kill them right?” Court growls low enough that I hope the mics don’t pick it up.
“Not kill,” Thayer mutters darkly. “Maim, though.”
A glance at my pack mates reveals them in similar states as I am, and I swear that Court is sporting an erection, like our omega saying her favorite scent is ‘home’ should have been his answer to the ultimate turn on question.
“Jesus, I think you just gave me a toothache, Ren,” Tristan mutters, then flips his board. “Gas station slushies at 2 a.m.” He nods solemnly, as if this is a spiritual experience, while I have no clue what the fuck it means.
“If you weren’t here today, where would you be?”
Another easy question, basically a soft ball to any of the omegas who have done the bare minimum of research.
“Alphas?” Cleo prompts.
“At the palace.”
“Teaching my seminar.”
“In bed.”
“The gym.” Again.
Other omegas give pageant-worthy answers like “volunteering” and “traveling the world.” Isadora gives the somewhat presumptuous answer of “The Palace.” Though she’s probably not wrong.
The queen has all but extended an open invitation to her in hopes that proximity will breed…
I don’t even know what. Affection, maybe?
“Florence?”
“Probably at my best friend’s pack house watching all of you go through this, throwing popcorn at the screen whenever Court says anything. She’s a big fan of the show.” Then she looks right in the camera with a grin and waves. “Hi, Haven!”
I feel something in my ribcage give way. She’s just so damn adorable. So sweet and pure and Jesus, I cannot take this.
“Why when I say anything?” Courtland asks.
“I think you know why, pretty boy,” she answers primly, shoulders squaring up like she expects an argument from him.
“You love it,” Court growls at her, and she grins back at him in response, like they’re sharing a secret.
Thayer mutters, “We’re so fucked,” and honestly? He’s right.
“Describe your flirting style in one word,” Cleo reads, already looking pleased. This is exactly the kind of question that lets the editors earn their paycheck.
Forsythe turns his board without hesitation. “Subtle.” Of course it is. The man flirts like a political maneuver — calculated, deniable, devastating if you notice it. If he does it at all.
Thayer’s marker squeaks as he finishes writing. “Direct.” Also unsurprising. He goes after what he wants like he’s assigning a thesis topic.
Courtland flips his board next, grin already in place. “Illegal.”
Cleo laughs. Omegas shriek. Court pushes back from the table and bows like he’s just accepted an award.
I snort before I can stop myself and turn my board. “Blunt.” It earns a few chuckles, a few nods. Accurate enough. I don’t dance around things. Never have.
The omegas flip their boards as one.
But Florence hesitates for a half second longer than everyone else. She chews on her lip, glances sideways at Petal like she’s asking for backup, then finally flips her board with visible reluctance.
“Non-existent.”
Petal nods beside her. Hard. Like she’s agreeing with her whole soul.
Florence looks mortified. Not playful, not coy—genuinely embarrassed, like she’s just admitted to something deeply inappropriate in polite company.
Non-existent?
Does she not realize everything about her is one giant flirt? That every time she opens her mouth she lights us on fire? That half the time I’m fighting a hard-on from just being around her?
“It’s true.” She gives an embarrassed little shrug. “I have no style.”
“Oh, we’re well aware of that, darling,” Isadora purrs from the head of the line. “No style whatsoever.”
I growl at her. No wait, that’s… Forsythe. He chokes it off before it can fully form, but he apparently doesn’t like Isadora flinging insults at Ren any more than I do.
Rolling his eyes, Tristan turns his board around. “Illegal.”
Court squints at his answer. “Hey. That’s my thing.”
The male omega beams absolutely delighted. “I know! Twinsies! It’s about time I scored a point!”
I glance at Florence again.
She’s still pink-cheeked, still clearly wishing the floor would open up and swallow her whole. I want to tell her not to be embarrassed, that there’s nothing wrong with being honest in a situation like this that breeds dishonesty.
“Okay,” Cleo cuts through the chatter. “Last question, and arguably the most important one. Love or Duty?”
The room goes stagnant. Even the lights feel heavier, hotter. Scorching my skin. Discomfort pressing on me.
Cleo purrs, “Answer honestly.”
I hate this. I hate this question. I hate what we’re expected to write.
Florence doesn’t write right away. She stares at her board like she’s reading the future in runic symbols.
Finally, her marker moves. I know what she’s written. It's the only answer she can give. The very root of her soul.
When she lifts the board her answer is written bigger than any answer she’s given before, her conviction clear in every stroke of the pen, in the tone of her voice as she reads it out loud, “Love. Always love.”
My lungs seize.
Tristan and Petal also write “Love,” both in bubble letters with hearts around it. Most others write “Duty,” eyes flicking shamelessly at Forsythe, at the rest of our pack, like they know the answer we’ll give.
Cleo calls for us to reveal our boards and we do.
Forsythe’s jaw clenches so hard I hear it pop as he flips his around.
“Duty. Always.” No one misses the way his and Ren’s answers mirror each other. The conviction they both share, but for different reasons.
Thayer tries to keep his expression neutral, but I swear he flicks an apologetic glance at Ren before he answers, “Duty.” Anyone paying attention would see it for the lie it is. He answered ‘love’ to the most important thing in a pack question an hour ago.
Courtland, grinning like the deviant he is. “Why not both?”
I force my voice neutral. “Duty.” It's what is expected of us. All of us. Court can get away with a cheeky answer like that because no one expects anything different from him, the son of a duke, noble born but wild. Always wild.
I can’t. I’m the lowborn member of the pack. Even Piers is nobility. I can’t go against the queen's wishes, against what she expects of us. She already has enough reason to hate me. I can’t give her more.
But when my gaze finds Florence—she isn’t disappointed. She isn’t even surprised.
She just looks… sad.
Sad in a way that makes something inside me start tearing itself apart.