Chapter 5 Emery
Emery
The best way to survive humiliation is to keep moving.
That’s my policy, anyway, so the moment the selection ceremony ends, I’m dragging Eloise through the maze of coatrooms and mirrored corridors until the din of the ballroom fades into something manageable.
My chest vibrates with every step like a blown speaker.
Eloise matches my pace, heels clicking, emanating a poise I hope I mirror as she checks behind us for potential witnesses.
“We can leave through the staff entrance,” she mutters, voice low and urgent. “There’s a gate by the conservatory. No one will see—”
I stop walking. Eloise bumps into me hard enough that my teeth click.
But I’m not looking at her. I’m staring at a little alcove off the main hall, where a pair of familiar voices ricochet off the marble: one female, all dry sunshine and veiled scorn; one male, a jagged mutter that’s immediately recognizable.
“Helena and Richard Starling,” I whisper, flattening myself against a column. Eloise tries to tug me onward but I shush her, craning my head for a better angle. I prepared too much for this deal, so much I know all of these royals’ names, and I still failed.
Helena Starling—older, softer-edged, but still with that omega mix of poise and magnetism—is bracing her brother against the wall. Richard looks like he’d rather be anywhere else. His arms are crossed, his mouth a hard horizontal line.
“You have to be kidding,” Helena is saying, her tone all fake-calm. “You saw the Councilor’s face, didn’t you? They’re going to kill him if he doesn’t walk this back. It’ll go viral by morning.”
Oh no. I can just imagine the headlines from the press and tabloids. And then Royals Anonymous, too.
I’m ruined. My fairytale is over before it even began.
Richard snorts. “Let it. Bastion’s a tool. So is Ranier. They did the smart thing.”
Helena’s lips twitch. “There is no smart thing. If they reject again, the royal Council disowns them. You know what that does to Bastion’s inheritance?”
Richard glances down at his shoes. “Maybe he can finally buy less ugly ones.”
Helena’s eyes cut sideways. “You’re impossible. You know what happens to her, right? Emery? She’s blacklisted forever. Nobody wants an omega who got torched on the first go.”
That stings. I press my shoulder harder into the stone, trying not to breathe too loud. Eloise’s hand is on my sleeve, trembling.
“She’s not the worst match,” Richard mutters. “Could be funny to see her stick it to Bastion. Let the peasant show him how it’s done.”
Helena sighs, a sound heavy enough to tip a church. “Just—don’t gloat in front of Mother. Or Ranier.”
A throat clears, further down the corridor. Helena and Richard break apart instantly, as if caught swapping state secrets. I spot the source: a Council page in crimson livery, clutching a set of folders to his chest like body armor.
Eloise yanks me away, finally, steering us toward a quiet vestibule lined with ancient, leafless plants.
“You want to run for it?” she asks, voice breaking. “We can just go. I’ll call the car.”
I shake my head. “If I leave now, I lose. That’s exactly what they want.”
“What do you want?” Eloise says. “You want them to eat their words? You want them crawling back?”
I’m not sure. Maybe I just want them to remember me, the same way I’ll never stop remembering them.
I bite my lip, hard enough to taste iron. “Stay here.”
Eloise’s eyes go wide. “No. Emery. No, no—”
I’m already moving, stalking down the corridor, cotton-candy nerves gone nuclear. The doors to Everhart Pack’s suite are tall, carved with flowers and ancient crests, and I throw them open with both hands.
Three alphas whip around, jaws at various stages of drop. Ranier is nearest, shoulders hunched like he’s been bracing for a physical attack. Bastion lounges on the sofa, but there’s a knife-edged tension to him, a barely-concealed lurch. Wyatt is standing by the window, phone in hand, mid-scroll.
Silence, for just a beat. Then Bastion asks with heavy disbelief, “You lost, Grey?”
“I’m not done.” My voice surprises even me: all salt, no sugar.
Ranier’s face is a storm front. “Excuse me?”
“Fuck etiquette,” I say, louder this time. “I know you three hate the process, and I know you hate me even more, but you’re not getting rid of me that easy.”
Wyatt snorts. “Is this about the after-party? Because I’m pretty sure you’re not on the list.”
“I don’t care about your parties.” I turn to Ranier. “You think you can just humiliate people and go back to your throne? I’m not a prop. I’m not your lesson-of-the-day.”
Ranier blinks, caught off guard. I see the moment he recalibrates and pivots from anger to calculation.
Bastion leans forward, a slow, lazy sprawl. “She’s got more backbone than half the Council.”
I ignore him. “You said you were traditionalists.” I stab the word at Ranier. “You want to play by the rules? Fine. Here’s how it works: you either accept the match, or you go down as the only pack in ten years to get forcibly assigned. The press will love that.”
Wyatt grins, sharp as a paper cut. “Did you prep a speech, or is this off the cuff?”
I stare him down. “I prepped for every possible disaster. This is just the one that happened.” It’s a lie, but I’m so confident in my tone that I almost convince myself it’s the truth.
There’s only one truth here: Finishing school prepped me to be a pack’s omega, and these alphas are not letting me complete this task.
Ranier lifts his chin, cool blue eyes flicking to Bastion, then back to me. “So what’s your plan, Emery? You want to be our omega? Even after all that?”
“Yes,” I say. I am not giving up.
Bastion’s laugh is slow. “You’re out of your depth, princess.”
I step closer until I can smell the burn of their adrenaline under the expensive aftershave. “You want a show? I’ll give you one.”
Wyatt folds his arms, an eyebrow up. “She’s serious.”
Ranier finally moves, hands on the table. “You don’t know what you’re asking for. You want to live with us? Work for us? You’ll be in the tabloids every day.”
I hold in a laugh. “I’m already in them now thanks to you three.”
Wyatt lets out a short bark of laughter, and even Bastion looks briefly impressed.
Ranier sighs, tension sliding off his shoulders in a visible wave. “You’re not going to let this go, are you?”
As if. Not after everything. “No. You want me gone, you’ll have to physically remove me from this room yourself.”
Wyatt snickers and I can see why. All three of these alphas are at least a foot taller than me. It wouldn’t take much at all for them to remove me. Wyatt looks at Ranier. “You’re the legacy expert. How do you want to play it?”
Ranier’s gaze sweeps over me, slow and deliberate. He’s thinking, but I can’t tell if it’s about me or himself. “Do you know what happens if we say yes? You’re tied to us. No backing out. The Council will send a rose, and after that you’re part of the line.”
“I know.” I don’t actually know what life would be like with this pack. The years I spent preparing focused on the typical nobility or royal pack assignment, not one you have to claw your way into. “I also know you’re out of options.”
His smile is laced with venom and honey. “A fair assessment.”
“A correct one,” I fire back. Ranier will be the hardest to convince.
Bastion stares at the ceiling for a full ten seconds, then rubs his face with both hands. “Fine,” he says, like the word is poison. “You want in? You’re in. But don’t expect a welcome parade.”
“Wouldn’t dream of it.” My voice is thin with relief and rage in equal parts. I am getting my fairytale ending even if I’ve got to force myself into these alphas’ lives and show them exactly how great an omega I can be.
Bastion stands, dusts off his jacket, and offers a slow, sarcastic clap. “Congratulations. You’re Everhart’s newest mistake.”
Wyatt gives me a little salute with his phone, then starts tapping out some sort of message.
Ranier walks to the door and pauses beside me. “You’re stubborn as hell,” he mutters.
“It’s genetic,” I reply, though my parents would probably disagree.
Ranier disappears into the corridor, leaving the door open behind him. The room is suddenly a vacuum, the three of us orbiting a center that doesn’t exist.
Bastion looks at me, and for the first time, I see a flash of actual curiosity. “You ever get what you wanted, Grey?”
I shake my head. “Not once.”
He nods, as if that’s the right answer.
“Maybe this is your shot,” Wyatt says, half-mocking and half-not.
I square my shoulders, refusing to let them see the tremor in my hands. “Maybe it is.”
The silence between us is different now—charged, uncertain, the calm before something catastrophic.
I turn to go, but Bastion’s voice stops me.
“You really think you can survive us?”
I look over my shoulder, meeting his gaze dead-on. “I don’t want to survive,” I say. “I want to win.”
He smiles, and for once, there’s nothing but respect in it.
Outside, the corridor is empty, but I hear the rumble of Ranier’s voice further down, the whir of Councilors and pages and the machinery of power groaning into motion.
I start down the hall, slow and steady, the weight of what I’ve just done pressing into my bones.
Eloise is waiting by the plant graveyard with her phone clutched in both hands. When she sees my face, her eyes go huge. “Did you—?”
“They took the bait,” I say. “Now we wait for the fallout.”
She grins, shaky and fierce. “I knew you would.”
I don’t know if I believe her, but I let her lead me toward the exit, our footsteps loud and deliberate in the empty corridor.
The night outside is colder than I remember, sharp enough to slice through the last of my nerves. I breathe in, feel the frost burn my lungs, and exhale a plume of cotton-candy pink.
This is it. This is the part where you stop being the loser, and start being the problem.
I smile, small and sharp, and follow Eloise into the dark.