But the real magic of the night came not from the sets or the precision of the ensemble, but from the raw vulnerability of the show’s new Princess, Grace Davis, who, despite a highly publicized fall during the signature jump, won a standing ovation.
I can’t breathe. I read it again. And again. It’s like those middle school nightmares where you’re on stage and everyone is staring, waiting for you to do something wrong—and then you do, in the loudest, most public way possible.
Charlotte’s voice cuts through. “It’s not that bad, right? I mean, at least they mention the ovation.”
“I don’t care about the ovation,” I mutter. My hands are shaking. “That jump was supposed to be easy.”
Charlotte’s lips press into a tight line. She takes the phone, scrolls further, and wordlessly points to a block of bolded text near the end. “There’s more.”
Rumors are already swirling about the show’s leads—Davis and her on-ice Prince, Connor Jones. Sources say the chemistryis real, but so is the drama: Jones and Davis, both top of their class, reportedly share more than a professional relationship, with whispers of a turbulent alpha-omega dynamic behind the scenes.
“Are youkiddingme?” It comes out shrill, desperate. “I skate one program with him, and suddenly I’m the cautionary tale of desperate omegas everywhere? How do these reporters evenknow?”
Charlotte’s face hardens. “It’s not fair.”
I flop onto the couch and cradle my head. “Is it ever?”
She kneels beside me and rests her warm hand on my forearm. “Don’t read the comments.”
Too late for that.Why not just keep piling it on?
Another omega skating her way to a ring instead of a medal.
Typical alpha, wants all the glory, leaves the princess to take the fall.
LMAO, they’re not even dating, he already rejected her during camp, it’s all just pheromone games.
My ears burn. “What the hell!”
Charlotte reads the comments over my shoulder. The tension has made her voice get two octaves higher. “This is so, so wrong. It had to be one of them. Zev, Fowler, or Connor. Maybe one of their friends.”
“It’s fine,” I mutter. It’snotfine. Especially whenmyphone starts going off. I fish it from nearby and check the lock screen. Nine missed texts, all variations on “URGENT—MEETING AT TEN, GRACE. Not optional.” There are also three missed calls from my best friend, Briar.
Charlotte packs her phone into her sleeve pocket. “Want me to walk you over?”
“I’m not going to the guillotine,” I say, but my voice shakes. “I’ll meet you at the rink later.”
She looks like she might argue, then reconsiders and hugs me so tight my ribs creak. “Don’t let them get to you. Or Director Hannah. You can’t control what people publish online.”
No, but I can control who to keep in my life.
If Zev, Connor, or Fowler had a hand in this, Reverie is the last time the three of them will see me ever again.
Every step downfrom my third-floor apartment is a count of heartbeats and a reminder that I could turn back and just let Director Hannah deal with this whole mess. I don’t. Not because I’m brave, but because I don’t want to be the rumor. I want to face it, squash it, and keep skating. That’s what good omegas do, right? Show up, even when the world is about to turn them into a meme.
I check my phone twice for the right apartment number. Connor’s door is the last on the end.
I knock. No answer.
I knock again with a consideration that I might need to bang on the door to get his attention. Then it swings open. Connor stands there, shirtless, with sleep-mashed hair and the unmistakable scent of an alpha just waking up. Peppermint envelopes me, sending me listing sideways until I regain myself.
I did not justswoonfor Connor.
Absolutely not.
“What time is it?” he asks, eyes still half-lidded, voice coated in gravel.
I don’t answer but rather thrust my phone toward his face. “Did you see it?”
