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Stephanie touches my arm gently before fluffing my hair one last time. “Remember that none of it is real,” she says. “Not even the things that feel real.”
I nod, and smile as bravely as I can as they leave the room.
After they go, I open the garment bag. Inside is a gorgeous green dress made of a velvet-soft fabric, along with a pair of silver high heels. The dress is cut wide at the neckline, leaving a wide swatch of skin open across my chest. It’s pretty beautiful on me, it really is.
After I admire it in the mirror for a moment, I move to sit on the couch, staring at the dark screen of the television, waiting to see what my fate will hold.
The tv screen flickers a few times, but there’s nothing on-screen for about ten minutes, during which I polish off the champagne and practice my breathing in a sad attempt to stay calm.
I find my mind drifting back to the townhouse. What Reese said to me before I left was so horrible, it physically hurts to remember it. After everything, I would have thought… I push the idea away. It doesn’t matter. There’s no point in thinking about it any more. It’s over. I’ll probably never see Reese or Arlo again. The idea pains me, and I blow out a breath and clutch my stomach as it cramps angrily.
I need to get past this. I’m about to be on camera. Primetime, real-deal camera, in front of a bunch of very sexy alphas. Maybe I’ll even find someone who makes me feel the way Reese and Arlo did. It seems wrong to even consider it, but what do I owe them, really? Everything we had, we built in a few days, and Reese destroyed with a few words. And neither of them bothered to say goodbye.
I just wish… I don’t know what I wish. It seems stupid to wish for anything at all.
The screen flickers again, and this time, an image appears. It’s the room I just walked through. It looks bigger on tv. The room is beautifully lit, candles everywhere and the gorgeous crystal-laden chandelier sparkles overhead. The center of the room is decorated with a giant round table, hollow at its center, and vases of white roses line the table top.
I gulp as the host ofOmega Girlsappears on screen, his suit crisp and his smile cold. His name is Willard Peters, and he’s been with the show since the first season. He smiles for the camera, and then gestures toward a grand staircase. The omegas appear at the top of the stairs, trumpets sounding in the background.
Three of them are women, clothed in tight, colorful cocktail dresses, their perfect hair streaming down around their shoulders, glossy and refined. Their skin colors are different, ranging from blue-black to pale white, but they’re all strikingly gorgeous in the way omegas are supposed to be. There is one male omega, a tall man with a confident smile and a tight button up shirt. He appears to be of South Asian descent, though I can’t be sure. His hair is clipped short on the sides, and it flops forward over his forehead, teasingly.
All of them are wearing beautiful jewelry around their necks—their mics, I realize. I think about the choker Arlo gave me. It’s in my purse now, and I reach for it, putting it on carefully, reminding myself of how it felt when his fingers slid along my skin, warm and caressing, like I was precious to him. I hope they don’t make me trade it in for another one. As much as it hurts to remember, I think it might hurt even more to give it up.
I’m surprised to see that there are only four omegas left. Every season is different, of course, because it’s all about who matches with whom, but usually since they start with 10 omegas and 10 packs, it doesn’t get whittled down quite so fast.
I watch on the monitor as the omegas walk gracefully down the stairs, one by one, meeting up with their assistants at the bottom. Each assistant pushes a cart with an array of pitchers on it, each labeled “yes,” “no,” and “maybe.”
One of the tables is wheeled out of the way for a moment, and the omegas step into the center of the round table, each going to the section of vases labeled with their names. As the table snaps back into place, Willard Peters steps forward, his hands spread wide in welcome.
“Omegas. The time has come for you to make your choices. As you know, you will pour your liquids into each of the vases, as labeled by pack. Then the packs will come in, and they will pour their own liquids into the vases. Each flower will change color to tell us what both of you have decided. If either of you pours the ‘yes’ liquid into your vases, the flower will turn a bright, passionate red, and you’ll be rewarded with a night together in the Starlight Suite, where you can get to know each other better.
“If you both pick ‘maybe,’ the rose will be colored pink, and you will keep getting to know each other on our formal dates. If you or the pack pours a ‘no’ liquid into your vase, it will turn black, and your time with that pack will be ended. If all your roses turn black, I’m afraid you will be eliminated. Now, let’s begin.”
I scan the faces of each omega as they file past the camera. I don’t recognize any of them, but that’s no surprise; I could have watched some of this season before I came to the failure flats, since a lot of it comes on live or gets aired just a day or two after it’s filmed, but I knew I was coming to the show myself, and I didn’t have the stomach to watch a preview of what was going to happen to me.
Even now, I’m having trouble understanding what they want me to do. The omegas have been here for weeks, getting to know the packs. Now they’re just going to throw me into the mix to see what happens?
Actually, that sounds like exactly the kind of thing they would do.
The omegas have finished doling out their decisions. The liquids have no color, so we won’t know what they decided until the packs pour from their own pitchers, and the petals on the roses change color, revealing everyone’s choices.
And here they come, down the stairs: the dominating, captivating alphas. There are a couple women, tall and put together, exuding power, and the rest are men, burly and dominant-looking. There are only three packs left — which makes sense since there are only four omegas. They stand together side by side, watching the omegas with hungry expressions.
I bite my lip against the sadness that threatens to overwhelm me. None of them holds a candle to Reese and Arlo.
I watch as the packs confer within themselves, broad shoulders and beautiful heads bowed together as they determine their preferences. And then, one by one, they start to pour their liquids into the vases. Most of the roses turn pink. There’s a black or two in the mix, but no one seems particularly surprised or upset about it. No reds just yet.
One poor girl is looking particularly nervous. The camera keeps swooping in on her face. She’s blonde and thin with pearl earrings and a necklace to match. Her forehead is dewy with sweat. She watches closely as one after another of the packs pour their liquids into her vases… And one after another, the roses turn black.
The girl bites back a sob, her hand going to her pursed lips.
“Barbara, you have been eliminated fromOmega Girls,” Willard Peters says, his expression contrite in a bland sort of way. “Is there anything you would like to say?”
“Yes,” she says, squaring her shoulders. She turns her gaze to the alphas.
“Pack Four,” Barbara says, “I expected better from you. After what we did together in the hot tub…” She shakes her head. “I feel like you led me on.”
Willard Peters nods solemnly. “And Pack Four, is there anything you would like to say to Barbara?”
