Grayson fidgeted in front of the mirror. He was wearing a charcoal gray suit that fit perfectly, but the longer he stared at himself, the worse it looked on him. But he couldn't take it off. There was a pile of discarded suits growing in his butler's arms and he knew that if he tried again, he'd end up staring at the next one until that, too, felt wrong.
But still… The arms felt too tight, like he couldn't move, and the stomach bulged just a little bit, hiding the abs his parents had painstakingly encouraged his personal trainer to teach him to sculpt. Nothing seemed to fit right.
Maybe it was the knowledge that, two floors below, thirty-five young women were being ushered in the doors into the Great Room, followed by swarms of camera crews- only the trusted ones allowed inside the walls of the palace, at least- and hordes of maids, all Sixes, of course.
Grayson wasn't officially meeting anyone until tomorrow, of course. The Royal Family would be enjoying one last, peaceful meal together. A family of four no more, Grayson was facing the weight of the knowledge that even when everyone else had been dismissed, there would be a fifth person at the table, sitting by his side.
Grayson's eyes moved up from the suit to his face. His straight nose, his piercing eyes. He was the picture of confidence and poise, even in his own bedroom, seen by only his trusted butler. He had been raised from birth to be a politician, a prince, eventually a king. He hadn't been taught how to be a husband.
What if he hated his wife? What if she hated him? Grayson knew not all marriages were happy. That was a significant source of discontent in the country. Rising divorce rates. And it all sourced from inter-caste marriage, his father said. And he'd seen the reports, too. Families who married within their caste were always significantly happier, less stressed by the pull of different occupations, different interests, different levels of discrimination.
But Grayson couldn't marry a One. That wasn't how it worked. He had to marry down, marry a Daughter of Illea. And just because it worked for his parents… that didn't mean it would work for him.
Gerard coughed slightly, saying nothing but tacitly reminding the Crown Prince to hurry up. Grayson nodded. He had to make an appearance sometime.
"It's time to face the cameras," he said.
Downstairs, Grayson steered clear of the Great Room and the Women's Room. He knew it would be chaos. The palace was unaccustomed to so many visitors, to the abrupt change in atmosphere after being in mourning. Grayson wanted to avoid it all, avoid the Selected until the last possible moment. He needed time to ensure that he'd stay composed.
His family sat at dinner together, quietly. Outside the doors, they could hear the hustle and bustle of people, the sound of heels on the stone floor and the loud rumble of cameras being wheeled about. The staff kept things as quiet as possible, but they couldn't hide the improper giggles of the lower castes- at least, Grayson assumed- as they walked through the palace for the first time.
Grayson stared down at his dinner, uneasy, moving around a piece of potato with his fork. If he delayed finishing his dinner, he could delay going back to his room. And then what? Try to sleep? Do more paperwork for his father? The anticipation was eating at him, more than it had at any point before. Suddenly, with all thirty-five Selected in his home, everything felt more real.
What would it be like to marry a Five, Grayson wondered. A Three? He had so little contact with the outside world. People on paper couldn't possibly be the same as people in person. Would they voice their discontent, or would his father have ensured that all of the Selected were political allies who supported the monarchy?
"Ladies," a muffled voice seeped into the room as the buzz of thirty-five pairs of heels passed outside the room. "This is where you will take your meals in the future. For tonight, dinner will be served in your rooms. It has been a long day."
Grayson was sure it had been, and he was grateful for the extra time to prepare.
"Have you studied the applications today?" King Monroe asked, his voice level and lighthearted. Winter and Queen Magnolia looked up with interest.
Grayson swallowed, his mouth dry. "Uh, a bit," he hedged. He hadn't even looked. "It's hard to keep their names straight, especially when I know they're all going to look so different…" He trailed off. He needed to sound more confident, especially in front of Winter. He knew from her stony expression that she was waiting for him to slip up, for an excuse to rage that this was all the plot of an inept government. He wished she could be more supportive of her own family. Always the rebel. Couldn't she just be his sister, for once?
"They'll be wearing name tags," Queen Magnolia said, "but it would be better if you could learn their names. It's not very polite to continually forget someone's name. It leaves a bad impression."
Grayson nodded. Suddenly, he couldn't wait to finish his dinner. There was so much left to do tonight. He gulped down a few dry mouthfuls of what probably was a delicious dinner, not that he noticed, and excused himself hastily from the room.
Upstairs, in his bedroom, Grayson sent Gerard away and seated himself at his desk. The files of each Selected sat in front of him, complete with photos and all the handwritten answers on the forms. They were out of order from the few times that he'd rifled through them before, but everything was there. The future queen, his future wife, was in this pile.
Picking up the first one, Grayson took a deep breath. Nereida Rue Statten, it read. Five.