Chapter Two
Premonitions
Imogen found Dillon right where she'd expected: sitting under his favorite gazebo and staring into the small pond. From a distance, she could only make out his tall frame and light brown hair, which seemed to have grown longer in the past five months.
"I can't believe you greeted the ducks first," she called. He turned at the sound of her voice, green eyes brightening. "I live here too, you know."
"How did you know I was back already?" he asked.
"Saw your car in the driveway." She took a seat next to him. Both of them loved the gazebo, but with him at university, it had been ages since she'd appreciated it. The gardens were peaceful, with flowers beginning to bloom now that the warmer months were near.
Dillon grinned. "What do you think of the new paint job?"
Aside from the fact that it was the color of a highlighter? Imogen suppressed a shudder. At least the ugly flash of neon yellow had alerted her of his arrival, even if it had scarred her eyes in the process. Dillon's color preferences were, well, questionable. "I liked the neon pink better."
He sighed wistfully. "Me too, but mom said it was too identifiable. A 'security hazard' or whatever."
"And the neon yellow… isn't?"
That grin resurfaced. Imogen could always count on Dillon to look like the Cheshire Cat. "Eh, the paparazzi haven't noticed yet, so I'm safe!"
Safe wasn't necessarily what came to mind when she thought of the tabloid articles covering Dillon's numerous speeding tickets, but she decided not to call him out on it. "Well, security hazard or not, I'm glad you're back. It's been an interesting few months."
Dillon's easy smile vanished. He bit his bottom lip. "I heard about August."
They were not having this conversation.
"No." She held up a hand to stop him. "We are not going there."
He hesitated. "Uh… If you say so?"
"Moving on," she blurted out, trying to think of anything else Dillon could prattle on about. "So, excited about your newfound freedom?"
Dillon threw a concerned look her way. She forced a tight-lipped smile in return, and he finally got the message. "Oh yeah, totally, but it's kind of bittersweet. I mean, I'm glad that I graduated, but now it's back to being the heir to House Noel instead of a regular student. I'll miss being in that environment."
"Yeah, it sounds pretty nice," Imogen mused. Some days, university seemed fun. Other days, she was thankful she would never experience it. "And you get to interact with people beyond stuffy, middle-aged politicians."
"True. I met a lot of great people," he remarked.
The way his smile softened set off warning bells in her head.
"Wait. Did you finally get a girlfriend?"
"What? No!"
That was more like it.
"So you're still putting the 'bachelor' in 'bachelor's degree.'"
He shot her a dirty look, and she couldn't help but grin back. Some part of her was relieved that Dillon wasn't about to launch into a monologue about how great his new girlfriend was. She wanted him to be happy, but… ideally, that would wait until she was also happy.
"Very funny. I was asked out a few times—" He paused as he noticed her expression of shock. His eyes narrowed. "Come on, it's not that surprising!"
Dillon could not pick up social cues to save his life, let alone signals from girls. While she hadn't witnessed his social endeavors in a long time, there was no way that had changed. "Did you ever say yes?"
He shook his head. "I couldn't see myself falling in love with any of them," he said. "Besides, they barely knew me. Who knows if they were interested in me purely for the status upgrade?"
She nodded along, but against her wishes, her face fell. "Tell me about it."
Please don't.
Maybe this line of questioning had been a bad idea.
Dillon, as oblivious as always, didn't notice. He seemed preoccupied with staring at his hands. "Actually, now that you mention it… I need to ask you a massive favor."
"This better not be like the time I dressed up as you and—"
"No." He grimaced, an indication that he was now in Serious Dillon mode. Imogen braced herself for his melodrama. "My parents are trying to find a partner for me again."
Lord Nathaniel and Lady Marisa were consistently supportive of the royals, making them Imogen's favorite heads of house by a long shot. However, they were very intent on finding their children the most advantageous marriages possible. The current widely-accepted theory was that Dillon had gone to college to escape his parents' relentless matchmaking.
"Is that bad?" she said. When Dillon stared at her like she had just declared her undying love for Vasilios Fortescue, she quickly backtracked. "I mean, your sister's relationship worked out. She seems happy."
"Lola and I are different. I want to find genuine love. I want to fall in love with the person I'm destined to be with." He sighed, running a hand through his hair. "That sounds really cheesy when I say it out loud."
She shrugged. "A little." Like some trashy romance novel propaganda, she wanted to add. But not when Dillon looked like he truly believed every word he was saying—and when he enjoyed said trashy romance novels.
"Even if it's cheesy, I still believe that I'll find something more than an arranged marriage." He paused. "Which is why I told my parents to pick me for the Selection."
"Wait, what?"
Dillon—in her Selection?
What had the world come to?
Ignoring her shock, he continued. "If I'm in the Selection, my parents can't find me a fiancée." Oh. "I've tried to talk them out of it, but the Selection is my best option. They might believe that I'm doing this to secure our house's future. Is that… okay with you?"
He lifted his chin to look at her directly. There was something honest and vulnerable in his pleading eyes that she had rarely seen from him before, even in Serious Dillon mode. Judging by the set of his jaw, he really, really wanted this. No, needed this.
Imogen realized he was waiting for an answer.
It would be beneficial to have a friend during the Selection—someone she could talk to without the pressure of weddings and babies and nobles with ulterior motives.
If this whole Selection thing didn't work out… maybe she could use someone to fall back on.
"More than okay. I'm here for you, Dillon," she said. "But you owe me one."
As soon as Imogen stepped into the press room, Virginia Taylour-Vasquez—the palace's public relations officer and Report host—thrust a script into her hands, dragged her to a sound technician, and pushed her into a chair.
"Here's the final copy," was all she offered as an explanation before dashing away.
Imogen rolled her eyes. She read through the script as the sound technician fastened a microphone to her dress. This was the speech she had sent her father two days ago, per the usual schedule. She didn't see any major edits aside from a few dramatic television-worthy lines, probably inserted by Virginia.
A line that had definitely not been there before caught her eye. The Selection is a time-honored tradition that has helped royals find love since Illéa's establishment, and I am excited to be the next in a long legacy of happily ever afters.
That was one way to ignore the king's disaster of a Selection. She was tempted to skip it, but there would be consequences for disregarding the teleprompter.
"Imogen," Florence's voice said, causing Imogen to look up. Her stepmother was standing over her. "Can you meet me in my office afterward? There are some details we should discuss."
Imogen nodded, and Florence disappeared through the doorway. That was fast, even if Florence's presence wasn't required on the Report today. Only Virginia and Imogen were announcing the Selection. The king was nowhere to be found.
"Could you approach the stage and see if your microphone is working, Your Highness?" the sound technician asked.
Imogen stood up and made her way to the podium where announcements were typically given. She tested the microphone until Virginia appeared to her left.
"Your Highness! Are you ready? We'll start rolling in two minutes."
"Ready," Imogen said. "Should I be here at the start or come on stage after your introduction?"
"After, please!" With that, Virginia dragged Imogen offstage—Imogen nearly tripped on the edge of the stage in her high heels, but she was used to this by now. Though Virginia had no concept of personal space, Imogen much preferred her to being swarmed by strange reporters. She was the most tolerable Taylour, compared to the main branch of the Taylour family.
Soon, the room collectively quietened. Virginia stood at the podium and the main camera started rolling, a red flashing light indicating that they were live.
"Good evening, and welcome back to the Illéa Capital Report!" Virginia said. "Today, we have a special announcement from Princess Imogen, so be sure to stay until the end. First, we have some updates from around the country."
Virginia spoke about provincial updates from the past two weeks for several minutes, including the recent adjustments to Yukon's welfare policies. Apparently, the subsidies for certain agricultural products were also being cut back—Imogen frowned, as that hadn't been on the agricultural report her father gave her last week. She would have to ask him at some point about that.
"And now, for the special announcement you've all been waiting for! Please join me in welcoming Princess Imogen to the stage."
Imogen made her way onto the stage as the workers scattered around the set applauded. Words appeared on the teleprompter. She gave the camera her brightest smile. "Good evening, ladies and gentlemen of Illéa! As you know, I turned 22 towards the end of last year. I have reached a stage in my life where I feel ready to embark on a new journey.
"Over the next months, I will have my very own Selection to find my future husband." As people off-camera gasped for dramatic effect, she gritted her teeth and continued reading the teleprompter. "The Selection is a time-honored tradition that has helped royals find love since Illéa's establishment, and I am excited to be the next in a long legacy of happily ever afters."
She touched on a few more of the specifics, like the age range, the two-week deadline, and the process of submitting applications. As she took a shaky breath before wrapping up her speech, she realized thirty-five men would soon arrive at the palace. It was too late for any regrets. The world knew. "In two weeks' time, I will announce the thirty-five suitors on the Report. Should you choose to enter, I look forward to meeting you. Thank you for your time!"
Virginia came back onstage. "I am sure that this Selection will be one to remember! Before we finish for the night, note that you will find updates on the Selection in our weekly press releases, including official photos. When the Selected men arrive at the palace, we will continue to film the Report every two weeks, but each Report will also include a special Selection segment." Right when Imogen thought Virginia was about to finish, Virginia gestured to the currently blank screen behind them. "Lastly, enjoy this montage from King Theodore's Selection as we anticipate Princess Imogen's!"
Imogen's eyes widened. Footage from the king's Selection had become somewhat taboo since the king's divorce. She had never seen the clips herself.
Yet the screen was now showing a much-younger version of her father walking in the palace gardens, speaking on the Report, and eating meals with the former Selected. She didn't recognize any of the women—except for a flash of blonde hair that could have belonged to Dariele Fortescue—after staring at the screen for the entirety of the montage.
The former Queen Regina, who Imogen had only ever seen official portraits of, had been edited out completely.
No wonder Florence hadn't stayed to watch the filming.
Her eyes stayed fixed on the screen long after the video had faded to black, even as Virginia said, "Thank you, people of Illéa, and good night!"
"Your father has entrusted me to organize this Selection for now."
"I'm not surprised," Imogen said. "He never has time."
Florence looked up from the files. After a brief pause, she continued shuffling through the papers. "Our top priority right now is finding a new royal planner, a Selection coordinator of sorts, to stay at the palace during the Selection. This is the figure who will communicate with the Selected and arrange lessons."
Imogen leaned back against Florence's desk, already losing interest in the conversation. The nobles would probably decide everything, leaving her with no control over her own Selection. "Don't you already have that covered?"
"I am responsible for working behind the scenes to ensure that everything runs smoothly, so my direct interactions with the Selected will be limited. I was hoping for your input on a potential royal planner."
Had she heard correctly? "My input?"
"Yes." Florence frowned. "Your father suggested… Lady Fortescue, as she has participated in a Selection before."
Dariele organizing her Selection?
Neither of them needed to voice how terrible that idea was. Dariele would tear those young men apart before they opened their mouths. There was no way they could trust a member of House Fortescue to shape the future prince consort.
Imogen tried to recall what she knew about previous Selections. "Aren't royal planners typically the same gender as the Selected? After all, they have to teach proper etiquette."
"Traditionally, yes. However, if they are qualified, they could teach the men etiquette as well. Another option is simply to employ a different person as the etiquette instructor."
Who was qualified to teach the future prince consort? Imogen wracked her brains, trying to think of all the people she knew. None of the kinder nobles would do, as they were too preoccupied with their duties. What kind of person could plan a Selection? Would the Selected really need such thorough lessons? While they wouldn't all have Dillon's knowledge base—
The answer struck her. "I want Rosemary to become the royal planner."
Florence looked up from the files. Her generally impassive expression was replaced by a look of astonishment in her almond brown eyes. "Rosemary Cohen? Your former governess?" she asked.
"Rosemary taught me almost everything I know about Illéa," Imogen defended. "She's certainly qualified to teach history and politics. I trust her a lot more than I trust Dariele."
Surely Florence couldn't disagree with that. Dariele had never been kind to either of them, while Rosemary had proven her loyalty to the crown time after time.
Florence nodded, her face melting back into that distant mask. Betraying nothing. "I understand. She is like a mother to you."
Silence hung in the air.
"I—"
"I will make the arrangements and see whether the palace can contact her."
Florence's soft tone was far from reproachful—it never was—but Imogen still lowered her head.
She had known Florence since she was three years old. In that time, despite all the family meals and stilted conversations, she'd never been able to call Florence her mother.
She wondered whether her father had ever told Florence the truth: that Imogen wasn't the product of a broken marriage like the world believed, but of an affair. Would Florence treat her differently then?
"Thank you," she said quietly.
"There is no need to thank me." Florence sighed. "Hopefully, this will make my job much easier."
Imogen held her tongue, not wanting to dash her stepmother's hopes. But she had a feeling that easy would not be one of the many words to describe this Selection.
a friend? check. announcing the selection on the report? check. cliches everywhere? CHECK.
Hope you all enjoyed this chapter! I've received most of the Selected forms, and I'm really excited to begin writing about them! For those of you who have yet to send me your forms, please try to get them in soon. You might see the first mention of them next chapter, on the set of the Report, along with Imogen's first impressions of them ;)
Let me know your thoughts on this chapter! And perhaps anything you'd like to see going forward?
Until next time!
—Rysa