Chapter Three

Into the Unknown

Over the next few days, the nobles trickled into the palace with their heavy suitcases and unconvincing smiles. Actual conversations were heard in the dining hall, in contrast to the quiet of the Caswells eating their meals.

With only a few days until the announcement of the Selected men, only three nobles had yet to arrive. As Imogen made her way down the stairs before breakfast, she was desperately hoping that one of them had still not come.

She rounded the corner and crashed straight into that noble.

Imogen staggered backward. Her face had been mere inches away from the blond nobleman now standing in front of her with a glare. Too close for comfort. "Watch where you're going," she warned. She took another step back, almost bumping into Officer Ortega, who was standing at the side of the hallway.

Vasilios Fortescue's sharp features contorted into a sneer. "Not holed up in your room anymore, are you?" he mocked. He dusted off his sleeves dramatically. "What a pity. These halls are much brighter without you."

"That's funny—you don't even live here."

His eyes flashed with icy fury. "My ancestors had this palace built."

She'd heard this line a million times before. "Well, my ancestors took their crown. Basic history, Vasilios." She pushed past him and strode towards the dining hall. Then, pausing in the middle of the hallway, she turned around. "That's Your Highness to you, by the way."

If there was one thing Vasilios valued more than making her life miserable, it was proper etiquette. "You can't hide behind your title, Your Highness," he said frostily. "I reserve my respect for people who earn it."

That one kind of hurt.

She faked a smile. "Ever thought about entering the Selection, Vasilios? You get the crown and me, your two favorite things."

Vasilios looked like he was about to throw up in the middle of the hallway. "Do you truly believe that anybody would want to marry you? That they would enter the Selection for you?" A mirthless laugh escaped his lips. "You're delusional. Entering your Selection would only be an insult to a house's dignity."

That one hurt more. Imogen's hands balled into fists at her sides. "Then tell me why Dillon's participating," she shot right back.

She froze. Was she supposed to let that slip?

Vasilios's face darkened. "Noel is entering the Selection?"

Before Imogen could respond, he muttered something to himself and turned, heading the way he had come from. Not suspicious at all.

Whatever the Fortescues were planning, Imogen did not want to deal with it and their egotistical twenty-year-old son at the moment. Officer Ortega cleared her throat. "Would you like me to ban Sir Fortescue from entering the third floor again, Your Highness?"

"What?" Oh, the command she'd given a couple of years ago after a heated argument. It hadn't lasted long; it was difficult to ban Vasilios from entering his own room. "No, no, it's fine." She sighed. "Let's just go to breakfast."

When she entered the dining hall, the tables usually occupied by the noble houses were empty. Only her family was there.

"Good morning." She took her seat next to Eden, and a maid came up to place her breakfast in front of her. "Uh, where is everyone?"

"You just missed the adjustments to the meal schedule," Eden said. "From now on, the nobles will eat first, followed by us and the Selected. It's to prevent the dining hall from becoming too crowded during every meal."

"Oh." Imogen picked up her mug of tea, trying very hard not to jump for joy at the prospect of seeing Vasilios even less.

"There is another reason for their absence," Theodore said. He exchanged glances with Florence. "Many of them are currently looking through the Selected forms to make their decisions."

"Oh." This time, all of her enthusiasm vanished into thin air.

Each house was allowed to present a few men for the Selection, a tradition that had existed since the first Selection of the Caswell reign. The others were chosen to make the Selection look like a lottery, but in reality, only the noble picks typically stood a chance.

For a brief moment, Imogen entertained the idea of eliminating all the noble picks on the first day. Would she anger a group of powerful nobles? Definitely. Would it bode well for her? Definitely not.

At least Dillon would be among the batch. Imogen took a sip of her green tea, trying to imagine the dining hall's tables filled with thirty-five men.

She looked at Eden. "Hey, what are you doing later today?"

"Uh, I have a budget proposal for the housing projects in Kent to look over," Eden said. "I was going to relax in the dance studio after that. Why?"

"How about a Self-Care Sunday?" Imogen suggested.

Eden's eyes lit up. "Really?" She paused, tilting her head to the side. "Why now? It's been a while since the last one."

"Well, I'm about to date thirty-five men," Imogen said, trying not to let her voice sound overly resentful—only a slight bitterness, like the tea in her mug. Her eyes flitted to her father to see whether he'd noticed her tone. No reaction. "Is there a better time for face masks?"

An excited smile spread across Eden's face. "Perfect. I've been meaning to try this new aloe purifying anti-redness cleaning treatment retexturizing facial hydration mask!"

That sounded terrifying. However, Imogen could probably trust Eden and her extensive skincare knowledge. "…Great. I'll let Renee know."

It had been a while since she had spent some quality time with her sister. The two of them resting in Imogen's room, classical music playing from the speakers as fairy lights filled the room with a soft glow. Quietly lost in their own world.

The last "Self-Care Sunday" had been on Eden's birthday, all the way back in February. What had stopped her from enjoying a moment with her little half-sister sooner?

She wished she didn't know the answer to that.

"I'll get the chocolate chip cookies ready for tonight," she told Eden, pushing all thoughts of the past to the back of her mind. For now, she was ready to enjoy the present before it was too late to escape her future.

Renee tucked the last strands of brown hair into Imogen's low bun, stepping back to assess her work. "All done, Your Highness."

Tired brown eyes framed by silver eyeshadow stared back at her from the mirror. Despite the layers of concealer, she felt like her dark circles were still there, quietly taunting her about the sleepless past few weeks.

She narrowed her eyes at herself.

"Is there something wrong with the outfit, Your Highness?" Renee asked, worry written all over her face. She had only been working as Imogen's maid for four months. "Is the dress too tight? I can see if the other—"

"The dress is perfect, Renee, don't worry about it." Imogen's eyes settled on the ornate sapphire pendant hanging from her neck. She had always loved necklaces; this one captured the light so ostentatiously that it would hopefully hide everything else about her.

Yet despite the shiny gemstone, her reflection didn't look ready to step onto the Report stage and react to the thirty-five men of her Selection.

Vasilios's words from earlier echoed in her brain. Do you truly believe that anybody would want to marry you? That they would enter the Selection for you?

The joke's on you, Vasilios, she thought bitterly. I'm not holding this Selection for myself either.

"Renee, how do you think my fourth-favorite tiara would look with this outfit?" she asked.

"I think it would match nicely, Your Highness."

A few minutes later, Renee delicately placed the sapphire-studded tiara on her head. The weight of it felt familiar to Imogen, even if she hadn't worn any of her tiaras since the last formal function. She reached up to adjust it slightly, making sure it was centered on her head.

"Is this alright, Your Highness?"

Imogen angled her head, once again staring at her reflection. This time, a crown princess stared back.

"It's perfect."

She wondered if the girl in the mirror believed those words any more than she did.

Later, as she sat down between Eden and Florence, she adjusted her tiara again. "The Selected will be shown on this screen as I announce them," Virginia briefed her. "Make your reactions interesting for the cameras, but not too scandalous, okay?"

"…What do you consider a scandalous reaction?"

Virginia was clearly not as stressed as Imogen. "Just react naturally, Your Highness. Although preferably with more emotion than your resting face."

"My resting face is not emotionless—"

Virginia was already gone. Imogen sighed, although she quietly wondered whether that was more of a compliment than an insult. Eden had told her before that her face was too intense when she wasn't expressing a particular emotion. However, if her stormy expressions could scare off unwanted company, she thoroughly considered that a win.

As the Report started, she had to drop her "resting face" in favor of a somewhat relaxed—but very anxious inside—smile. She crossed her legs, then uncrossed them, then crossed them again as she waited for Virginia to finish the introduction.

"Without further ado, the moment you've all been waiting for," Virginia announced with a dramatic flourish of her hands. "Her Royal Highness, Princess Imogen Caswell's thirty-five suitors!"

Imogen held her breath as Virginia picked up the first envelope from the podium. The only sound in the studio was the seal along the envelope being torn open in one satisfying motion. For a moment, the world collectively paused.

"From Calgary," Virginia read out, "Elias Newton!"

A smiling man appeared on the screen. Elias Newton's dark brown eyes were framed by round, thin metal glasses, with dark brown hair falling into his eyes. He had a sharp jawline, but his smile seemed to bring out faint dimples on the sides of his cheeks.

He was cute, she had to admit. Something about his grin made him look genuinely happy at that moment. However, he was probably a throwaway pick. There weren't any influential families in Illéa with the last name Newton, and his name and face didn't ring any bells. What was his occupation? Something academic, given the glasses?

"From Sonage, Aegon Westfall!"

Elias's picture was replaced by a blue-eyed, freckled man with light brown hair. Westfall. Aegon's confident smirk did look like it belonged to the Westfall family, a wealthy, old-money family that owned multiple businesses.

A Westfall could easily have bribed his way into the Selection. Imogen wondered which noble house had selected him. Before she could get a better look at his face, the next man appeared onscreen.

"From Allens, Vikram Sher!"

Vikram Sher also had angular features, but his skin was dark and smooth. He stared into the camera with a serious look, but she didn't know if he was important. She'd never heard the name Sher in any notable context, although to be fair, she hadn't kept up in the past few months. For other reasons.

"From Zuni, Quentin Tran!"

That was a name Imogen had heard before, even if they had never interacted in person—one of the children of renowned Illéan director Linh Tran. She was pretty sure she had heard the name somewhere else as well, but couldn't quite remember where. Something related to non-profits? He had long, dark brown hair that, combined with his slim nose and sharp cheekbones, gave him an air of elegance.

"From Fennley, Asher Coulter!"

Imogen rarely watched movies, but she knew that name.

Asher Coulter had been a hot topic ever since the last Academy Awards, as one of the youngest recipients of an Oscar in recent years. He was an actor. What was Asher's heartwarming smile hiding? His chocolate eyes and curly brown locks looked harmless, sure, but she refused to make the same mistake twice.

"From Sota, Tobias Wanewright!"

Tobias Wanewright's tense portrait couldn't be more different from Asher's beaming face. His bright blue eyes bore into the camera, and his mouth was set in a hard line. Floppy dark hair fell over his face, highlighting the pallidness of his skin. Sota was where the Beaufort Residence was located, but she couldn't see Tobias as a Beaufort pick.

"From Tammins, Andres Porter!"

Judging by Andres Porter's blond hair, blue eyes, and stern expression, he could be related to Robert Porter, founder of the manufacturing company Iron Hold. He was influential in Illéa and the only notable Porter that Imogen could recall at the moment, even if she didn't remember anything about the CEO's son. Iron Hold would be a powerful ally to have on one's side; which house had picked Andres?

"From Waverly, Vincent Carmichael!"

Vincent Carmichael's light brown hair matched the color of his eyes, and it was slightly ruffled. He was gazing into the camera with a serious expression, almost forlorn. Somehow, he gave off an air of sophistication, even though the name Carmichael wasn't familiar to her.

"From Yukon, Cade Summersgill!"

At the mention of Yukon, Imogen couldn't help it—alarm bells went off. Yukon, after all, was the home base of the Fortescues. Their stronghold. Whichever man had been chosen from Yukon could very well be working for the Fortescues—and by extension, working against her.

Cade Summersgill had relatively soft features. His short, curly hair and narrow eyes were both dark, and he had lightly tanned skin. He wasn't too bad-looking—but he was from a suspicious province.

"From Clermont, Charlie Vance-Austen!"

The Setons lived in Clermont, but Charlie Vance-Austen didn't give her the "vibes" of someone who would be selected by House Seton. He had warm, brown skin and a diamond-shaped face. His hair was curly and black, just covering his forehead without blocking his hooded brown eyes. Neither Vance nor Austen was a name that she recognized, so he didn't seem to have valuable connections.

"From Sumner, Cedric DunBroch!"

The man onscreen had startlingly bright red hair, messily falling over his forehead. Imogen could've sworn he was glowering at the camera as his dark eyes stared intensely from the screen. Any man selected by a noble house would at least have brushed his hair before taking the photo, right?

"From Hansport, Colin Eaton!"

Imogen was pretty sure that Eaton was the name of a famous hotel chain. However, she couldn't recall ever seeing Colin's face before. He was pale, with a thin nose, angular features, and dark brown hair.

"From Midston, Connor Clarington!"

Another name beginning with C? They were all blurring together in her head. Luckily for her, Connor Clarington's dark brown orbs were behind large black glasses, which would hopefully make telling him apart from the other C's easier. With his relaxed smile, he resembled the first man—Elias?—more than the previous few, except his hair was much darker.

Clarington. Could that be Clarington Motor Corps?

That must have been a Taylour decision. House Taylour had always disliked House Beaufort; picking someone from the car industry, in opposition to House Beaufort's specialization in renewable energy, was precisely the sort of thing the Taylours would do.

"From Honduragua, Jack Mercatura!"

After seeing many decently attractive men grace the screen, Imogen's eyes widened as the next picture appeared. Jack Mercatura's face was somewhat gaunt, but his dark hair looked polished, and his eyes held some liveliness. What stole her attention was the long network of scars running across his face, trailing from his forehead to his cheek.

Could he be involved in some sort of hazardous occupation? Was he a dangerous man? Could he be employed by one of the houses?

"From Columbia, James Zheng!"

Jack and James? Really? Was it so difficult to choose a batch of men with distinguishable names? At least James looked nothing like his predecessor. While Jack looked Hispanic, James Zheng looked New Asian—pale skin, mono-lidded dark brown eyes below well-defined eyebrows, and a V-shaped jaw.

"From Likely, Caleb Faust!"

The Council members were going to enjoy laughing at her as she tried to remember the C names. Thank god she had always been good with names. Caleb Faust's smile was bright, and he had sun-kissed skin, brown hair in a half-bun, and a layer of stubble along his jawline. He seemed to be another random pick.

"From Angeles—" Imogen's eyes flew to Virginia— "Sir Dillon Noel!"

Dillon's photo featured his signature grin, green eyes sparkling as he looked directly into the camera. Imogen pretended to look shocked for a moment, but secretly breathed a sigh of relief.

Among all these unfamiliar men, at least she had a friend.

And then, she heard another familiar name.

"From Kent, Emory Merrell!"

Imogen didn't need to fake her surprise. Her jaw went slack as she stared dumbly at the man with loose blond-brown curls, smiling with his nose scrunched up.

It had been ten years, but Imogen never forgot a name. Seeing that face only solidified it for her: Emory Merrell was in the Selection.

That name transported her back to her preteen years, to memories of running around in the gardens, eating warm chocolate chip cookies from the kitchens, and laughing together on one of the wooden benches which had been removed years ago to make room for a running track.

It took her a moment to realize she was in the Report studio, and the men's faces were still being shown. She caught the last glimpse of a man with black hair before it flashed away.

"From Labrador, Martel Vanderbilt!"

The name Vanderbilt stood out to her before she even saw Martel's face—though it was a nice face, she supposed, with long blond hair in a bun, grayish-blue eyes, and a chiseled jaw. Overall, he looked mysterious. The Vanderbilt family was extremely old money. If this man was the heir, that meant he was the heir to one of the largest fortunes in the world.

She had her money on House Beaufort. They would jump at the chance for any opportunity to enrich themselves. Maybe this Martel guy had paid his way into the Selection as well.

So starkly different from Emory, a former palace servant. From what she could remember of the Selected announced so far, many came from wealthy, influential families.

Luckily for her, she was the heiress of the most influential family of them all. These men could only hope to match her station. They signed up for this Selection because they want to become a member of the royal family, she reminded herself. They want to have your life. She was not going to let any of them intimidate her. In fact, she would show them she was the one with power, no matter which nobles supported them.

She observed the rest of the Selected as they appeared, handsome face after handsome face, all blending in her mind until she could barely recall their full names—just that there was an unholy number of Cs.

"And that was the last one!" The screen clicked and faded to black, and Virginia gestured for Imogen to join her in the center of the stage. "Your Highness, you just saw your thirty-five Selected for the first time. How do you feel?"

Imogen's confidence slipped—this hadn't been part of the script. "I'm excited to meet them, Virginia," she replied. Excited to get this mess over with. "Right now, I don't know which one of them will stand by my side in the future—"

She stopped. Her brain short-circuited.

One of these men was going to marry her.

To become the king consort of Illéa.

To rule the country with her.

"I, for one, can't wait to watch Imogen find love," Eden interjected, reaching for Imogen's hand. Imogen clasped it. "I hope that one of these men will be worthy of dating my sister. But be warned, she has high standards! As she should. She deserves the best."

Imogen nearly choked—she didn't want her high standards to be broadcast on live television—but squeezed Eden's hand, grateful for the support.

"What a sweet sentiment, Your Highness!" Virginia turned to Theodore and Florence. "Your Majesties, any words you would like to share?"

"The Selected seem like a wonderful group of qualified young men," Florence said calmly. "I trust that Imogen will make the right choice." The right choice? What did that even mean?

Theodore nodded. "When the time comes, I will be more than happy to welcome one of them to our family."

"Thank you, Your Majesties. Your Highness," Virginia turned back to Imogen, "do you have any last words you would like to say to the Selected?"

What could she say?

She directed her attention to the main camera. "This is the chance of a lifetime," she said, "so make the most of it while you can." Because soon, they would realize that this life was not all fun and games.

Did you enjoy having 19 bois thrown at you? Do you remember a single one? Me neither! Don't worry, you're not alone! (The number of times I said "eyes" in this chapter, bleghhhh. Except for Connor. You only have yourself to blame, Llama.)

Welcome to the C-lection, folks. Enjoy your stay. *sobbing in the corner*

This chapter is just a very, very brief introduction to the selected, and there will be lots more opportunities later on for you to get to know them, woohoo. The few sentences used to describe your character here definitely are not indicative of the role they'll play in the story. For now, these are first impressions, and as we know, first impressions can be unreliable ;)

Let me know your thoughts on this chapter. What are your thoughts on Vasilios? The Selected? Any bois you might be interested in seeing more of, based on the snippets in this chapter? Hope you enjoyed!

Until next time,

—Crysa