Chapter Four

Meet-Cute or Not-Cute

Imogen knew this was the last moment of quiet she would have for a long time.

"Pass me another cookie," she said, holding out her plate to Eden. They were in Imogen's favorite parlor, savoring an afternoon of desserts before the Selection officially began.

Eden tossed a chocolate chip cookie onto her plate. "When are you meant to meet them again?"

"In thirty minutes." She wished the answer was never.

"Wow. Times passes quickly." Eden popped a macaron into her mouth. "Are you ready?"

"No."

"Knew you'd say that."

Imogen sighed. "I just don't want to meet them."

"It'll be fine." Eden nudged her. "It's normal to be nervous."

Imogen shook her head. "But that's the problem. I don't have a reason to be nervous. We spent the last week researching everything there is to know about them."

Indeed, the past few days had been dedicated to going over forms, memorizing names, and making notes on the Selected's possible allegiances. Imogen now knew that Vikram Sher was a jazz pianist and music student, that Aegon Westfall had a long list of ex-girlfriends, and that Vincent Carmichael was 6'2" and the tallest man in the Selection. She knew everything she needed to know.

Her only struggle should have been differentiating all the names that started with C, yet here she was, intimidated at the prospect of meeting the men.

"Hey, it's still normal," Eden said. "You're meeting these guys for the first time. First conversations are always nerve-racking!"

Not for me, Imogen thought, reflecting on all the times she'd made small talk with strangers. Shallow, insincere conversations had always been her specialty.

Maybe what scared her this time around was that the conversations mattered. She was expected to go beyond small talk. One of these men would become the next king consort. She had to make the right choice, starting from the first encounter.

Although I don't have a choice.

Eden seemed to notice her somber mood. She picked up the pack of flashcards resting on the table. "Pop quiz! Who works as an elementary school teacher?"

Imogen sighed but obliged her. "Sir Elias Newton."

"Whose parents are New Asian?"

"Sir James Zheng."

"Who comes from Sumner?"

"Uh…" That one was a tricky one. Imogen frowned. "Sir Charlie Vance-Austen?"

"Close. Sir Cedric DunBroch." Eden smiled. "See? You basically know all of the men already."

The rapid-fire questions did make Imogen feel a little better, but she couldn't rattle off their profiles to them in their first individual meetings. She would have to engage in actual conversation. And once that happened, she would officially be dating all of them. "I guess."

Eden's smile faltered. "Or is that not what you're worried about?"

Eden could read her emotions with terrifying accuracy, but Imogen was never going to tell her that. "What else would I be worried about?"

"Connecting with the Selected. Getting to know them." Eden's brown eyes were now filled with soft concern. "I know it's difficult after… what happened with August."

Imogen scoffed, reaching for another cookie. "It's fine. I just need to make sure none of them have shifty intentions."

"Not just that, Imogen. You'll be dating these men."

She stiffened. "The Selection isn't about love, anyways."

"So is your plan to ignore them? Pretend they're not there?"

"No, of course not. I'm willing to do whatever is necessary. But I'm not going to become attached." I'm not going to let myself get hurt again.

"Maybe making a friend or two might make the process more tolerable, though. You can't expect to be completely closed off to all of them and finish this anytime soon."

"I have Dillon." Now, more than ever, she was grateful that there was one man she didn't have to worry about dating.

"How are you going to treat the other thirty-four guys?"

She didn't have an answer to that. Being rude to them wasn't going to help her public ratings. However, she couldn't imagine being soft and gentle around them.

"Eden, I'm not doing this for love."

"I know, but people will expect the Selection to be about love—"

"Like Father and Queen Regina?"

Eden was silent, as expected.

"Look how well that turned out," Imogen said bitterly. "I'll be fine. I know what I'm doing."

Eden's face had Do you? written all over it. "I'm worried for you," she stated.

Imogen had heard that line too many times over the past few weeks, and it wasn't right. It should have been the other way around. She should have been concerned for her younger sister's wellbeing.

"Don't be." She sighed. "I'll do what I have to do."

Half an hour later, Imogen was escorted to the large sitting room on the first floor that had been designated as the Men's Room. A redheaded woman was pacing back and forth in front of the closed door.

"Rosemary?"

Her former governess caught sight of her and instantly enveloped her in a firm hug. "Imogen!"

Rosemary's embrace was warm and secure. Though Imogen could no longer burrow her head into Rosemary's shoulder like she used to as a short child, she still returned the hug tightly, closing her eyes and basking in the familiar feeling. "It's been so long," she whispered. "I'm glad you're back."

"Well, you're getting married," Rosemary responded, chuckling. "Of course, I had to come!" Imogen's face fell as she stepped back, which Rosemary noticed. "Everything okay?"

"Yeah. A lot happened while you were gone." Imogen laughed nervously. "Oh, I also want to hear about Europe!"

Rosemary nodded. "We will find a time to sit down and discuss everything," she promised. "But for now… I believe you have your thirty-five Selected to meet."

Imogen looked to the closed door reluctantly. "I guess…"

"Don't give me that long face," Rosemary said. "From the few minutes I have spent with them, they seem like a wonderful group of men. You will love them!"

That's what I'm worried about.

Imogen allowed herself to be pulled towards the Men's Room by Rosemary's firm grip. As the door opened, she came face-to-face with thirty-five men.

The Selected.

She barely registered the sound of the attendant announcing her arrival as her eyes darted around the room. She wanted to turn back and run out of the room, but Rosemary held onto her arm.

"Gentlemen, here is the lady of the hour," Rosemary introduced dramatically, "Princess Imogen!"

Imogen watched as the men bowed to her, some more practiced than others. She had no clue where she was supposed to look as her brain acknowledged the thirty-five men in front of her. Tall and short, blond and brunet, handsome and even more handsome. Some smiled at her; some expressions were impossible to read.

She wondered what she looked like in their eyes. Renee had chosen a casual dark red dress, but she had dressed it up with an ostentatious necklace. Of course, the real centerpiece of the outfit was her ruby tiara, glittering with silver and red gemstones.

It was one of her favorites, but it was also a reminder of who she was. She'd relax on the tiaras and glittery jewelry for the rest of the Selection, but the men needed to know who they were dealing with.

"Welcome to the palace," she greeted, trying to avoid direct eye contact with any of the men. She focused on Dillon, who looked completely at ease. "I am looking forward to meeting you all and spending time together over the next few months."

"The king and queen came by earlier to greet them, and I have explained the rules of the Selection," Rosemary said quietly to Imogen. "All that's left is for you to meet them."

Imogen gulped. It was time. She melted into a practiced smile and nodded.

"The princess will be in the parlor around the corner. There, you will have individual conversations," Rosemary explained to the men. "Please remember that we are operating under time constraints and that you must be on your best behavior."

When Rosemary finished talking, Imogen left the room. Officer Ortega joined her to escort her to the smaller parlor. "Would you like me to stay in the room with you, Your Highness?"

"Yes, please."

Officer Ortega nodded, taking her place in the corner of the parlor.

It was a small one that she had never used before. Light flooded in from an open window, and a grand piano sat in the corner. Two loveseats faced each other at the back of the room, with a coffee table in between. Imogen sat down on one of the couches, readjusting the silvery blue pillow behind her, and waited for the interviews.

The first Selected to walk in was tall and skinny, with warm skin and curly black hair—she was pretty sure his name was Charlie Vance-Austen. Then again, there were so many boys whose names began with C that she could have mixed them up.

He surveyed the room before his hooded brown eyes settled on her. "Good afternoon, Your Highness," he said. He appeared unbothered. Nothing to indicate that he was nervous, or excited, or stressed.

"Sir Charlie, is it?" Imogen asked. "How do you like the palace so far?"

"I wouldn't recommend starting conversations with that."

It was a simple statement. Not hostile, somewhat good-natured, very blunt. She probably should have been offended, but instead, she looked him over curiously. "Why not?"

"Well, the purpose of these conversations is to meet the Selected." Charlie shrugged. "Some of the men will start it for you; others won't. In the latter case, you want to find out what the men are really like. A generic question will only get you shallow answers."

His tone was purely analytical, in contrast to the way he leaned against the couch casually. She wasn't sure how to respond to his assessments. Should she be defensive, or accept that he was telling the truth?

In some way, it seemed like he was trying to help. "Then what do you suggest I do?"

"A simpler way is to ask about them: occupation, interests, anything of the sort. You keep the focus on them, rather than the palace. People generally enjoy talking about themselves."

"You haven't talked much about yourself," she pointed out.

He gave her a lazy smile. "That just means you can practice on me, if you would like to."

She tried to think of what she knew about him. "Alright. You're working towards a master's degree in biomedical engineering, right? Could you tell me a bit more about that?"

If Charlie was surprised that she remembered his occupation, he didn't show it. "Most of my research is in prosthetics. I want to create robotic prosthetics that imitate natural human movement more accurately. It would potentially improve many people's lives." The corners of his eyes crinkled. "See? Much better than, 'The palace is nice.'"

"Thank you." Surprisingly, she meant it. "I'll keep that in mind."

He dipped his head. "Always happy to help. Good luck with the rest."

The entire exchange puzzled her even after he left. He had given good advice, which she appreciated but hadn't expected. Charlie's approach hadn't been romantic at all. He was judgmental but in a surprisingly laidback way.

She had no idea what his intentions were, but she didn't mind that he had been the first to walk through the door.

Taking Charlie's advice, she tried to direct the conversation to the next few men, and it worked reasonably well. The most forward of the men was Colin Eaton, who was all too happy to tell her about his university accomplishments.

Vincent Carmichael entered the room next. His face was fairly serious as he bowed to her. "Your Highness." He stood tall—very tall—with a long coat draped over his gray suit; she wondered whether it was too hot for the palace's indoor temperatures.

"Pleased to meet you, Sir Vincent," she greeted.

"The pleasure's all mine." A corner of his mouth quirked upwards. "How are you doing on this fine day?"

Imogen glanced out the open window. "The weather is quite normal," she noted stiffly, not sure whether she'd call it fine. It was a mild, sunny day, with a slight breeze ruffling the curtains.

"I think this weather is beautiful," he declared, his eyes not leaving hers. "Some of the best pieces of art are not based on perfect weather, but the elegance of everyday life."

If he was trying to flatter her, she was not impressed. She remembered that Vincent was a museum curator. "Are you interested in art?"

"Very," he said. "Specifically paintings. But art in all its mediums fascinates me."

"I see." She also enjoyed visiting museums and admiring the pieces, but she wasn't very knowledgeable about art. "What's your favorite painting?"

"The Creation of Adam."

"Michelangelo? Interesting."

He raised an eyebrow delicately, looking impressed. "It seems you have some knowledge of art as well, Your Highness."

"Not really. Only the most famous pieces." Great, now he thought she was some art connoisseur. "Are you an artist yourself?"

"Not professionally. On occasion, I dabble in the arts. How about you, Your Highness?"

"I'm not very artistically inclined." That was putting it gently. She couldn't even draw a straight line. "Eden is the creative one of the family. She writes poetry, but never lets me read it."

Vincent nodded thoughtfully. "I suppose I can relate to that," he said. "Sometimes, our most honest selves are revealed through artistic expression."

Imogen made a mental note to stay away from any form of artistic expression. She glanced at the clock. "Our time appears to be up, Sir Vincent. Have a nice day."

Vincent bowed deeply. He turned—the ends of his coat swishing behind him with a dramatic flourish—and left the room.

After Vincent came Martel Vanderbilt, who was calm, well-mannered, and spoke with a beautiful French accent. Then it was Cedric DunBroch, who seemed kind of intense but was charismatic throughout their conversation. Elias Newton was flustered as he complimented Imogen on her dress, but he was friendly and enthusiastic despite her lackluster responses.

The next guy that poked his head through the door broke into a friendly smile as he saw of Imogen. "Hello, Your Highness!" He entered the room, a few inches shorter than her. Maybe even without heels. Despite his short frame, he filled out his dark green two-piece suit nicely.

However, as she took in his chocolate brown eyes, thin nose, and defined eyebrows, she realized who he was.

Asher Coulter. An A-list actor. Her shoulders stiffened as he beamed at her, completely unaware.

He was good at appearing friendly, she had to give him that. But she had no idea how much of it was an act. Considering his high profile, he might have been selected by one of the houses—after all, all of them knew her "preferences" based on her previous and only relationship.

She tried to keep the hostility out of her voice. "Sir Asher—"

"Oh, please call me Ash!" he interrupted.

Imogen's eyes narrowed. "Nice to meet you, Sir Asher. Tell me a bit about yourself," she said, trying to sound as nonchalant as possible.

Ash's smile slipped, but he recovered quickly, albeit with less confidence. Good. If he thought they would be calling each other by their nicknames in their first meeting, he had severely underestimated her. "Well, I'm an actor…"

Every word that came out of this man's mouth was vexing her.

"…so I love to act," Ash was saying. "I also love baking, especially cupcakes! And running, since I have to find a way to burn off the calories from the cupcakes."

Fine. If he wanted to put on an innocent act, she would play along. "What cupcake flavor is your favorite?"

Imagine if this guy becomes king—what a mature, intellectually stimulating conversation about cupcakes.

"There are so many great flavors," Ash said earnestly. "The only cupcakes I don't like are chocolate. But my favorite would have to be strawberry and vanilla—"

"Wait, wait." Imogen leaned forward in her chair, suddenly emotionally invested in this conversation. "Hold on. You don't like chocolate cupcakes?"

His nose wrinkled. "I'm not a big fan of chocolate."

How was everything in their conversation going so wrong? Was this possible?

"That's a shame," she commented, curious to see how he would react. Would he change his mind to make her happy? "I love chocolate."

Ash's eyebrows rose, and he shifted nervously. "Well… I'd be willing to bake chocolate cupcakes for you if you like them."

Then he smiled hopefully. How was he so nice?

He's an actor, said a small voice at the back of her mind. But surely, if he'd wanted to put on an act to win her over, he wouldn't have started talking about cupcakes, of all things. And the way he spoke so sincerely…

August also seemed so trustworthy at first, didn't he?

Imogen's face fell. "That would be nice," she said, quieter than before. She cleared her throat. "Well, I have to cut this conversation short. But there will be other opportunities to discuss those strawberry and vanilla cupcakes."

She was only giving him false hope. But Ash's eyes gleamed with excitement.

"Thank you for your time, Your Highness." He stood up. The elation on his face belonged to someone who had just won the lottery—or a tray of strawberry and vanilla cupcakes. "I look forward to that day."

He left the room before Imogen could question whether she'd accidentally talked her way into a one-on-one date already.

She would have to keep her guard up around Ash; his true nature could be revealed at any second. She steeled her face back into the careful politeness she had been going for as the next man appeared at the door.

"Good morning, Your Highness!" Caleb Faust's smile was just as bright as it had been in his photo. "Wait. Whoops. Good afternoon!" He bowed.

If the Selected couldn't tell the time, how were they expected to rule a country? Imogen hid her sigh. "Good afternoon, Sir Caleb."

His eyes gleamed. "You know my name?"

"I know everyone's name," she countered. "Sit down."

The words tumbled out before she could stop them, and she winced. She hadn't meant to sound that rude—only a little assertive. But Caleb took it well, settling onto the sofa. "That's impressive," he said. "I know I wouldn't be able to remember everyone's name that quickly. I can barely remember the names of all the animals."

Good thing you're not holding a Selection. This time, Imogen managed to keep her mouth shut. She didn't need any of the Selected running to the press to complain about her manners. Instead, she said, "The animals?"

"I help train animals for movies," Caleb said. "Or anybody who needs my services. So I end up working with a lot of animals. Sometimes it's hard to keep track!"

He laughed at himself, a sound that echoed through the room vibrantly. "What animals have you worked with?" she asked.

"All kinds." Caleb started counting on his fingers. "Cats, dogs, birds, even snakes and squirrels! What's your favorite animal, Your Highness?"

Imogen shrugged. "Maybe a cat?" She probably should have said a lion, considering it was on the Caswell sigil, but at least cats and lions were in the same family.

The female leopard shark can reproduce without a male through a process called parthenogenesis, piped a tiny voice at the back of her mind.

"I love all animals," Caleb declared, "but dogs are my favorite. I even have a husky called Bella! She's four years old, and she's the sweetest. I wish I could have brought her with me, but she's in Likely. She would've loved to meet you!"

"Your… dog? Wants to meet me?"

"Yeah! We watch the Report together."

That was… kind of sweet. Imogen pictured Caleb sitting in front of a television with a husky by his side.

Focus, Imogen. This is the Selection.

"I'm glad to hear that," she said, straightening. "I believe our time is over now, Sir Caleb. It was nice to meet you."

He nodded. "Okay! I'm so excited to get to know you better, Your Highness. I hope I can make you smile every day!"

Imogen winced. He sounded sincere, but she didn't want to give in to those cheesy lines so quickly.

None of the next few men, however, felt as genuine as Caleb. Some barely looked her in the eye as they rattled off monotone lines. She hoped they were going home. Couldn't they have tried to seem interested?

She broke into a relieved smile as a familiar figure took the seat. "Who are you?" she asked, feigning a look of surprise. "Have we met before?"

"Nope. I'm the princess of Illéa." Dillon dropped into a clumsy curtsy. "And you must be the devilishly handsome Sir Dillon I've heard so much about."

She scoffed. "You're not too bad-looking yourself, Your Highness."

He grinned, flopping onto the sofa. "How have the other conversations been? Painful? Is the social interaction already too much for you?"

"They've been going fine, thank you," Imogen countered. "What about on your end? How are the boys when they're not trying to impress me?"

"Man." He shook his head. "They kept on waxing poetic about you and your ethereal face. They stood together in a circle and chanted about your beautiful, caramel-colored orbs."

It wasn't until Dillon burst into raucous laughter that Imogen realized he was joking. "Very funny," she huffed. "Seriously. How are they treating you?"

He frowned. "Honestly? I think they hate me."

"What?" Dillon was a lot to handle, but… "Why?"

"This is a competition for your hand," Dillon said dryly. "I've gotten a lot closer to your hand than the other guys here. So they must view me as competition."

Imogen snorted. "Oh, they don't have to worry about that."

"Not just in the romance department," he added quickly. "The fact that my parents are nobles and work closely with the king and queen? They probably think the whole Selection is rigged in my favor."

"They're not wrong about the rigging part," she remarked. He nodded in agreement. "Other than that, though. Anything interesting?"

"Hmm… There's a guy who used to work at the palace." Dillon frowned. "I thought I'd be the only one with an advantage here, but he knows his way around just as well as I do. Pity."

"Emory Merrell?" Imogen asked. When he nodded, she bit her lip. "…I know him."

Dillon stared at her in disbelief. "Really? Since when were you all buddy-buddy with the servants?"

"Well, I used to know him." She looked out the window, catching sight of the flowers in the garden. "We were friends. But that was before I even turned twelve." She paused, turning back to him. "Why do you think he entered the Selection?"

He shrugged. "That's a question for him, not me."

"What about the other Selected?" she pressed on. "Any… suspicious behavior?"

This time, Dillon's eyes widened in realization. "You mean, boys that might have hidden agendas?" She nodded. "I've only spoken to them briefly, so I have no clue. Some are a lot quieter than others."

"You only find that suspicious because you never shut up," she pointed out.

He grinned. "Guilty as charged."

"But seriously, keep an eye out, alright?" Imogen said.

"Aye aye, captain." Dillon saluted and got to his feet. "Operation Spy-On-The-Selected starts now."

"Wait—"

But Dillon was already halfway out the door. Imogen sighed, hoping Dillon wouldn't do anything stupid. Any information he could uncover would be valuable.

Her happiness from seeing Dillon dissipated as the next Selected came through the door with a confident smirk plastered onto his face.

Aegon Westfall. Her brain hurled the facts at her. One of the many children in the Westfall family. Notorious playboy.

Researching Aegon's past had presented her with an overwhelming number of articles detailing his past flings. Was she merely the next in a long string of conquests?

"Sir Aegon."

"It's a pleasure to meet you, Your Highness." Aegon leaned back on the sofa, propping one leg over the other. "I must say, you look gorgeous today."

Flattery? Really? "You're not the first to say that," she said, feigning disinterest.

"Believe me, Your Highness, "and he winked, "I wouldn't say it if I didn't mean it. The red does wonders for your eyes."

"Thank you for affirming my fashion choices," she said dryly. He shrugged his shoulders. "I'll pass the message onto my maid. Anything else?"

Aegon's smirk stayed put on his—unfairly handsome—face. "Did you treat the rest of your suitors like this?"

She stiffened. "That's not for you to know."

"Fair enough. In that case, Your Highness, I hope you don't see me as just one of them." He dragged out the words dramatically.

"Oh? What about you makes you so special?"

"The obvious reason is that I'm attractive."

She raised an eyebrow. "Is that it?"

"You wound me, Your Highness. At least I know that you will not deny my attractiveness." He winked again. She opened her mouth to protest, but was cut off. "Additionally, I come from a great background. Arguably one of the best in this batch."

"Ah, yes." That reminded her of some interesting information she had stumbled upon during her research. "Doesn't the Westfall family have a unique inheritance tradition?"

Aegon's jaw tightened just the slightest bit, but he ignored her remark. "And finally…"

His blue eyes bore into hers. The mischievous twinkle was gone, replaced by something akin to being earnest. "You can always count on me to be one-hundred percent honest with you. I promise."

Those familiar words sent a shiver down Imogen's spine.

"That's a big promise for a first conversation, Sir Aegon."

Just like that, the smirk was back. Aegon stood. "Then you'll just have to keep me around to see whether I can keep it." He winked. "Catch you later, Princess."

Aegon's boldness was followed by a much quieter—and much shorter—figure. He paused by the door, hesitating to come in. "Your Highness." He bowed.

Emory Merrell's voice had grown a lot deeper. But the loose brown-blonde curls atop his head hadn't changed a bit.

Imogen bit her lip. "It's been a while."

"I wasn't sure if you remembered me…"

"Years of friendship aren't forgotten that easily."

It was the truth. Emory had been one of her closest—and only—childhood friends. But after ten years of no contact? The memories remained, but she doubted anything else was still there.

"You're right." He took a deep breath. "I never forgot about you, even after I left the palace."

Imogen bristled at the memory. "You never gave me an explanation. You just left. All I had was a goodbye note," she pointed out. Her voice softened. "Why?"

Suddenly, she was twelve years old again, finding a ripped piece of paper on their bench and nothing else. No sign of the boy she'd befriended.

Emory was quiet. "I'm not sure if I'm ready to talk about it. But I promise it wasn't my choice."

There was a concerning number of promises being thrown around today. But unlike Aegon's, which had been uttered in their very first conversation, Emory's stemmed from a much longer history.

A question remained. "Then… why did you enter the Selection?"

"Imogen, it's been ten years. Every time I think about my time at the palace, I remember the kind princess who used to play with me in the gardens."

But she was no longer that kind princess.

"I'm a completely different person from who I was back then. You are too. So, to be honest… I'm not sure what you expect from me."

"I just want a chance to reconnect with my old best friend."

"But I don't know you," she said.

Hurt flashed in his eyes. "You don't know any of the Selected either. Why am I different?"

She stayed silent.

"If that's what you want, Imogen, I understand." He lowered his head, his voice quiet but steady. "I knew coming here was a long shot. I respect your decision.

He stood up to leave, but she held out a hand to stop him. "No, wait. Emory." When he looked at her hopefully, she took a deep breath. "I'll give you a chance."

"Really?" He sounded like he could scarcely believe her words. She couldn't either. Despite what she thought of him, Emory could be going home the next day. But all he was asking for was another chance, and she didn't want to deny him that.

After all, they had been friends once.

"Yes. But things won't be the same as before."

"I understand. So… is this a fresh start?"

She nodded.

"Then I'll take it. Thank you so much, Imogen."

Noticing the use of her first name, she swallowed hard. "I don't think you should call me that, Sir Emory."

"Of course." He bowed. "Then I look forward to getting to know you… Your Highness."

He left the room quietly, so different from the bright ball of energy that Imogen had once known. But perhaps it was to be expected. They had both changed. Maybe time would bring their former selves back.

Two of the men that came after Emory were composed and collected. Though Imogen had been suspicious of the Selected from Yukon, Cade Summersgill was confident and good-humored, if not somewhat stiff. Then came Quentin Tran, who spent his time introducing the non-profit he'd founded that took care of queer youth. However, she was still debating with herself about her decision to give Emory a second chance, and many of the other men barely left an impression.

Though not quite as tall as Vincent, Tobias Wanewright was one of the lankier men. As he stood in the doorway with an indecipherable look on his pale face, Imogen felt almost intimidated.

He eyed Officer Ortega, still standing alert in the corner, before bowing to Imogen. "Your Highness."

"Sir Tobias," she greeted.

Uncertainty crossed his face. "I go by my middle name. Bailey." His voice had a heavy accent—distinctly European, but not quite the same as Martel Vanderbilt's French accent from earlier. Bailey's accent sounded Eastern European, though she wasn't sure from where exactly.

"I see. In that case, nice to meet you, Sir Bailey." His form hadn't mentioned anything about going by Bailey, or about being European. Interesting. All she remembered was his occupation. "You are a businessman, right?"

He nodded, but said nothing.

It looked like she would once again be steering the conversation. The things she did for this country. "What kind of business are you involved in?"

"All sorts. Mainly renewable energy."

Renewable energy—House Beaufort's area of specialization. He was from Sota, too, where the Beaufort Estate was located.

There was no way this was coincidental. He was a Beaufort pick; she was sure of it.

"Have you worked with the Beauforts before?"

"Yes."

That had been more direct than she was expecting. After all, unless this man was truly oblivious, he must have known he was rigged in. Or maybe he didn't care.

Seeing the look on her face, Bailey continued. "I'm a business associate of the Beauforts, but that is not why I signed up for the Selection." For the first time in their conversation, the corners of his mouth turned upward. "I'm here for new… Uh…" He muttered something in a foreign language under his breath.

"Experiences?" Imogen suggested.

"Yes." Bailey pulled at his collar. "My apologies. My English is still shaky," he said sheepishly.

He seemed nervous—his spoken English had been impeccable up until he had faltered. Maybe his nerves were indeed getting the better of him. "Understandable. Where are you originally from?"

"Poland." His face hardened. "I prefer to focus on the present. I came to Illéa for a fresh start."

It was a mysterious answer, but she would take it. He was a Beaufort pick; she would have plenty of other opportunities to find out more about him. She was curious as to what House Beaufort, who usually seemed far more interested in their own economic ventures than the country's politics, wanted out of the Selection. Perhaps they had struck a deal with some business partners, and Bailey was somehow involved?

She wouldn't be getting the answer today. "The Selection is definitely a fresh start."

"It is."

She managed to ask a few more questions, but his responses were all relatively vague, and he didn't elaborate further. However, he wouldn't be on the list of eliminated men set forth by the Council. Some part of her also wanted to learn more about him.

He rose to his feet at the end of his meeting. "Have a nice day, Your Highness."

"You too, Sir Bailey." As they were no longer eye level, her attention was drawn to his hands. His knuckles looked somewhat scuffed underneath the smooth sleeves of his suit, as if the skin on them had just recently healed.

The men that came after Bailey were also surprisingly quiet. Vikram Sher had been friendlier, but she was mostly amused by how his eyes had instantly been drawn to the piano in the corner when he had entered. Andres Porter had been serious and cold, though considering his distinguished family background, he could have been specially picked like Bailey. Then there was James Zheng, who had seemed calm but slightly distant during the whole conversation.

She instantly recognized Jack Mercatura—not from his short stature or gelled black hair, but from the scars that ran down the left side of his face. He strode into the room with a sense of purpose and sat down, clasping his hands together. "Good afternoon, Your Highness."

"Sir Jack. Nice to meet you." She tore her eyes away from his scars, trying to focus on his eyes. They were dark brown in color and staring at her curiously. However, nothing about his physical appearance was particularly eye-catching, and her attention wandered back. She followed the network of scars past his left eye and down to his cheek, unable to help but wonder how he'd gotten them. "Tell me about yourself."

"Okay." He paused. "What should I talk about?"

"Anything. Do you have any interests?"

He nodded vigorously. "Oh, yeah. I've been really interested in cookery recently!" His words tumbled out quickly but were comprehensible.

Now that he mentioned it, the occupation written on his form came back to her. She could not have guessed it from his scars. Or maybe cooking was more treacherous than she had expected. "You work as a line cook, right?"

"Yep, spice station at Le Petit Lapin. You could say I'm a seasoned pro at spicing things up." When Imogen gave him a blank look, he cleared his throat. "Do you like to cook, Your Highness?"

"I don't get a lot of opportunities to do so." She couldn't remember the last time she had stepped foot in the kitchen. It had definitely been over a year.

"That makes sense. Well, the food here is great! Lunch was delicious."

Are you here for the food? "I recommend the eggplant parmesan if you get the chance."

"Wow, that sounds tasty. I hope I can try that someday."

Right. Not all of the men were going to stay for very long.

So far, though, Jack hadn't committed any unforgivable sins. It wasn't the deepest of conversations, but food was something she could talk about easily. She could almost pretend she wasn't romancing him and was merely conversing with a random stranger.

If luck—and by that, she meant the noble's approval—was on his side, he might make it to the next day.

"What's your favorite food, then?" she asked.

"Anchovy pizza. It's not very fancy-schmancy, but it's so good."

"I see. I have not tried that." She wasn't particularly sure she wanted to.

"What about you, Your Highness?" This was the second conversation where food had been brought up. She was getting off to a great start.

"I can't decide. I may have to get back to you on that one."

He grinned. "Then, I look forward to the next thyme we meet." Then, a cough. "I mean, time, not the plant."

Imogen tilted her head to the side. "You seem pretty sure there'll be a next time, Sir Jack."

"Just trying to extend the olive branch, Your Highness."

His puns were terrible, but at least they weren't cheesy pick-up lines. She almost forgot she was having a Selection. This guy was going to get along with Dillon, she could already tell.

Jack stood up, but when she expected him to bow again, he held out his hand for a handshake. She took it. His grip was surprisingly solid. "Thank you for your time, Your Highness." He shook her hand enthusiastically. "Good luck with the rest of your conversations."

After Jack, only three men were left. The only memorable one was Connor Clarington, who seemed surprisingly down-to-earth despite what Imogen knew about his background. His family's company, Clarington Motor Corps, hadn't even been brought up. Instead, he had injected several jokes into the conversation, helping her end the interviews on a high note.

Nevertheless, by the time he left, Imogen wanted nothing more than to take a nice nap. However, as she arrived outside her room, she saw Theodore standing outside the door.

"Are you getting ready for dinner?"

A glance at the clock in the hallway told Imogen that it was indeed closer to dinner than she'd expected. The interviews had taken up a lot of time.

"Yes," she said, banishing any thoughts of a nap to the back of her mind.

He handed her a rolled-up piece of paper, tied together with a ribbon. "This is the Council's list."

"For what?" However, as Imogen took the paper, feeling the weight of it in her hands, she already knew.

"The first elimination." Her father gestured to the paper. "You will eliminate those men tomorrow at the end of breakfast. We expect your first date to be tomorrow."

So soon? "Will there be cameras?"

"Yes. A full film crew will be there. Someone will contact you in the morning, letting you know who we have chosen."

Because Imogen obviously couldn't be trusted to choose her own first date. "Okay." She waited for her father to say something else. To ask her about the meetings, or give her advice about the Selection, or tell her his opinions on the men so far.

He walked away.

She sighed, turning around and entering her room. After hitting the light switch, she sat down at her desk and slipped off the ribbon. The paper unfurled in her hands.

Twelve names. Twelve men were going home after breakfast.

"something"

Hi all! A slightly earlier update than I intended, but it's already Saturday where I live so we're rolling with it. Hope you all enjoy. Happy May!

If you've created a Pinterest board for your boi, feel free to invite me! My Pinterest username is rysaspirit (same as FF), where you can also find a group board for FG. If you submitted a character and want to join that, let me know!

Obviously, in this chapter, we only got to meet a few of the guys. For the ones who did not get a lot of "screentime" in this interaction, I've made sure to include more one-on-one interactions with them, whether it's through a date or some other encounter, in the next few chapters! My goal is to give all the characters some spotlight time until we're at least somewhat familiar with all of them (and can tell apart the CCCCCClub a bit better).

Until next time!

—Rysa