Chapter 101

Iris

My hair is swept into an elegant updo, not a strand out of place. My makeup is flawless but subdued, emphasizing my cheekbones and brightening my eyes without looking too dramatic. The dress is a conservative knee-length sheath in navy blue, with a matching blazer that nips in at the waist.

The stylist primps me one last time as we pull up to the venue. “Perfect. Very dignified.”

Dignified. Not creative, not unique, not artistic. Just... dignified. Like I’m attending a funeral for my personality.

“The shoes pinch,” I say, shifting uncomfortably in the nude pumps they’ve squeezed me into. I’m used to flats or boots, not these three-and-a-half-inch torture devices.

“Beauty is pain,” the stylist replies with a shrug. “You’ll get used to them.”

I’m not sure I want to get used to them. Or to the heavy pearl earrings weighing down my earlobes, or the insanely tight shapewear squeezing my ribs, or the false eyelashes.

The studio is in a sleek high-rise downtown. Arthur is waiting for me by the door, handsome as always in an impeccable designer suit, although he’s wearing a baseball hat and sunglasses to protect his identity.

There’s no time for greetings as we’re ushered inside, but once the doors are shut behind us, Arthur removes his disguise and turns to me with a soft smile.

“You look beautiful,” he murmurs as I remove my own disguise—a silk scarf around my hair and a huge pair of sunglasses. He moves to peck me on the cheek, but the stylist growls behind me, and he pulls away. Can’t ruin the makeup, of course.

I do feel beautiful, I have to admit. Just… incredibly uncomfortable and not like myself at all.

The photoshoot is set up on the top floor. As soon as we step off the elevator, a woman in a severe black pantsuit approaches us.

“Alpha President,” she says, nodding respectfully to Arthur before turning to me. “And you must be Iris. I’m Vivian, head of PR for the Presidential Office.”

I extend my hand. “Nice to meet you.”

Vivian’s handshake is brief and businesslike. She then circles me slowly, taking in every detail of my appearance.

“The dress is a good choice,” she says to the stylist, who’s hovering nearby. “Conservative but flattering. But there’s a bit of shine on your nose.”

“I knew I should have gone with the matte primer,” the stylist mutters, digging through her kit for powder.

I stand there, passive as a doll, while they fuss over me. Arthur has been pulled away, and the lack of his presence at my side makes me feel even more vulnerable.

Once we’re ready, the photographer positions Arthur and me in front of a neutral backdrop, instructing us on how to pose. It sounds simple, but somehow I keep getting it wrong.

“No, no,” the photographer sighs after the fifth attempt. “Your shoulders are tense. You need to look natural, like you’re comfortable with the Alpha President.”

“I am comfortable with him—”

“Let’s try a different pose. Alpha President, put your arm around her waist. Iris, lean into him slightly. Yes, like that. Now, both of you look toward me. Alpha President, chin up. Iris, chin down. No, not that much down. Just a subtle—yes, there. Now smile. No, that’s too forced. Relax your mouth a bit. There we go.”

On and on it goes. Stand here. Look there. Smile more. Smile less. Touch his arm. Don’t touch his arm. Tilt your head. No, the other way. Suck in. Shoulders back.

Be different.

By the time the photoshoot is done, my body aches and I feel like I’m going to cry just from sheer exhaustion. And I’m pretty sure the photographer hates my guts.

Thankfully, the interview is set up in a different part of the studio, with comfortable-looking armchairs arranged around a coffee table. But of course I’m instructed not to lean back, to remain perched on the edge of the chair, legs crossed demurely at the ankles, hands just so, neck long…

Holy shit, I need a painkiller.

“So,” the interviewer begins, “the nation has been buzzing since your announcement, Alpha President. Tell us, how did you and Iris first meet?”

Arthur launches into the sanitized version of our history—meeting when we were younger, reconnecting years later, discovering Miles was his son. He leaves out the gritty details without batting an eye.

The interviewer takes notes, then turns to me. “And now you’re raising your son together. How has that transition been?”

“It’s been wonderful having Arthur in Miles’ life,” I manage. “Miles adores him.”

“I imagine it must be quite the adjustment, suddenly being thrust into the public eye as the Alpha President’s mate and the mother of his heir. How are you adapting to your new role?”

“I’m still figuring it out,” I admit. “It’s very different from my previous life.”

“Yes, I understand you were living quite anonymously before. And now you’re poised to become Luna of Ordan. Quite the change! What aspects of the role are you most looking forward to?”

“I, um, I’m taking things one day at a time right now.”

The interviewer’s smile doesn’t falter, but her hand jerks as she jots down my answer across the page. I’m pretty sure she’s changing my answer, because she’s writing a lot more than what I actually said. “And how do you see your relationship with the Alpha President evolving?” she asks. “Are there wedding bells in the future?”

Arthur smoothly steps in. “We’re focused on being a family right now. The formalities will come in due time.”

The interview continues in this vein for what feels like hours. She asks about our favorite activities as a couple, about how I’m decorating “our” home (I don’t correct her assumption that I’ve moved in with Arthur), about my fashion influences, about my thoughts on werewolf-human relations in Ordan.

Not once does she ask about my art. Not a single question about my career, my residency, my creative process. It’s as if that entire part of my identity simply doesn’t matter here.

By the time the interview wraps up, I feel like I’ll explode if I don’t get out of this damn dress.

I escape to the dressing room as soon as I can, where I immediately kick off the pinchy shoes and begin pulling pins from my hair. I scrub at my face with some makeup remover wipes, turning my skin red and angry.

When I chip one of the fake nails trying to unzip the back of my dress, I actually curse out loud.

“Need some help?” Arthur asks from the doorway.

I turn, feeling caught somehow. I can’t even speak. My throat is too tight, like the dress constricted my esophagus.

Sensing my discomfort as if it’s his own, Arthur steps into the room and closes the door behind him. He moves behind me, gently unzipping the dress. His fingers brush along my spine, cool and steady, so much unlike my own shaking hands. It’s soothing.

“I know today was a lot,” he says softly. “But it’ll get easier, I promise. You’re still finding your footing. It’s always like this at first.” He brushes his knuckles across my cheek. “And for what it’s worth, I think you did fantastic.”

I sigh, some of my frustration melting away as I look into his eyes. It’s hard to stay angry when he’s looking at me like that.

“I just wish I could be myself,” I say softly. “It feels like they’re trying to turn me into Selina.”

Arthur’s brow furrows. “No one is trying to turn you into Selina.”

“Really? Because I’m pretty sure this hairstyle came straight from her lookbook.” I gesture at the remains of my updo. “And don’t tell me she wouldn’t have aced that photoshoot and interview.”

“Selina was raised for it,” Arthur corrects me. “Trained since childhood to be the perfect political wife. I much prefer doing stuff like this with you than her, even if you’re not great at posing.”

I can’t help but snort, even though the memory of the photographer’s ire makes me shudder.

“How about this,” Arthur says, his arms encircling my waist. “Let me take you out. On a real date. Just the two of us.”

Despite everything, I feel a small smile tugging at my lips. “A date? Where?”

“It’s a surprise,” he says with a cheeky grin. “Just be ready tomorrow at eight.”