Page 16 of Now Their Starlet

Stuart has continued to drop off my meals twice a day, but he’s even less chatty than before. I’ve taken to talking at him, rather than trying to ask him anything of substance, just to soothe the stir-crazy part of my brain.

I only know it’s been four days—so eleven day’s total—because I’ve been counting them like a prisoner, using an eyebrow pencil to write on a spare receipt left in one of the garment bags for my new wardrobe.

I’m lying, spread-eagled on my bed, in my silk robe like a slob. It’s the only piece of clothing that’s comfortable enough to lounge around in, other than my old high school gym outfit.

It’s also thin enough that I’m freezing. It’s almost like I’ve been cold for days now, even under the duvet. I used to run hot enough that Ezra called me a furnace back in high school. I don’t know what to make of my body, now that it’s seemingly forgotten how to keep itself warm.

I’ve already made my way through all the books in my room and I’m going to have to start re-reading them if I want any sort of entertainment.

I don’t think I’ve lacked stimulation this much since I first got my iPod touch when I was six.

I prop myself up onto my elbows when the click of the lock echoes through the silent room.

Ah, shit.

In walks Gina, with a level of energy I can’t mimic. She sweeps into the room, a cloud of judgment wafting off of her.

I scan her, trying to find any hint of injury underneath the pair of flowy, wide-legged slacks or matching high-necked blouse she’s wearing. She always wears high-necked styles, very off-trend for any omegas these days, because of the dark scars on her neck; a reminder of her chemical unbonding to my father. I find none. Not even a wrist brace, and I know she was cradling her left wrist the last time I saw her.

Was she faking the severity of her injuries? Possibly.

Considering this wasn’t the first time she’s thrown herself down the stairs, maybe she knows how to take a fall. It’s such a ridiculous skill set, the thought nearly has me snorting out an undignified laugh.

She doesn’t have a normal omega perfume, her wine scent is normally sour and acrid, even when she’s in a good mood. It’s been that way since the unbonding. She tries to mimic the normal sweetness of omega perfume with lots of layered, sweet body oils and scented products, but none of it can truly replicate the dynamic nature of an omega scent.

The amount of cloying, overwhelming, clashing scents wafting off of her only means one thing.

We have guests.

“Andromeda,” Gina says, her eyes scanning over me like a harsh professor grading a failing paper.

“Mom,” I say, my voice low as I push myself up to sitting.

There’s so much more I want to say.

I want to yell, want to scream. Want to tackle her to the floor and shake her bony shoulders and demand my freedom.

But I don’t.

Because I wouldn’t put it past her to use whatever reactions I have against me. If I do something crazy, will she use it to justify keeping me confined here like a prisoner for the rest of her life?

“Don’t talk back to me,” she huffs, immediately moving to my closet. “You should get dressed. We have guests, and we need to prepare for tonight.”

Bingo. There are guests downstairs.

“Who’s here?”

“Jonathan and Ezra,” Gina says, her voice muffled. The metal hooks of the hangers scrape against the wood as she rifles through the options there.

Dread gnaws low in my gut, creeping its way up my body until it’s pressing against my lungs. It’s getting hard to breathe. Maybe I should take a page out of Ezra’s book and start doing those breathing exercises his therapist must have taught him.

It’s not the same sort of dread that I would’ve felt if Ezra and I hadn’t had that pseudo heart-to-heart the other day, but the mention of having something to prepare for tonight makes me uneasy.

Is this it? Is this where I’m going to be paraded around by Ezra for all the hungry paparazzi to descend upon, ready for their next big headline stories?

“Here, this will make you presentable,” Gina says, emerging from the closet with a white sundress. It’s a basic thing, with thin straps and a square neckline. The fabric is of high quality, enough that it holds its shape, even on the hanger. “Jonathan wishes to discuss the details of tonight’s event.”

“And what exactly is tonight’s event?” I ask, eyeing the dress like it’ll jump off the hanger and suffocate me.