Page 18 of Now Their Starlet

Gina makes her way down the stairs first, but I pause, gripping the banister. I’ll never be able to look at stairs the same way again. If I threw myself down these steps and took a page out of Gina’s book, would that change anything?

No, it wouldn’t. It would only make me look insane.

And even though I feel halfway there, after my solitary confinement, I have more self-preservation than that. In a space where I can only truly rely on myself, I need to keep my wits about me.

How was Dad able to do it? Stay in that house all these years when there’re probably memories everywhere of Gina. How was he able to walk up and down those stairs every day knowing that this was the place that Gina sealed both their fates by doing something so absurd, something no one could think she would do to herself, and that he was blamed for it?

Because if I had the chance, I’d run from Gina’s home and this staircase at the first opportunity.

“Andromeda, come.” Gina’s voice is sharp as she looks up at me, already two-thirds of the way down the stairs.

She’s ordering me around like a fucking dog.

I mean, that’s basically what I am. A pet, an accessory for her to use, with no rights or freewill. She dictates where I sleep, what I wear, what I eat, whether I’m allowed to leave the house or not.

Sound comes rushing back in as I refocus on the situation at hand. There are voices coming from downstairs. A lot of them, from the sound of things. Multiple teams? Probably, if the Fletchers are here.

I take a breath, the hairs on the back of my neck prickling at the feel of the large alpha looming behind me. He’s within arm’s length, which feels far too close for comfort. I’m sure his official instructions are to “keep me safe” or whatever that private company he works for allows, but right now it just feels like he’s my jailor.

When I make it downstairs and to the open-concept living room and dining area, I can feel a whole bunch of eyes on me. The sensation is foreign and unfamiliar after so many days of confinement. Same with the clashing mix of everyone’s scents. It’s like my nose has become hypersensitive with the only perfume present in that room being mine.

I recognize some of the faces and scents. Stuart’s barely there red-onion, duller compared to the more overwhelming scents in the room. Camille’s artificially sweetened beta scent, carrying the same synthetic aftertaste as Gina’s, though less extreme. At least she uses the stuff in moderation.

Even though she’s one of those beta women who are jealous of omegas, especially omegas they deem aren’t worthy of their designation, she still knows that she’s not one. Gina, on the other hand, doesn’t have that sort of restraint.

My gaze drifts to the other side of the room. It’s far busier, with a handful of publicists and assistants running around at Jonathan Fletcher’s beck and call. He’s speaking with his publicist—I recognize the man from the few of Ezra’s events he’s tagged along to, most notably the Grammys a few months ago—his massive arms crossed over his chest.

He’s an imposing figure, at 6’5” with expertly coiffed dark brown hair that I know he must get dyed at his age. His eyes are a lighter green than Ezra’s, who gets his eyes from his mom.

Ezra doesn’t talk a lot about his mom. Probably because there’s not a lot to talk about. She’s kind of an empty shell of a woman. I’m pretty sure she drinks at least a bottle of wine a day, and I know for certain she’s on a Xanax prescription that keeps her higher than the moon most of the time. I’ve only met her a handful of times throughout the years that Ezra and I were together, because even when I’d visit his place, she’d make herself scarce.

Not that I went over to his place very often. To be honest, when we were dating throughout high school, we’d use each other as an excuse to get out of the house as much as possible.

Ezra is currently slumped in one of the overstuffed armchairs in the living room, his Bluetooth earbuds blasting away in his ears as he stares down at his phone.

It’s Jonathan who notices my entrance first.

“Ah, finally,” he huffs, as if I’ve kept him waiting for hours.

His gaze rakes over me appraisingly. I hate the way his gaze feels on my skin—just as tangible as touch—far more than I hate Gina for treating me like a pet or a possession, because Jonathan Fletcher seems to view me as meat on the auction hall chopping block.

I don’t think he even registers me as a living being.

I wonder if I’d be able to grab someone’s phone and run to a bathroom or something before the big alpha orderly manages to catch me. Probably not.

And even if I were able to manage that, who would I even call for help? It’s not like I can call the police and say, “help! I’ve been kidnapped!” because this doesn’t count as that. From my understanding, even if I managed to make it out of this house and run away, the police wouldn’t be of any use to me. They’d just bring me right back here and then I’d be even more screwed.

I’d want to call the guys. Everett would know what to do, right? Eli would come busting down the doors if he could. Leo would do or say something I never would’ve come up with on my own. Beck would tell me everything would be alright, and I’d believe it if he said it. Hell, even Cameron would do something, right? He’d write a scathing expose piece if I told him the shit Gina is doing to me.

But I don’t know any of their numbers.

Who memorizes phone numbers these days? Plus, realistically, how much would they actually be able to help?

“She needs a wax and a tan,” Jonathan says, turning to what feels like a crowd of people in my mom’s home, who instantly start typing away on their tablets.

A wax? Seriously? I mean, sure, I haven’t shaved in a week and a half since I’ve been locked away, but was the guy actually staring at my exposed legs long enough to notice?

“We will have to time things when it comes to the dress fitting, since it seems it... needs more attention than previously anticipated,” he continues.