Page 44 of Now Their Starlet

I’m far more used to almond-shaped extensions, or maybe stiletto if it’s for a shoot.

I’m not even sure why Gina chose this design for me. Is it because after the past month of being stuck here, my hands need something bulkier to make them look like I’m not withering away?

Maybe.

Ezra looks down at me, something complicated crossing his expression.

“Are you sure you’re okay?” I murmur softly.

His gaze cuts towards Stuart again, and I’m struck with the feeling that whatever Ezra wants to say, he wants to say it in private.

“Yeah. ‘m fine,” he mutters, running a hand through his gelled-up hair.

When we leave my prison cell together, there’s a new alpha stationed at the top of the stairs. Not one of the two who dragged me up here that first day, but someone just as broad with that unnerving professional stare that makes my skin crawl.

“Who’s that?” I ask, nodding towards the landing.

“Additional security for the event,” Gina says, like she’s commenting on the weather.

That would explain why he’s wearing a suit instead of those uniforms the others were wearing.

“There was some concern about… lapses. During the last event,” Stuart comments, following us like some evil specter.

My stomach drops straight through the floor.

Lapses?

I keep my face carefully blank, the way I’ve had to keep it blank my entire life on camera. They can’t possibly know about that voicemail, they wouldn’t be letting me see the light of day if they did. They might suspect I did something,though, especially with Beck’s music video, but they can’t know for certain that I actually managed to leave Cameron a voicemail.

“Didn’t realize I was that much of a security risk,” I say, aiming for dry instead of terrified.

“You’re not,” Gina says with an offhanded wave, as if the thought that I’d do something rebellious doesn’t even register as a possibility. “We are simply being thorough. Your safety is our highest priority.”

Thorough… Right.

The new additional set of eyes on me doesn’t help with the deep, foreboding sense of unease as we head downstairs.

The SUV with tinted windows is waiting for us in the garage, probably to avoid the possibility of any paparazzi taking photos of us outside the house—because of course everything has to be carefully curated.

Ezra’s fingertips drum against his knees as he folds himself up into the back row of the SUV with me. He stares silently out the window, his jaw working the entire time.

It’s a little scary, maybe it’s because I’m essentially in the same dress as the night he assaulted me. The reminder of that night presses in along the edges of my mind the same way the corset digs into my skin.

But his anxious, agitated finger-drumming is so different from the rhythmic taps he’s used to count his deep breathing exercises. His coffee scent is bitter, tinged with his irritation.

I’m sure my own chamomile scent is reacting to his, my own stress evident.

I catch my reflection in the car’s tinted window before I remember to look away. I’ve been subconsciously avoiding any and all reflective surfaces. Probably for good reason.

For half a second, I don’t recognize the woman looking back at me. Her collarbones are cut too sharply against the neckline of the dress. Her eyes look like they belong to someone twenty years older.

That’s not me, is it?

“Andromeda, wipe that expression off your face before we get to the venue,” Stuart says, shooting a glance over his shoulder at me before returning to something on his tablet.

“What? Oh,” I shake my head, taking a deep, steadying breath and biting back the apology that was on the tip of my tongue.

That conniving beta doesn’t deserve my fucking apologies. I’m doing nothing wrong. This is just my face.