Page 9 of Now Their Starlet

His eyes dart to meet mine in the doorway for a split second before he averts his gaze, keeping it locked on the floor, respectfully.

It is long enough for me to see his eyes are clear—and he’s not twitchy. This is the most still I’ve seen him in a very long time, and not necessarily because of the drugs either. He’s always had a big personality. Probably because in order to feel like someone important within the massive shadow of his father, he had to make a lot of noise to get any sort of attention.

But in the privacy of my childhood bedroom, without the substances he abused pumping through his system, he’s finally still.

“Well, this situation sucks,” he says, finally breaking the silence.

“Yeah,” I agree, the single syllable leaving my lips on an exhausted exhale. He’s not wrong.

I should tell him to leave. To get the fuck out.

But I don’t.

Because there’s a stupid, needy part of me that needs someone else to be a witness to this shit-show. To see what’s happening to me because I know the moment Gina Sterling starts letting me outside that the only thing the world will see of me is Andromeda Sterling, the perfect bitchy nepo-baby princess my mom wants to showcase. Not the real me. Not Andi.

And unfortunately, the first person to acknowledge that this situation sucks is Ezra. Despite our past, despite the fact that he hurt me, his acknowledgment still means something to me.

“Turn the fuck around, I’m not giving you a show,” I bite out, proud when my voice doesn’t waver. “I have to get dressed.”

He turns without protest, walking over to the window and staring out of it.

It overlooks the carefully manicured backyard. A space Gina makes sure is spotless because she often does confessionals for her reality TV show, The Real Omegas of Beverly Hills, by the pool.

Clutching the rough and uncomfortable towel tighter to my body, my feet pad over the spotless carpet to the walk-in closet. I start digging through hangers and looking through the clothing.

I don’t know why I’m even looking, like something in the pile Camille brought over will magically be my size.

This should be considered a torture method.

Though Gina probably doesn’t view this as torture at all.

Knowing her, she thinks she’s helping me with the carefully curated meals and the new wardrobe.

I let out a strangled sound of frustration that I can’t hold back no matter how hard I try.

“Everything okay in there?” Ezra asks.

I whirl around, my eyes narrowing, but Ezra is still staring out the window.

He hasn’t turned around.

The raw anger at the situation sputters out into a duller frustration.

Crazy to think that Ezra, out of all the people in my life now, is the one to actually listen to me.

“All these clothes are a size or two too fuckin’ small,” I bite out, digging further into the closet and trying to see if there are any clothes from high school I left behind before moving.

My hands close on my high school’s old gym uniform, a pair of blue basketball shorts and a basic gray t-shirt when I hear a growl.

The noise cuts through the air, making me freeze. I want to slam the closet door shut and hide in there. I can’t handle any signs of anger from Ezra right now. Not after everything that happened between us. Not when we’re alone in here, and I know my mom would probably blame me if anything happened to me again.

My chamomile perfume, sharp and bitter with my terror, explodes out of me. Despite being in my closet, it still hits Ezra.

I know the moment he scents it, because his shoulders stiffen even further.

But the growl stops.

Knowing just how quickly his mood can change sometimes and not wanting to be caught off guard, I shove the shorts up my legs underneath the towel and the t-shirt over my head in record time.