Page 122 of Knot Their Starlet

Fuck, I’d be the stupid bitch to die first in a horror movie.

CHAPTER 26

Cameron

“This is a fucking stupid idea,” I growl as I run a hand through my close-cropped, coily hair.

“Duly noted,” John, my boss, sighs, his deep voice booming through my car’s speakers as I weave through traffic a little more aggressively than I should. “But this piece you’re working on about male omegas will be so much stronger if you capitalize on the male omega.”

“But I shouldn’t be ambushing him at a club,” I snap. “That’s not my style, and you know it.”

“Well, I hate to be the bearer of bad news, but your style hasn’t been pulling the numbers it needs to be,” John sighs.

My steering wheel creaks as I fight to keep my temper under control.

“You mean my piece on child omega brides didn’t garner the attention it should’ve?”

“That’s exactly what I’m saying, Cameron.”

I fight to keep my breathing even as I remember sitting across the table from countless thirteen-year-old omegas, children who’d barely even presented, who were already the legal property of their future bondmates.

It exposes the problems present in foreign countries where this sort of thing is commonplace. Where young girls go into hiding when they hit pre-awakening so local village alphas don’t snatch them up.

That documentary was my best fucking work.

John knows it. I know it. Every humanitarian organization that watched it knows it.

But unfortunately, that’s where my audience ended.

“You know how news cycles are these days,” John sighs. “Attention is the most valuable resource out there, and everyone’s attention spans are shot. This male omega piece is an important one. You care about it, don’t you?”

“I do,” I bite out. “Which is exactly why I shouldn’t be stalking Beckham Knight to a club when he’s going for a night out.”

“Look, Cameron. I like you. You do excellent work. But if you don’t pull the right numbers for this piece, I’ll be frank with you: You’re shit out of luck. The network spent a lot of money on your recent piece, and they’re looking to recoup costs since it’s obvious it won’t perform at the level it needs to.”

The sound of John typing away at his keyboard echoes through my car.

He’s likely still at the office.

As much as I hate him right now for being the bearer of bad news, I respect him. He works his ass off.

Which is why I’m so fucking irritated at this terrible plan.

Because it is a terrible plan.

“I pulled some strings, so your name should be on the list to get you wherever you need to go in that club,” John adds.

“And what exactly am I supposed to do in there?” I bite out, stopping at a red light. “Snap pictures of them fucking unaware, like I’m no better than the paps outside?”

“If you have to.”

I close my eyes, fighting the urge to slam my head into the steering wheel. John is dead serious, too.

“Beckham Knight’s team is notoriously hard to book things with. He hasn’t booked a single interview, video, magazine or otherwise since his meteoric rise to stardom. Do you know how rare that is?”

“Of course I do,” I bite out.

Most celebrities are champing at the bit for opportunities like that, especially new and upcoming ones. Any opportunity at all to funnel views to whatever bullshit thing they need to further their career.