Page 155 of Knot Their Starlet

“Yes.” Everett nods.

The confirmation has my heartbeat picking up its pace.

Holy shit, is it going to be this easy?

“But we’re not just looking for a single interview. The scope of the... project we’d like to work on together is rather large.”

“Project?”

“Yes. Multiple written articles, interviews, and possibly a docuseries.”

I can’t hide my shock at his words. The elevator decides that’s the perfect time to arrive and the doors open with a ding.

The three of us entering the elevator gives me a few seconds to think.

John is going to shit his pants. Out of joy. This is huge.

I’m sure a project of this scope—one that’s guaranteed to have an audience, given the fact Beckham Knight has yet to do something like this before—will be green-lit the moment my proposal hits his desk.

But it begs the question.

Why me?

I don’t think I left the best impression last night. Hell, I don’t think you could even call the impression I left professional. So why are they asking me to be a part of such a big project?

Leo pulls out a keycard, scanning it before pressing the button for the penthouse apartment.

Damn. I knew Beckham Knight had to be doing well financially, but I guess being Hollywood’s newest heartthrob pays well. This house-call is certainly different from the ones I did for my last documentary.

“Well, wow,” I breathe out, sucking my lips between my teeth as the elevator doors shut behind me. “I’m... honored. But why me? Especially after the... events of last night.”

“Despite your... unsavory actions last night,” Leo says, speaking for the first time, “the team has agreed that your track record with other projects is a strong one.”

“We want better than the tabloids or media equivalents for the omegas involved,” Everett adds.

“Omegas?”

Omegas, plural?

“Yes, Beckham’s made the request himself that while he’s fine being the main focus, he wants to offer the opportunity to other omegas in the industry. You met one of them last night,” Everett says, looking at me meaningfully.

The elevator dings once more, opening directly into the penthouse.

Three sets of eyes land on me.

Elijah Castillo—Beckham’s manager and childhood friend, according to my research—stands with his massive arms crossed over his chest. There’s a fire in his gaze, like he’s prepared to start lobbing furniture at me if I make one wrong move.

He hovers behind Andromeda Sterling, who’s sitting, curled up on the couch next to Beckham.

My brows draw down.

Her eyes are red-rimmed and a little swollen, almost like she’s been crying.

A flash of concern and protectiveness sucker-punches me in the gut before I realize what’s happening. I shove them away, chalking them up to natural protective alpha instincts, and focus on cultivating the feeling of irritation at the sight of her.

Is she still upset about last night?

Did she cry, trying to convince Beckham’s team not to work with me?