Page 3 of Knot Their Starlet

God, I wish my mom’s stylist didn’t put me in this fucking dress. On top of being the most obnoxious thing in the world, the sequins on this dress make the fabric stiff and uncomfortable.

I feel suffocated. Stuck.

In this dress. In this godforsaken bathroom. In this relationship.

In my entire life if I’m being honest.

“I’m sure they didn’t mean anything by it, baby,” I murmur softly, trying to be the soothing omega presence he seems to need right now. “It’s not the end of the world. There’s always next year. I think it’s fantastic that you were even nominated in the first place! This is the Grammys!”

Wrong thing to fucking say.

The glare he cuts towards me is even sharper than the line of coke he just snorted.

“You don’t fucking get it, do you?” he snarls, slamming his fist into the marble countertop so hard it echoes through the bathroom. “You don’t get what it’s like living in my father’s shadow. Jonathan-fucking-Fletcher, the A-list actor whose projects turn to gold the moment his name graces the table.”

The thought of his father seems to send him further into his rage.

“That’s not fair,” I huff, standing straight despite my aching feet, when I see he’s leaning down to snort another line. “You know, if anyone would get what it’s like to live under the shadow of a parent, it’d be me. Stop it, Ezra, you’ve had enough for tonight.”

Maybe this is where I mess up.

I should’ve left the bathroom right then and there. Ezra’s a grown man. An alpha, at that. He can take care of himself.

But I don’t. I make my way to him. Like a lamb to the slaughterhouse.

Maybe this night was doomed from the moment it started.

Everything happens so quickly.

One moment, I’m standing next to him, reaching for his wrist to try to get him to stop, to look at me, to do anything other than the one thing I know will just make him feel even shittier later.

The next—his hands are wrapped around my throat.

I can’t breathe.

“Shut the fuck up!” he screams, spit flying from his lips and landing on my face.

I can’t fucking breathe.

The stiletto nails that took my nail artist three hours to perfect, claw desperately against his forearm.

It only serves to piss him off further.

I am a ragdoll. My brain bangs against the walls of my skull as he slams my head into the counter so hard I see white.

“Shut up, shut up, shut up!” he screams.

Slam.

“Why! This was my fucking chance!”

Slam.

I’m going to die.

“I was supposed to fucking win!”

Slam.