Page 63 of Knot Their Starlet

Andromeda

Maybe I should’ve just let Camille, the stylist, help me pick out tonight’s outfit. Sure, I’d run the risk of her putting me in something ridiculously uncomfortable, but it’s her job to make me look good.

And nothing I put on looks good.

I swear, half my closet is precariously balanced on the plush velvet stool in front of my antique vanity that I got from a thrift store the month after I first moved in.

I did something I know I shouldn’t do. I checked my social media comments.

I used to enjoy interacting with people who commented on my posts or vlogs. It was fun and casual. Sure, there was the occasional hater, but everyone with an online presence has those.

But recently? My comment sections have been bloodthirsty. And they’re out for my blood.

I can’t believe how fast she moved on from Ezra. She seriously gets around.

She’s a total gold digger.

Literally, what is she wearing?

The pictures the paparazzi take tonight will circulate like wildfire through parts of the internet I know will tear me apart. It’s how this sort of internet culture works. I’m certainly not new to the way public perception turns into a beast on its own, propelling you to stardom, exploding you into controversy, or, worst of all, sinking you down into irrelevancy.

No one, other than those who’ve established themselves as the cream of the crop of a group of people always hungry for more, can escape this sort of fate. This applies to people who are in more talent-based industries than I’m in now. I’m more than aware that the world views me as a nepo-baby influencer, but the status that gives me lets me sign brand deals that pay my rent.

But even actors and musicians are subject to the whims of public perception. Even if they’re the best at their craft, that doesn’t mean jack shit if no one is willing to watch or listen.

I settle on a classic, black, floor-length, satin gown. It cinches in at my waist so my figure isn’t lost, but it has a high, cowl neckline, hiding any hint of cleavage. I’m probably going to be called a whore when these pictures go public, but I’d like to at least not look it tonight.

I’m sure they’ll pull up plenty of my old red-carpet looks at various smaller events over the years, probably ones with Ezra where I dressed far more revealing.

As I stare at myself in the mirror to do my makeup, I can’t help but feel like I don’t recognize the sight of myself. The bruises are gone, but something’s changed.

I haven’t gotten ready for a date since Ezra. And hell, I think our first date was my first real date.

I know this is fake, and with each step of my makeup routine, I feel faker too.

Armed with my tight-lined eyes, lips painted a blushing, freshly kissed pink, and my hair pinned up in a half-up, half-down style, I start rummaging through my hallway closet for a pair of adequate heels to finish the look. The shoe cabinet by the door is more for my everyday shoes.

I’m interrupted by my doorbell ringing.

The noise makes me jolt, and I bump my head on the coats hanging above me.

You’d think in the years I’ve lived here that I’d get used to that sound, but I can count the number of times my doorbell has actually rung on one hand. I don’t get very many visitors, and the visitors I did receive had the key.

Through the peephole, Beck stands in a pair of navy slacks and a matching tailored blazer over a crisp button-up. He looks good, but that’s not what grabs my attention. He’d probably look good if you dressed him in a bedsheet.

Stop thinking about Beck only dressed in a bedsheet, my god.

“What’re you doing here?” Damn, maybe those aren’t the most friendly words to say after first opening my door. My gaze drops down to the bouquet in his arms. “And... what’re those for?”

“I can’t greet my new girlfriend with flowers?” he asks, his face breaking out into one of his dazzling smiles.

I glance down the hall, keeping my eye out for the reflection of camera lenses. You can never be too careful, especially considering the way I grew up. When I was a bigger part of my mom’s show, there would be cameras poised right outside my room to capture my reaction to everything.

“But there are no cameras.” My long hair shifts against my shoulders as I tilt my head in confusion.

“Does that matter?” Beck shrugs casually. “I wanted to do something nice. Help set the mood for tonight.”

He wiggles his eyebrows in a way that’s so exaggerated and ridiculous I let out a snort of laughter. My hand instantly flies to my mouth like I’m trying to grab the sound and shove it back down my throat.