Page 19 of Now Their Starlet

Ouch. I’ve already lost a significant amount of weight since I’ve been locked up here, but Jonathan Fletcher’s looking at me like my body is an insult to his image.

Why the hell is he even this involved in this process in the first place? This feels creepy.

No wonder Ezra’s mom is normally drowning herself in a wine glass. Why is Gina even friends with this douchebag?

“Yes, of course,” Gina simpers, nodding eagerly.

The two of them continue to talk about my perceived deficiencies.

Extensions. Body contouring during the tan. Future botox and filler.

Whoa there. That pulls me out of my dissociative state.

Can they really make me do procedures like that? I mean, Gina is the only one allowed to make my medical decisions these days, but does that mean she can make elective medical decisions too?

“I would normally recommend ‌breast augmentation surgery, but it seems she’s fine in that department,” Jonathan adds.

This makes Gina cut a glare towards me, so intense I’m half tempted to raise my hands up in surrender and ask what the hell I did. Because seriously, I’m just standing here. Why is she pissed at me?

Actually, the answer is clear. It’s obvious in the way she sidles closer to the A-list actor, batting her lashes and instantly agreeing to everything he’s saying.

She’s into him. Great. Just my luck.

The guy’s a psycho control freak, and my mom will stop at absolutely nothing to please him.

“Dad,” Ezra jumps up at his father’s boob job comment. His hands are clenched into fists at his sides. “Is that really necessary?”

The room, especially the side full of the Fletcher team, quiets at Ezra’s outburst.

Even I’m surprised.

I’ve known Ezra for years, and I don’t think he’s ever talked back to his dad. Ever. Same way I don’t think I’ve ever talked back to my mom until the day she threw herself down those stairs.

I’m half tempted to reach out to Ezra, who’s positioned himself between his father and me, and pull him back. Because his dad and my mom are cut from the same cloth of batshit crazy, and I don’t want him to get hurt—I saw the bruises on Ezra when we were in high school.

Jonathan’s scowl and his espresso martini scent—similar to Ezra’s more mellow coffee scent—grow thick and cloying in the space around us, despite the high vaulted ceilings.

Oh shit. He’s pissed.

“What did you say, boy?” Jonathan growls.

The entire room has fallen silent now, watching the exchange with bated breath.

I can see the tremble in the line of Ezra’s shoulders as he keeps his back to me.

Why is he doing this? I know how fucking hard it must be to stand up to his dad right now. The only reason why I was able to stand up to my mom was because of the support I’ve gotten over the past few months from my guys and the world-shattering realization that maybe I did have a parent who loved me, after visiting my father.

Ezra hasn’t had any of that.

Is it out of guilt? A sense of responsibility to make things right after his violent outburst sparked the events of the last few months?

Is it because there’s still a part of his heart that cares for me?

Or maybe… he’s the only sane person in this room—which is saying something, considering what he’s done to me—and the only one willing to speak out against this ridiculous injustice.

Whatever the reason, I don’t want him getting hurt because of me. Especially when it’d be him getting hurt in vain because neither of our parents is the type to back down when they have their minds set on something.

“It’s fine, Ezra,” I murmur quietly, wrapping my arms around my waist protectively; the rigid canvas fabric feeling more restrictive.