Page 4 of Now Their Starlet

I try opening every single one of them. Nothing. None of them budge an inch

I can’t fucking breathe.

They’re welded shut, or something.

Fucking useless.

Just like I am.

I fall to my knees, my hands dragging through my hair. I let out a frustrated scream, my scalp burning as I tug.

I can’t fucking breathe.

CHAPTER 2

Everett

“Look, Charles, I know you’re doing your best. But this is unacceptable.” I’m fighting desperately to keep my voice even and controlled. I’m failing. Miserably.

I’ve practically worn a hole through the dining room floors of Beck’s penthouse. Even across the wide, open-concept space, I can feel four sets of eyes on me as I talk to my lawyers.

“I understand, sir,” Charles says. I can hear the exhaustion in his voice. “But there is nothing that can be done right now. Gina Sterling’s emergency conservatorship over Andromeda has been granted. Everything has been above board.”

“Above board?” I bite out. “That woman threw herself down those stairs.”

“That’s not what the witnesses cited in the case are saying.”

We don’t know for sure that’s what Gina Sterling did. But we certainly know that Andi didn’t push her mother down those steps, unprovoked, in some sort of mental breakdown.

I’m also personally inclined to believe Gina Sterling did this to herself, considering what Edison Wade, Andi’s father, shared with us the other day about his past.

“Of course.” I scrub a hand down my face. My limbs feel heavy, like I’ve aged an extra decade.

I’m sure if Andi were here, she’d crack a joke about me being old. Maybe something along the lines of, you know, I’d say the stress is gonna give you gray hair, but you’re already halfway there!

I’m going insane. I’m talking to her voice in my head.

I spent the first sixteen years of my life at the whims of my father—who struggled with the monsters in his mind the same way I suspect Gina does—before the world grew to be too much and he killed himself.

I’ve spent years, decades even, working on myself and undoing the programming that sort of childhood instills in your brain. I have money, power, and meticulous routines which I use to maintain my sense of control.

Nothing has made me feel as childish, as helpless, as this current situation.

“Look, Charles. Just... just keep looking, okay? The cost is of no consequence. I just want a way to get her out of this mess, understood?”

“Yes,” Charles says, his tone serious and professional.

I press the heel of my hand against my sternum, hard enough that it should hurt more than my brain is currently registering. My pulse is doing something erratic under my palm—something my morning runs and excellent blood pressure readings, according to my doctor, should have no business allowing.

I haven’t lost control of a conversation in a very long time. The entire career I’ve built has been reliant on the careful control I maintain over myself and those around me.

“Everett?” Charles asks. “Are you still there?”

“Here,” I say. My voice comes out steadier than I would’ve expected. Good. That’s good. That’s the version of me that gets things done. “Good. Thank you, Charles.”

I sit with the empty silence after I end the call for a second, trying my best to collect myself.

It’s difficult. How in the world am I expected to function, to be the leader of this not-even fully formed pack when I feel like I’m falling apart.