Page 46 of Now Their Starlet

“Andromeda, what led to your mental breakdown?”

Flash, flash, flash.

“Andromeda, has your relationship with your mother deteriorated?”

Flash, flash, flash.

“Andromeda! What do you have to say to your ex-boyfriend, Beckham Knight? Seems he has a lot to say to you if his latest single is any indication!”

Flash, flash, flash.

Andromeda, Andromeda, Andromeda.

Maybe I actually am going to have a mental breakdown right here on this carpet.

“Okay, we’re all done,” Ezra murmurs low, shielding me from the lingering paparazzi who still want more photos, and blocking out the flashes with his broad shoulders. “Time to go.”

“You will have to work on your expressions for future photoshoots,” Stuart sighs from beside us a moment later. “Your mother isn’t a fan of the deer-in-headlights look.”

“Dude, seriously? You don’t even know what the photos are gonna look like yet,” Ezra snaps.

“Yes, but I know how she looked on that carpet. She needs to work on managing her emotions.”

“You try doing that when douchebags are yelling shit at you.” Ezra’s large hand finds my forearm and he starts tugging me along towards the table we’ve been assigned. “Come on.”

“I’m sorry, I’ll do better next time,” I mumble automatically, even though we’re beyond Stuart’s earshot now.

It’s like the world is moving in slow motion. I don’t think I could’ve found it in myself to utter those words in front of Stuart. I wouldn’t have been able to react fast enough.

“Fuck, Andi. I seriously hate seeing you like this,” Ezra’s raspy whisper seems to be said more for himself than for me. Or maybe that’s just how I feel about anyone talking around me now. “You don’t have shit to apologize for.”

All I do is shrug, as much as I can, the sequins along the edge of the bodice scraping against the sensitive skin on the inside of my arm with the motion.

As I’m led between the tables into yet another ballroom event I’m wholly uninterested in, I take in and process absolutely none of my surroundings.

At some point, we lose the new bodyguard. Probably because bodyguards don’t actually sit at the tables on the main floor with the rest of us.

I stare at the white linen tablecloth throughout the entire event. Through the boring speeches that have no meaning to me. Through the seemingly endless rounds of toasts and champagne. Through the dinner—another salad, heartier than the bowl of leaves I’m given to eat at home—even though I have no appetite.

I can’t even appreciate the flavor anymore, not over the lingering taste of the bubbling champagne at the back of my throat. The world feels even floatier than usual.

Beside me, Ezra is in a foul mood. His coffee scent is thick and twisted, like the bitter, burnt stuff you find at the bottom of communal office coffee pots. He’s not sharing his food with me tonight. Guess the nice version of him comes and goes with his mood.

A thread of concern filters through the buzz in my head. Concern for him or concern for my own well-being around him is unclear. Probably a mix of both.

He keeps checking his watch—every action he does is followed by a quick glance down at his wrist.

He takes a bite? Then he checks his watch.

He listens to one of the people giving a speech or collecting some award? He checks his watch right after.

When there’s a lull in the speech-giving and award-receiving, he stands from the table abruptly. It’s mostly a soundless gesture because the ballroom is carpeted, meaning his chair doesn’t scrape against the floor. But it’s no less shocking to me, even in the headspace I’m in.

“I’m going to the bathroom,” he grunts.

Those words send a jolt of fear running down my spine. He hasn’t had anything to drink tonight, but that doesn’t mean he’s not going to the bathroom to do something he shouldn’t. Not that it’s any of my business.

But right now, all I want to do is jump up and follow after him. The inner omega in me, screaming and clawing at the walls of my skull to be let out, just wants to soothe the angry alpha in any way she can.