Page 123 of Knot Their Starlet

Funneling views away from important causes.

But Beckham Knight is obviously different, and not just because he’s the first male omega who’s reached this level of fame. He’s, for all intents and purposes, avoided the spotlight. And it seems like the team around him has supported that decision.

It’s what makes this whole relationship with Andromeda Sterling, the influencer nepo-baby daughter to the infamous Gina Sterling, all the more confusing. The cynic in me is skeptical of their relationship as a whole.

Andromeda Sterling and her reality TV star mother are exactly the kinds of people contributing to the catastrophic collapse of the modern media cycle.

“So what exactly am I supposed to do tonight?” I sigh. “You still haven’t answered that question.”

“Get close to him. Or someone on his team. I know most of your work is outside of LA, but plenty of connections here are made in places like this. If you can somehow get Beckham Knight to agree to an interview to get your project off the ground, you’re golden.”

“Fine.”

“Good luck, Cameron.”

And with that, my boss hangs up.

I pull into the parking lot for the club, wincing at the fifty-dollar valet fee.

“Actually, I think I’m okay,” I say to the valet who approaches my car.

When I go to back up, there’s already a car behind me.

Fuck.

There’s no room for me to get around the car behind me, so I eat the charge.

Unfortunately, after the failure of my last project, money is tight.

Which only adds to the fire under my ass to make this new project work.

I don’t do what I do for money. I do it because there’s an even bigger fire than the one under my ass in my heart, pushing me to report on stories that need to be told. The voiceless deserve a voice too.

God, that was a fucking cheesy ass analogy.

I’m technically working, so does that mean I can’t grab a drink from the bar to take the edge off?

I walk past the line of club goers. The women are a blur of heels, minidresses, jewelry, and makeup, while the men seem drastically underdressed in comparison.

I wince when I glance down at my outfit of slacks and a fuck-ass polo shirt that’s good for the office and terrible for a place like this.

Well, maybe I’ll fit in with the underdressed men here.

“Name?” The bouncer grunts when I approach him at the “VIP” section of the line.

“Cameron Foster,” I nod. “I should be on the list?”

I try to fight the sense of unease being in this kind of environment as the bouncer checks his list.

“Welcome in,” he says, after finally finding my name.

I ignore the nasty glares from a group of guys—better dressed than I am, I’ll admit—aimed my way when I pass by them to enter the club.

The flashing lights and pounding music instantly give me a headache.

I make my way through the club, hovering around the edges of the room and watching the mass of people. It’s almost like the room is alive, moving in time with the music.

I’ve done crazy things for my work. This has to unironically rank in the top three.