Page 125 of Knot Their Starlet

Of course she’s shitfaced.

What else do party girls like her do? She’s been spotted at clubs like these plenty of times with her ex-boyfriend.

A flash of guilt hits me when I remember the sight of her face covered in blood from the articles that first came out about her and Beckham Knight together.

Fuck, I’m a dick.

I’ve cornered a drunk omega who’s alone at a club. A drunk omega who obviously has a spotty past with physically abusive alphas.

I struggle to find the words to say, and trust me, I never have issues talking normally.

“Anyways... I’m going to go,” she says, taking an awkward step to the side.

“No,” I say, an air of desperation making my chest tight.

I know the moment the words leave my lips that I’m going about this the completely wrong way.

John should’ve sent someone else for this job. Even if it meant I had to share the project—and I never share my projects. I’m obviously not the right fit for this type of fieldwork.

“Who the hell are you and why the hell aren’t you letting me go?” she slurs, her hands clenching into fists by her sides.

“Cameron Foster,” I say, doing my best to even my tone. “And I need to talk to you. I’m a journalist.”

Her eyes narrow on me. I can see the wheels in her alcohol-muddled brain turning as fast as they can.

She grew up with Gina Sterling as a mother. She’s been under the media’s microscope all her life.

“Great,” she says, flatly. “Which outlet?”

“Northline.”

Her head tilts, more than she probably intended to because she’s drunk.

It’s kind of cute.

Which is a ridiculous thought.

One, because she’s the kind of woman and omega that’s everything I hate about this fucked-up side of the entertainment industry, and because I’ll never pursue someone with loose morals ever again.

“Never heard of it,” she says.

“I bet,” I huff, rolling my eyes. “We’re not the kind of company that someone like you would be familiar with.”

Her jaw works, seeming to take my obvious observation as an insult.

“Look, I’m working on a piece about male omegas. Beckham Knight is relevant to that story. I’d like to talk to someone on his team.”

“Well, I’m not on his team,” she scoffs. “You should call his publicist or something. I’m sure he handles things like that.”

“You were kissing him in the stairwell a few minutes ago.”

She falls completely silent, staring at me for a long moment.

“You were watching us.”

It’s not a question. And there’s something about the way she says it that rubs me the wrong way. Flat, unsurprised, almost tired, as if that sort of invasion into her privacy is a common occurrence. Probably because it is.

“It’s a public venue,” I say. It’s the truth, but I know deep down it’s a deflection.