Page 26 of Now Their Starlet

“Hmm? Oh, sorry,” I mumble, taking a few deep breaths and trying to control the bitterness of my chamomile perfume. “Just wondering how much more of this I can take before wasting away.”

Ezra’s expression grows dark as a scowl appears on his face, there one moment and gone the next as he starts tapping his fingertips against his thigh.

“Yeah,” he says, his voice tight.

I take a deep breath, matching the count of his drumming fingers. I see why he does this; it’s a good breathing technique.

With each inhale, I’m assaulted by the mix of different scents, swirling in the high-ceilinged ballroom of The Beverly Hilton. Lots of alphas, some omegas, and the hint of betas sitting or walking close by. It’s teetering on the edge of being overstimulating, but I soak it all in.

I’d take anything other than the sterile, uncomfortable, isolating childhood bedroom I know is waiting for me when this event is over.

“This works pretty well,” I murmur, trying to make conversation with Ezra, since there’s really nothing else to do now that our plates have been cleared away. I take another sip of prosecco, letting the bubbles hit my tongue.

“The breathing?” Ezra grunts.

“Yeah.”

“It does. Turns out I forget to fuckin’ breathe when I’m pissed,” he says, reaching up to grip at the back of his neck, averting his gaze. “My therapist said something about breathing stimulating the Vegas nerve or whatever.”

“Pretty sure it’s the vagus nerve,” I comment offhandedly.

Ezra lets out a snort and rolls his eyes.

“Nerd. How the hell do you know that?”

“I mean, I’m pretty sure there’s not a nerve named after Las Vegas,” I huff. “And dude, we literally took psychology together in our senior year; how do you not remember?”

“How the hell do you remember? Pretty sure I wiped all that shit from my brain the moment I got my diploma.”

“Fair enough.”

Cheers sound from across the room as someone wins the big auction of the night. Some big art piece I can’t bring myself to care about.

“We’re going to leave soon,” Stuart says, his voice grating against my nerves, even though he’s speaking normally.

He could be telling me the winning lottery numbers right now, and I’d still want to punch him in the face. Probably because every word out of his mouth is useless. It’s not like I have the power or freedom to go buy a lottery ticket, even if I did know exactly which numbers to pick to win the jackpot.

His words don’t help my rising anger.

Leaving means going back to that godforsaken cage that is Gina’s home.

I’d much prefer boring and overwhelming to that.

“There’s still the rest of the night,” Ezra says, seeming to sense my roiling emotions. They’re probably not hard to decipher, considering the way my scent telegraphs my emotions like a neon sign—that tends to happen when I’m tipsy.

“It would be best for Andromeda’s image not to be seen partying the night away as her first public outing, after her very publicized mental breakdown,” Stuart says slowly, almost like he’s treating Ezra like a child asking for ten more minutes at the park. Guess Stuart’s not just an asshole to me. “I’m sure you can agree, since you seem so... invested in her well-being.”

Ezra’s jaw works, and it honestly looks like he’s swallowing back a few choice words he wants to fire back at Stuart.

“Fine, then we won’t party,” he bites out. “But just give us some more time. It’s been forever since I’ve seen her.”

His words come out possessive and a little needy.

To my surprise, Stuart lets out a tired sigh and then nods.

“Thirty minutes,” he says, his gaze cutting down towards me. “But you are not to dance or be photographed doing anything that would reflect badly, understood?”

I offer the beta a two-finger salute, the wordless sarcasm practically dripping from me and the motion. It takes everything in my power not to flip him off.