Page 8 of Now Their Starlet

The only other person I’ve seen has been Camille, my mom’s stylist. She came in with Stuart on day two and wordlessly dropped off a whole new wardrobe in the empty closet.

A wardrobe where all the clothes are a minimum of two sizes too small for me—my mom isn’t subtle at all.

It’s just me, my thoughts, and the small collection of books I have on a shelf by my bedside from years ago. They’re the only reason I haven’t gone insane—I think.

Even so, I’m halfway there, but I’m losing weight at an alarming rate and my skin is starting to take on pallor that appears almost sickly.

Looks like Gina is going to have to book me a spray tan before whatever stupid event she decides to send me to when she finally lets me out of here. She has to be the one to do everything for me now. Because of the conservatorship, I have fewer rights than children do. At least kids are allowed to make their own medical decisions after a certain age. I can’t even do that.

I swing my legs out of bed. The room is just as basic, just as beige, as it was when I was growing up. I can’t help but notice the lack of color in the space. It makes me long for the flash of overwhelming color in the room my dad showed me—my bedroom... the one that he couldn’t bring himself to change the color of after all these years. I don’t think I ever would have been someone who existed in a beige space by choice.

Yet another way Gina seems to want to suck the life out of me.

I sink into a scalding bubble bath, overwhelming my senses with the sweetest scented bath products I have, trying desperately to mimic the sweet, comforting feeling of Beck’s perfume. But no matter how hard I close my eyes and try to delude myself, it’s nothing like the real thing.

I stay in the bath, my hair piled above my head and the steaming water making my cheeks flushed until the water starts getting cold and my fingers and toes are wrinkly. The sound of my bedroom door unlocking cracks through the air like a gunshot. The door swings open, and even though I can’t see the door from my vantage point in the tub, the footsteps differ from Stuart’s.

Who in the world is in my room?

I get my answer when Ezra Fletcher, my ex-boyfriend, walks right into the open door of my bathroom, holding a tray of the rabbit food I’ve been fed for the past week.

“What the hell are you doing in here!” I yell, hugging my knees to my chest. The water in the tub splashes along the edges. Because I’ve been in the bath for so long, it’s gone clear, despite the products I added earlier, which means I don’t even have bubbles to hide behind.

“Shit! Sorry,” Ezra says, his dark eyes wide.

“Get out!”

I don’t know what I expected, but he listens—quickly too. One second he’s there, standing in the open doorway of my ensuite bathroom that I didn’t bother to close because what would be the point when I’m locked in here—basically in solitary confinement and the next, he’s turning around and shutting the bathroom door behind him.

The hint of his coffee scent lingers in the air around me. It’s not twisted or bitter in the way it was the last couple of times I saw him. It’s just... him. Him without the anger that seemed to be his constant companion towards the end of our relationship.

What in the world is he doing here?

The answer is obvious.

My mom is scheming—of course, she is. Even so, sending Ezra up to my bedroom after what he did to me?

I’m glad he left, because the sight of Ezra next to the fancy granite countertops of my childhood bathroom counters would have sent me into a spiral I don’t think I could have handled. My inner omega is practically screeching, clawing at the inside of my skull for the comforts I’ve gotten used to with my guys.

Is this why my mom decided to confine me to my room? So that I’d be more pliable, more willing to cooperate with the first alpha she sent in here?

After a few minutes of trying to calm my racing pulse, I convince my body to get out of the now-chilly bathwater.

I catch myself gripping the wall a beat too long when I stand up too fast, the room tilting before it rights itself. I used to only get that lightheaded on the rare mornings I skipped breakfast before a shoot. Now it happens every time I stand.

I grab the one towel I have in here. It’s smaller than the ones I have in my own apartment and far rougher, worn from years of heated washes. Yet another thing I’m sure she calculated, because I know Gina Sterling owns better towels than this ragged thing.

My closet is a walk-in closet connected to the main room, which means I need to go out in nothing but my towel if I have any hope of getting dressed.

I take a deep breath, gripping the doorknob and trying to wrangle my perfume under control. I’m sure Ezra will still be able to tell I’m panicking, but the last thing I want is for him to feel pressure to try comforting me or something—I couldn’t handle that right now. That’s probably exactly what my mom wants.

When I crack the door back to the bedroom open, Ezra is standing there, in the center of my room. His hands are shoved into the pockets of his designer jeans, and the tray of food he was carrying earlier is set on the vanity.

I take a second to take a good look at him.

He looks different. Not in a drastic way, just... not like how I remember him.

For example, his signature bright red hair is still just as bright, but he’s let his dark roots grow out.