Knot Their Starlet (Starletverse #1)

Chapter 1

Andromeda

Ididn’t think this night could get any worse.

Boy, was I wrong.

Not only am I cinched into a corset so tight I swear my organs are going to be permanently re-arranged—even after I’m freed from its confines—but my boyfriend is majorly pissed.

“Fuck this bullshit,” Ezra snarls, his black coffee scent growing even more bitter than it’s been all night.

I may be an omega, but I don’t have an unending well of empathy.

My boyfriend doesn’t seem to understand that right now.

Maybe it’s because his mother is an empty shell with no life outside of catering to his father, but he’s told me in both hushed whispers and passionate declarations that we are going to be different from our parents.

Sure, it’s been an emotional night. We’re at the fucking Grammys, and Ezra, against all odds, was nominated for rap song of the year with his latest single. It went viral on TikTok and he rode that fame and his daddy’s coattails straight here.

Unfortunately for him, the song just wasn’t good enough to win. I’d never tell him that to his face—I’m not that much of a bitch—but the real truth is the song is only good in fifteen-second clips.

Ezra doesn’t even bother politely clapping for the winner. He even ignores the champagne being passed around, settling for slamming back way more vodka than he should at an event like this.

I take a fresh flute of champagne with a polite smile, needing another sip for courage.

Time to enter the lion’s den.

“Hey, babe, it’s okay,” I murmur softly, reaching out and placing a tentative hand on his back.

He shoots me a glare that has me stiffening in my seat. My own normally calm chamomile scent turns a little bitter.

“Shut the fuck up,” he snarls, shoving back from the table.

The announcers have moved on to the next category, which thankfully means the cameras aren’t on us anymore.

Ezra seems to think that means he’s free to roam and do whatever he wants.

Teetering on my too-high heels and tugging my too-tight dress into place, I shoot an apologetic look at his father’s publicist, who he seemed to have on loan for the night. The beta man looks tired. Too tired to deal with Ezra’s bullshit.

“I’ll take care of him,” I say, offering a tight smile. I don’t think the man even bothers to look up from his phone to respond.

Ezra is almost to the back of the room before I catch up to him.

“Ezra!” I call. “Wait for me! Where are you going?”

He shoots me another glare over his shoulder, but slows his pace.

“The bathroom.” His jaw works with the words, and I instantly know he’s not going to the bathroom to piss.

“Here?” I hiss, lowering my voice as I reach for his arm.

He shakes me off and narrows his eyes.

“Stop with the goody-two-shoes act, Andi,” he snarls. “If you think coke is the worst thing people’re doing here, you’ve got another thing coming.”

He wrenches his arm from my grasp and turns.

God dammit. The people around us are starting to notice we’re having a little lover’s spat.

Mother dearest won’t be happy with me if the media catches wind of that.

Well, to be fair, she’s never happy with me.

I take a few healthy gulps of my champagne, breathing in the atmosphere of the night. The cool parts of it, at least.

The room glows with the kind of energy that can only be found when the best of the best are put together in one place. The lights from above catch and reflect off everything. Sequins and satin, and champagne flutes glitter in the brightly lit room.

It makes everything feel a little unreal.

Or maybe that’s the champagne I’ve been chugging throughout the night to help me deal with babysitting my boyfriend.

“Ezra, seriously? Wait for me!” I huff, spinning on my heels and chasing after him.

He doesn’t.

The door to the main event almost slams in my face as he storms out.

He slows his steps, not for me, but because there are some paparazzi waiting with their cameras poised.

“That’s Jonathan Fletcher’s son!” One of them yells before lifting his massive camera.

There’s a blinding flash.

I instantly transform my expression into a practiced smile. The smile of a loving, supportive girlfriend.

This is what I’ve been trained for. I’ve spent hours in front of a mirror making sure my smile is picture fucking perfect. My mother would never accept anything less.

“Who’s that next to him?” another pap asks.

“I dunno. Do you know?”

Ezra finally slows enough for me to grab his arm.

I’m not surprised the paparazzi don’t know who I am. I may have a lot of social media followers, but my mom’s world—I guess technically my world—of reality TV is pretty far removed from tonight’s event.

“Oh, I think I recognize her! Andromeda Sterling, over here!”

I flash a practiced smile and wave, leaning my head on Ezra’s shoulder, towards the direction of whoever recognized me.

“She’s the daughter of Gina Sterling, you know, that omega.”

“Let’s get out of here,” Ezra grunts through clenched teeth.

Ezra loves me. He’s my boyfriend of almost five years. But I can’t help but think that in a moment like this, he cares more about the fact that the paps didn’t recognize him enough to know his name than the fact they brought up my mom’s big controversy.

Ezra’s scent grows more overpowering with every step we take away from the crowd. It nearly has me coughing when we finally make it to the bathroom.

“What the fuck was that?” he growls.

It’s one of those fancy single-stall bathrooms with marble everywhere, so we’re alone the moment the door shuts behind us.

“Hey, let’s take a breath,” I say, leaning against the door with a sigh.

He immediately goes to the counter, pulling a small pen case from God knows where.

I bite my tongue. I know exactly what he keeps in that thing. It’s no surprise harder drugs are a common occurrence in the circles we run in, but I’ve never liked them.

Ezra gets mean when he gets shitfaced, and he’s already well on his way there. I wouldn’t be surprised if he took something before we got here. Probably to celebrate a win he delusionally thought was his.

With quick and practiced movements, he cuts a line of coke and starts rolling up a crisp hundred-dollar bill from his wallet.

“I can’t believe the paps didn’t even know who I was!” he snarls, rubbing at his nose after standing from the counter. “I was a nominee for fuck’s sake! And they only knew me as fucking Jonathan Fletcher’s son.”

God, I wish my mom’s stylist didn’t put me in this fucking dress. On top of being the most obnoxious thing in the world, the sequins on this dress make the fabric stiff and uncomfortable.

I feel suffocated. Stuck.

In this dress. In this godforsaken bathroom. In this relationship.

In my entire life if I’m being honest.

“I’m sure they didn’t mean anything by it, baby,” I murmur softly, trying to be the soothing omega presence he seems to need right now. “It’s not the end of the world. There’s always next year. I think it’s fantastic that you were even nominated in the first place! This is the Grammys!”

Wrong thing to fucking say.

The glare he cuts towards me is even sharper than the line of coke he just snorted.

“You don’t fucking get it, do you?” he snarls, slamming his fist into the marble countertop so hard it echoes through the bathroom.

“You don’t get what it’s like living in my father’s shadow.

Jonathan-fucking-Fletcher, the A-list actor whose projects turn to gold the moment his name graces the table. ”

The thought of his father seems to send him further into his rage.

“That’s not fair,” I huff, standing straight despite my aching feet, when I see he’s leaning down to snort another line. “You know, if anyone would get what it’s like to live under the shadow of a parent, it’d be me. Stop it, Ezra, you’ve had enough for tonight.”

Maybe this is where I mess up.

I should’ve left the bathroom right then and there. Ezra’s a grown man. An alpha, at that. He can take care of himself.

But I don’t. I make my way to him. Like a lamb to the slaughterhouse.

Maybe this night was doomed from the moment it started.

Everything happens so quickly.

One moment, I’m standing next to him, reaching for his wrist to try to get him to stop, to look at me, to do anything other than the one thing I know will just make him feel even shittier later.

The next—his hands are wrapped around my throat.

I can’t breathe.

“Shut the fuck up!” he screams, spit flying from his lips and landing on my face.

I can’t fucking breathe.

The stiletto nails that took my nail artist three hours to perfect, claw desperately against his forearm.

It only serves to piss him off further.

I am a ragdoll. My brain bangs against the walls of my skull as he slams my head into the counter so hard I see white.

“Shut up, shut up, shut up!” he screams.

Slam.

“Why! This was my fucking chance!”

Slam.

I’m going to die.

“I was supposed to fucking win!”

Slam.

He’s going to fucking kill me.

The world spins as he lifts me by my neck another time.

I can’t fucking die here.

My life is in his fucking hands, and he doesn’t give a single shit.

I don’t know the man glaring down at me right now. This isn’t the man I love.

His dark eyes, normally warm with affection, or maybe a little sharp with irritation, are black holes right now. They suck the light out of the glittering room around us, revealing a darkness that I’ve only seen hints of until now. But I never realized it went this deep.

“Ezra...” His name leaves my lips, a soundless whisper. More me mouthing his name than anything.

He freezes.

My sky-high stiletto heel slams down onto his foot. Turns out the torture devices I’ve been wearing are the only tool of self-defense I have.

He drops me, and I crash to the floor, scrambling backwards despite the room spinning around me.

Something warm drips down my temple.

I stare down at myself to see red drops falling onto the glittering fabric of my gown.

I touch my temple and my hand comes away stained crimson.

I’m bleeding.

The world moves in slow motion as I lift my head to see Ezra gripping his head with his hands.