Chapter 14
Andromeda
Maybe I should’ve just let Camille, the stylist, help me pick out tonight’s outfit. Sure, I’d run the risk of her putting me in something ridiculously uncomfortable, but it’s her job to make me look good.
And nothing I put on looks good.
I swear, half my closet is precariously balanced on the plush velvet stool in front of my antique vanity that I got from a thrift store the month after I first moved in.
I did something I know I shouldn’t do. I checked my social media comments.
I used to enjoy interacting with people who commented on my posts or vlogs. It was fun and casual. Sure, there was the occasional hater, but everyone with an online presence has those.
But recently? My comment sections have been bloodthirsty. And they’re out for my blood.
I can’t believe how fast she moved on from Ezra. She seriously gets around.
She’s a total gold digger.
Literally, what is she wearing?
The pictures the paparazzi take tonight will circulate like wildfire through parts of the internet I know will tear me apart.
It’s how this sort of internet culture works.
I’m certainly not new to the way public perception turns into a beast on its own, propelling you to stardom, exploding you into controversy, or, worst of all, sinking you down into irrelevancy.
No one, other than those who’ve established themselves as the cream of the crop of a group of people always hungry for more, can escape this sort of fate.
This applies to people who are in more talent-based industries than I’m in now.
I’m more than aware that the world views me as a nepo-baby influencer, but the status that gives me lets me sign brand deals that pay my rent.
But even actors and musicians are subject to the whims of public perception. Even if they’re the best at their craft, that doesn’t mean jack shit if no one is willing to watch or listen.
I settle on a classic, black, floor-length, satin gown. It cinches in at my waist so my figure isn’t lost, but it has a high, cowl neckline, hiding any hint of cleavage. I’m probably going to be called a whore when these pictures go public, but I’d like to at least not look it tonight.
I’m sure they’ll pull up plenty of my old red-carpet looks at various smaller events over the years, probably ones with Ezra where I dressed far more revealing.
As I stare at myself in the mirror to do my makeup, I can’t help but feel like I don’t recognize the sight of myself. The bruises are gone, but something’s changed.
I haven’t gotten ready for a date since Ezra. And hell, I think our first date was my first real date.
I know this is fake, and with each step of my makeup routine, I feel faker too.
Armed with my tight-lined eyes, lips painted a blushing, freshly kissed pink, and my hair pinned up in a half-up, half-down style, I start rummaging through my hallway closet for a pair of adequate heels to finish the look. The shoe cabinet by the door is more for my everyday shoes.
I’m interrupted by my doorbell ringing.
The noise makes me jolt, and I bump my head on the coats hanging above me.
You’d think in the years I’ve lived here that I’d get used to that sound, but I can count the number of times my doorbell has actually rung on one hand. I don’t get very many visitors, and the visitors I did receive had the key.
Through the peephole, Beck stands in a pair of navy slacks and a matching tailored blazer over a crisp button-up. He looks good, but that’s not what grabs my attention. He’d probably look good if you dressed him in a bedsheet.
Stop thinking about Beck only dressed in a bedsheet, my god.
“What’re you doing here?” Damn, maybe those aren’t the most friendly words to say after first opening my door. My gaze drops down to the bouquet in his arms. “And... what’re those for?”
“I can’t greet my new girlfriend with flowers?” he asks, his face breaking out into one of his dazzling smiles.
I glance down the hall, keeping my eye out for the reflection of camera lenses. You can never be too careful, especially considering the way I grew up. When I was a bigger part of my mom’s show, there would be cameras poised right outside my room to capture my reaction to everything.
“But there are no cameras.” My long hair shifts against my shoulders as I tilt my head in confusion.
“Does that matter?” Beck shrugs casually. “I wanted to do something nice. Help set the mood for tonight.”
He wiggles his eyebrows in a way that’s so exaggerated and ridiculous I let out a snort of laughter. My hand instantly flies to my mouth like I’m trying to grab the sound and shove it back down my throat.
“Forget you heard that,” I mumble, clearing my throat.
“Like hell I will!” Beck teases, bursting into laughter of his own. “I finally made you laugh! I wish I’d recorded it so it could last forever. Whenever I’m feeling down, I’d replay it and know that I, Beckham Knight, was funny enough to make you laugh.”
He means well. I know it.
But the statement still has me grimacing and taking an involuntary step back. My chamomile scent takes on bitter notes that are a lot harder to control than my facial expressions.
He freezes, instantly picking up on my change in mood.
“I’m sorry, I said something wrong, didn’t I?”
“It’s fine—”
“No, it’s not. Tell me what I said, and it won’t happen again.” If it were anyone else pushing me to talk, I’d probably clam up even more. I’ve had far too many experiences with people where they push me to tell them what bothered me, only to belittle it and say I’m overreacting.
But I don’t think Beck will do that. His expression is so earnest.
“It was just the recording thing,” I say, shrugging, taking another step back into my apartment, but this time, gesturing for him to follow me. “I’ve gotta pick out my shoes, why don’t you come in?”
“Sure,” he says, his eyes scanning over my apartment. “Thanks for inviting me in. Your place is nice.”
I’m grateful I can look away from his intense gaze as I return to picking out my shoes for the evening.
“It’s my favorite place on the planet,” I say, my voice a little muffled.
“Why did the recording thing bother you?” he asks, his voice soft.
“Why do you want to know?” I stiffen, bracing myself for his reaction.
I grab the closest pair of strappy black heels and straighten to face him.
The sight of him has my defensive anger deflating. He leans against the wall behind him, tapping the tip of his fancy loafers on my floor.
“I think... since we’re supposed to convince the world that we’re dating, we should get to know each other, get to know what makes each other tick, you know? And that comment I made earlier definitely made you tick. I just want to know why.”
“Believe it or not, I like my privacy,” I answer, leaning against the wall across from him.
“I can’t imagine why,” Beck says, letting out a huff of laughter. “It one-hundred percent has absolutely nothing to do with the fact you were raised on reality TV, right?”
My lips tug up in a wry grin at his sarcasm.
“Am I that transparent?”
“You’re the furthest thing from transparent, trust me.
Takes a lot of effort to see through those defenses of yours.
” His expression goes soft as he straightens, setting the bouquet of roses and peonies down onto my shoe cabinet right next to the little ceramic shell dish with Ezra’s old pair of keys.
“Did you really have to bring flowers?” I ask, clinging to any change in subject.
“Like I said, is it a crime to try to woo my new girlfriend?”
“Fake girlfriend,” I correct him.
He waves away my response with a wave of his hand. Leaning forward, that familiar grin tugs his lips up and makes his eyes sparkle. “This is where you say thank you, Starlight.”
The smile that creeps into my expression is involuntary. I couldn’t stop it even if I tried.
“Thank you,” I answer, picking up the bouquet.
They really are gorgeous blooms.
“Do we have time for me to put them somewhere?”
“Of course we do.”
“What time is our reservation?”
Beck leans against my island counter, his hands tucked into his pockets. “Not to sound ridiculously egotistical, but I really don’t think they’d turn away our business.”
“You mean your business, Mr. Pop Star,” I say, letting out a huff of laughter.
The one decorative vase worthy of these flowers is set high on the shelf I can’t quite reach. Before I have a chance to drag one of my barstools over, Beck is stepping up behind me, one of his hands resting against my lower back.
The touch sends a shiver straight down my spine. His hand is warm. So warm it almost feels like it’s burning through the satin of my dress.
“Let me get that for you,” he murmurs, his voice a low timbre that vibrates through me.
His burnt caramel scent is thick in the air around us. It’s sweet as it coats the back of my throat, despite my shallow breaths.
His scent is fucking magical. There have been companies that’ve been trying to replicate omega perfumes artificially to sell to betas.
If they tried to replicate Beck’s scent?
Well, they’d never succeed, but even a modest attempt would go flying off the shelves. Guy or not, he has the perfect scent.
He reaches up and plucks the vase off my shelf for me.
“You didn’t have to do that, you know,” I say, my voice far more delicate and breathy than I intend.
“Come on, let a guy be helpful for once,” he pouts. The motion just draws attention to how kissable his lips are. I’m objectifying the fuck out of him, wow. I’m no better than a man.
“I never get to do cool, manly things like that,” he continues. “If Eli’s around, he doesn’t let me lift a finger.”
“You live with him?” I ask, reaching for the flowers and using that as my opportunity for escape. Close proximity to the Beckham Knight is dangerous. Sometimes, I’m swiftly reminded of how dangerously attractive, both in personality and physicality, he is.
“Yeah, Leo, Eli, and I moved into our apartment downtown together.”