5. Andi #2
Because if I had the chance, I’d run from Gina’s home and this staircase at the first opportunity.
“Andromeda, come.” Gina’s voice is sharp as she looks up at me, already two-thirds of the way down the stairs.
She’s ordering me around like a fucking dog.
I mean, that’s basically what I am. A pet, an accessory for her to use, with no rights or freewill. She dictates where I sleep, what I wear, what I eat, whether I’m allowed to leave the house or not.
Sound comes rushing back in as I refocus on the situation at hand. There are voices coming from downstairs. A lot of them, from the sound of things. Multiple teams? Probably, if the Fletchers are here.
I take a breath, the hairs on the back of my neck prickling at the feel of the large alpha looming behind me.
He’s within arm’s length, which feels far too close for comfort.
I’m sure his official instructions are to “keep me safe” or whatever that private company he works for allows, but right now it just feels like he’s my jailor.
When I make it downstairs and to the open-concept living room and dining area, I can feel a whole bunch of eyes on me.
The sensation is foreign and unfamiliar after so many days of confinement.
Same with the clashing mix of everyone’s scents.
It’s like my nose has become hypersensitive with the only perfume present in that room being mine.
I recognize some of the faces and scents. Stuart’s barely there red-onion, duller compared to the more overwhelming scents in the room. Camille’s artificially sweetened beta scent, carrying the same synthetic aftertaste as Gina’s, though less extreme. At least she uses the stuff in moderation.
Even though she’s one of those beta women who are jealous of omegas, especially omegas they deem aren’t worthy of their designation, she still knows that she’s not one. Gina, on the other hand, doesn’t have that sort of restraint.
My gaze drifts to the other side of the room.
It’s far busier, with a handful of publicists and assistants running around at Jonathan Fletcher’s beck and call.
He’s speaking with his publicist—I recognize the man from the few of Ezra’s events he’s tagged along to, most notably the Grammys a few months ago—his massive arms crossed over his chest.
He’s an imposing figure, at 6’5” with expertly coiffed dark brown hair that I know he must get dyed at his age. His eyes are a lighter green than Ezra’s, who gets his eyes from his mom.
Ezra doesn’t talk a lot about his mom. Probably because there’s not a lot to talk about.
She’s kind of an empty shell of a woman.
I’m pretty sure she drinks at least a bottle of wine a day, and I know for certain she’s on a Xanax prescription that keeps her higher than the moon most of the time.
I’ve only met her a handful of times throughout the years that Ezra and I were together, because even when I’d visit his place, she’d make herself scarce.
Not that I went over to his place very often. To be honest, when we were dating throughout high school, we’d use each other as an excuse to get out of the house as much as possible.
Ezra is currently slumped in one of the overstuffed armchairs in the living room, his Bluetooth earbuds blasting away in his ears as he stares down at his phone.
It’s Jonathan who notices my entrance first.
“Ah, finally,” he huffs, as if I’ve kept him waiting for hours.
His gaze rakes over me appraisingly. I hate the way his gaze feels on my skin—just as tangible as touch—far more than I hate Gina for treating me like a pet or a possession, because Jonathan Fletcher seems to view me as meat on the auction hall chopping block.
I don’t think he even registers me as a living being.
I wonder if I’d be able to grab someone’s phone and run to a bathroom or something before the big alpha orderly manages to catch me. Probably not.
And even if I were able to manage that, who would I even call for help?
It’s not like I can call the police and say, “help! I’ve been kidnapped!
” because this doesn’t count as that. From my understanding, even if I managed to make it out of this house and run away, the police wouldn’t be of any use to me.
They’d just bring me right back here and then I’d be even more screwed.
I’d want to call the guys. Everett would know what to do, right?
Eli would come busting down the doors if he could.
Leo would do or say something I never would’ve come up with on my own.
Beck would tell me everything would be alright, and I’d believe it if he said it.
Hell, even Cameron would do something, right?
He’d write a scathing expose piece if I told him the shit Gina is doing to me.
But I don’t know any of their numbers.
Who memorizes phone numbers these days? Plus, realistically, how much would they actually be able to help?
“She needs a wax and a tan,” Jonathan says, turning to what feels like a crowd of people in my mom’s home, who instantly start typing away on their tablets.
A wax? Seriously? I mean, sure, I haven’t shaved in a week and a half since I’ve been locked away, but was the guy actually staring at my exposed legs long enough to notice?
“We will have to time things when it comes to the dress fitting, since it seems it... needs more attention than previously anticipated,” he continues.
Ouch. I’ve already lost a significant amount of weight since I’ve been locked up here, but Jonathan Fletcher’s looking at me like my body is an insult to his image.
Why the hell is he even this involved in this process in the first place? This feels creepy.
No wonder Ezra’s mom is normally drowning herself in a wine glass. Why is Gina even friends with this douchebag?
“Yes, of course,” Gina simpers, nodding eagerly.
The two of them continue to talk about my perceived deficiencies.
Extensions. Body contouring during the tan. Future botox and filler.
Whoa there. That pulls me out of my dissociative state.
Can they really make me do procedures like that? I mean, Gina is the only one allowed to make my medical decisions these days, but does that mean she can make elective medical decisions too?
“I would normally recommend breast augmentation surgery, but it seems she’s fine in that department,” Jonathan adds.
This makes Gina cut a glare towards me, so intense I’m half tempted to raise my hands up in surrender and ask what the hell I did. Because seriously, I’m just standing here. Why is she pissed at me?
Actually, the answer is clear. It’s obvious in the way she sidles closer to the A-list actor, batting her lashes and instantly agreeing to everything he’s saying.
She’s into him. Great. Just my luck.
The guy’s a psycho control freak, and my mom will stop at absolutely nothing to please him.
“Dad,” Ezra jumps up at his father’s boob job comment. His hands are clenched into fists at his sides. “Is that really necessary?”
The room, especially the side full of the Fletcher team, quiets at Ezra’s outburst.
Even I’m surprised.
I’ve known Ezra for years, and I don’t think he’s ever talked back to his dad. Ever. Same way I don’t think I’ve ever talked back to my mom until the day she threw herself down those stairs.
I’m half tempted to reach out to Ezra, who’s positioned himself between his father and me, and pull him back. Because his dad and my mom are cut from the same cloth of batshit crazy, and I don’t want him to get hurt—I saw the bruises on Ezra when we were in high school.
Jonathan’s scowl and his espresso martini scent—similar to Ezra’s more mellow coffee scent—grow thick and cloying in the space around us, despite the high vaulted ceilings.
Oh shit. He’s pissed.
“What did you say, boy?” Jonathan growls.
The entire room has fallen silent now, watching the exchange with bated breath.
I can see the tremble in the line of Ezra’s shoulders as he keeps his back to me.
Why is he doing this? I know how fucking hard it must be to stand up to his dad right now.
The only reason why I was able to stand up to my mom was because of the support I’ve gotten over the past few months from my guys and the world-shattering realization that maybe I did have a parent who loved me, after visiting my father.
Ezra hasn’t had any of that.
Is it out of guilt? A sense of responsibility to make things right after his violent outburst sparked the events of the last few months?
Is it because there’s still a part of his heart that cares for me?
Or maybe… he’s the only sane person in this room—which is saying something, considering what he’s done to me—and the only one willing to speak out against this ridiculous injustice.
Whatever the reason, I don’t want him getting hurt because of me. Especially when it’d be him getting hurt in vain because neither of our parents is the type to back down when they have their minds set on something.
“It’s fine, Ezra,” I murmur quietly, wrapping my arms around my waist protectively; the rigid canvas fabric feeling more restrictive.
“See?” Jonathan grunts. “She knows her place.”
He’s not even smug about it. At all. It’s like he expects everyone around him to capitulate to his every whim. Probably because people do. That’s what money, power, and being a ridiculously dominant alpha get you in this kind of industry, where people surround themselves with yes-men.
“You’d best stay in line, boy. This is all to distract from your own scandal.”
I bristle at that comment, things clicking into place.
As smart as Gina has shown herself to be, coming up with this master plan to get me under her thumb in every way she can, it didn’t make sense to me when Ezra first mentioned that our parents were going to try to make it appear like we were back together.