11. Andi
Andi
Gina hasn’t sat down for a single moment as Camille and a couple of extra stylists get me ready in my cell—I mean my room. She’s pacing back and forth in front of me as Camille puts the finishing touches on my dress, cinching the corset so tightly I’m not sure how I’ll be able to sit down.
It’s the same sort of dress I wore to the Grammys that night, months ago, except this time, it’s in gold instead of silver. Hopefully I won’t be bleeding all over the gold version of the dress..
I wonder how rough the cleaning bill was for the last one?
It’s covered in so many hand-embroidered beads that I’m sure it was a pain in the ass to get blood stains out.
“You will act perfect tonight, Andromeda,” Gina mutters.
Step, step, step, spin. Step, step, step, spin.
Back and forth, back and forth. She’s seriously making me dizzy.
My hair has been curled and pinned into an elegant updo, the loops of my hair resembling a flower in bloom—held up with so much hairspray, I’m surprised the strands aren’t crunchy and the makeup has been expertly applied with a liberal amount of foundation to hide my paltry complexion.
I wonder if the makeup artist was instructed to make sure I looked less anemic, because she seems to be taking more care with my makeup than she did for the charity gala.
“When I speak, I expect an answer,” Gina says, stopping in front of me and glaring up at me.
I normally have a few inches on her, but in the heels Camille has picked out for me tonight, I tower above her diminutive form.
“Yes, Mom. Picture perfect. I got it.”
“Watch your tone,” she snaps, returning to her pacing.
I have to bite my tongue to keep from snapping at her. She literally just told me to respond. The only thing I responded with was agreement.
I have a feeling I know why she’s upset.
She hasn’t mentioned anything to me directly, but I assume it’s because this whole conservatorship situation isn’t being received the way she originally intended when she was first planning it.
I’m sure Beck’s music video has something to do with it. I’m sure his fans are eating up the possibility of it containing a not-so-secret message to me. Especially the fans who didn’t mind us together.
Hell, I’m sure even the fans that hated us together are digging their claws into the situation and trying to pick it apart.
If I were braver, if I weren’t trapped under her thumb and reliant on her goodwill for even the most basic of human decencies, I would probably say something about how this whole conservatorship isn’t going the way she planned.
That’s what she gets for prioritizing Jonathan Fletcher’s bullshit agenda over her own. Maybe that will be her downfall. No matter what she does, no matter how hard she tries, there will always be a part of her that panders to dominant alphas who don’t give a shit about her.
“This event is important to the Fletchers,” Gina mutters.
Ah, there it is.
“What event is it? You never actually mentioned,” I ask, bracing myself as Camille does the final tug on the corset.
“Some music event,” she says with a wave.
That has me stilling, and not just because I can barely breathe now.
Will Beck be there?
No, I doubt Gina would let me go to an event where he’d be. Even if she’s pandering to Jonathan Fletcher’s wishes, she would know that would be a bad idea.
I think she’s afraid of my connection to him. In her mind, meeting Beck was the start of this phase of “rebelliousness” that resulted in her pulling the trigger on this conservatorship.
I’m pulled from my thoughts when there’s a knock at the open door.
Ezra stands there, in a designer suit that intentionally hangs off his frame.
I’ve never understood why he likes to dress like he’s a kid rummaging through his father’s closet, especially since he’s already such a big guy. More power to him, I guess.
“Hey,” he says, his eyes darting warily to the others in the room.
My eyes flare wide when I catch sight of his face. He must’ve had his makeup done before this, because I can see the texture of concealer and foundation on his skin. But makeup isn’t perfect.
Are those bruises?
Camille eyes Ezra as she walks out with the makeup artist, but Ezra doesn’t spare her a second glance. That probably pisses her the hell off.
It’s just Gina and Stuart in the room, Gina muttering to Stuart in sharp whispers.
“Dude are those bruises?” I murmur as he steps closer to me.
“I’m fine,” Ezra mutters, his gaze still locked on Gina, a line of frustration etched between his brows, his knuckles white around his phone.
“Was it your Dad?”
Ezra lets out a quiet huff of laughter, finally dragging his gaze down to me.
“Nah. Don’t worry about it.”
“Ezra, good, you’re here. The van will leave in ten,” Gina says, offering him a single nod before leaving the room, her sour wine scent leaving a cloud of bitterness behind her.
Ezra’s gaze lingers on Stuart, who’s showing no sign of leaving us alone anytime soon.
“You gonna be babysitting us again, Stuart?” Ezra bites out, his voice harsh with frustration.
It’s a tone I haven’t heard from him in the weeks he’s been stopping by my room, the one brief respite from the solitary confinement I’ve had.
It’s so similar to the tone he used to take before, when the cracks in our relationship were starting to show.
It leaves me wary.
It seems like he’s grown so much since he finished rehab and started.
My gaze remains locked on his face, watching for familiar twitches or dilated pupils.
Nothing.
So what’s got Ezra this worked up?
“Yes,” Stuart nods, slipping his phone into his pocket and offering Ezra a nod.
“Great,” Ezra huffs.
The room fills with an awkward silence that has me nervously picking at my cuticles. Gina brought someone in to do my nails today, since the previous extensions were looking grown out. It’s a different style than I’m used to. The blocky square design makes my hands feel like they’re not even mine.
I’m far more used to almond-shaped extensions, or maybe stiletto if it’s for a shoot.
I’m not even sure why Gina chose this design for me. Is it because after the past month of being stuck here, my hands need something bulkier to make them look like I’m not withering away?
Maybe.
Ezra looks down at me, something complicated crossing his expression.
“Are you sure you’re okay?” I murmur softly.
His gaze cuts towards Stuart again, and I’m struck with the feeling that whatever Ezra wants to say, he wants to say it in private.
“Yeah. ‘m fine,” he mutters, running a hand through his gelled-up hair.
When we leave my prison cell together, there’s a new alpha stationed at the top of the stairs. Not one of the two who dragged me up here that first day, but someone just as broad with that unnerving professional stare that makes my skin crawl.
“Who’s that?” I ask, nodding towards the landing.
“Additional security for the event,” Gina says, like she’s commenting on the weather.
That would explain why he’s wearing a suit instead of those uniforms the others were wearing.
“There was some concern about… lapses. During the last event,” Stuart comments, following us like some evil specter.
My stomach drops straight through the floor.
Lapses?
I keep my face carefully blank, the way I’ve had to keep it blank my entire life on camera.
They can’t possibly know about that voicemail, they wouldn’t be letting me see the light of day if they did.
They might suspect I did something,though, especially with Beck’s music video, but they can’t know for certain that I actually managed to leave Cameron a voicemail.
“Didn’t realize I was that much of a security risk,” I say, aiming for dry instead of terrified.
“You’re not,” Gina says with an offhanded wave, as if the thought that I’d do something rebellious doesn’t even register as a possibility. “We are simply being thorough. Your safety is our highest priority.”
Thorough… Right.
The new additional set of eyes on me doesn’t help with the deep, foreboding sense of unease as we head downstairs.
The SUV with tinted windows is waiting for us in the garage, probably to avoid the possibility of any paparazzi taking photos of us outside the house—because of course everything has to be carefully curated.
Ezra’s fingertips drum against his knees as he folds himself up into the back row of the SUV with me. He stares silently out the window, his jaw working the entire time.
It’s a little scary, maybe it’s because I’m essentially in the same dress as the night he assaulted me. The reminder of that night presses in along the edges of my mind the same way the corset digs into my skin.
But his anxious, agitated finger-drumming is so different from the rhythmic taps he’s used to count his deep breathing exercises. His coffee scent is bitter, tinged with his irritation.
I’m sure my own chamomile scent is reacting to his, my own stress evident.
I catch my reflection in the car’s tinted window before I remember to look away. I’ve been subconsciously avoiding any and all reflective surfaces. Probably for good reason.
For half a second, I don’t recognize the woman looking back at me. Her collarbones are cut too sharply against the neckline of the dress. Her eyes look like they belong to someone twenty years older.
That’s not me, is it?
“Andromeda, wipe that expression off your face before we get to the venue,” Stuart says, shooting a glance over his shoulder at me before returning to something on his tablet.
“What? Oh,” I shake my head, taking a deep, steadying breath and biting back the apology that was on the tip of my tongue.
That conniving beta doesn’t deserve my fucking apologies. I’m doing nothing wrong. This is just my face.
My face while I’m internally spiraling and freaking out about being stuck with a pissed-off Ezra for the rest of the night, but still.