Page 10 of The Hollywood Switch-up

Move. Her feet didn’t move.

“My comment about your sister was uncharitable,” he continued. “But it was honest. And in a town built on performance, honesty can be a weapon.” His expression turned serious. “Blackwell. I saw him talking to you earlier. You looked like you wanted to crawl out of your own skin.”

He’d read it exactly right. She hated that. “That’s none of your business.”

“Perhaps not.” His gaze held her in place. “But he is a predator. And you . . . you looked like his next meal.”

The cold moved through her. She tasted the metallic fizz of champagne, and felt Blackwell’s stare. Stefan’s heat warred with the cold memory.

“I noticed you watching him watch me.” Her chin came up. “You looked like you wanted to throw your drink in his face. So, what history do you two have? Don’t pretend this warning is entirely altruistic.”

He paused, like she’d caught him out. “You’re right. It’s not.” He paused. “But that doesn’t make it less true.”

“What did he do?”

The question hung between them. For a moment, she thought he wouldn’t answer.

“He breaks his toys,” Stefan said quietly. “I’ve seen the aftermath. And I’d rather not see it again.” He raised a hand, and Erika instinctively tensed, but he only gestured back toward the party. “Be careful, Erika. Your sister knows how to play the game. Blackwell doesn’t play. He destroys.”

The intensity in his eyes held her pinned for one moment longer. Erika broke the spell and turned to leave.

She didn’t get far.

His hand reached out—but didn’t quite reach her elbow. Hovering. Waiting.

She could walk away. She should walk away. Her shoes stayed where they were.

His fingers closed the distance, gentle but firm around her elbow. The warmth of his palm through the thin fabric of her dress was immediate, a startling heat that shot up her arm. She felt it everywhere.

Don’t lean in.

But her body wasn’t listening. She was leaning into the touch, ever so slightly. She caught herself doing it, and the shame came right after.

He leaned in, his voice a murmur meant only for her. “It was a pleasure to meet you, Erika Morgan.”

The spell broke. She stepped back, and his hand fell away immediately—no resistance, no protest.

“Save the charm for someone who hasn’t heard what you think of her family.” She turned and walked away.

As Erika returned to the table, the room’s buzzing energy felt distant and muffled, like she was hearing it through glass. Anneliese wasn’t alone. She was holding court, with Olivia on one side and a sycophantic junior agent named Leo on the other. Erika slid into her empty seat, the borrowed heels still biting into her ankles, but she was too numb to feel it.

She glanced at her sister—radiant, commanding, effortlessly the center of attention—and something dropped out of her. If Annie ever found out . . .

It meant nothing. He warned you about Blackwell. That’s all.

But she could still feel the ghost of his hand on her elbow. Could hear the way he’d said her name. And her eyes kept betraying her, scanning the crowd for a tall man in a forest-green suit.

Stop it.

She kept looking anyway.

“The ‘no talent’ line is already trending,” Leo said, shaking his head.

Olivia waved a dismissive hand, though her eyes were sharp. “It’s a tired move, Leo. Predictable. He needed a soundbite to distract from his last movie flopping, and Anneliese is always good for a headline.”

“A headline?” Anneliese’s voice was low and tight, her knuckles white around the breadstick she was holding. “He called me a talentless influencer, Olivia.”

Olivia’s expression softened slightly. “I know, sweetie. The indie film. The one Stefan torpedoed.”