Page 107 of The Hollywood Switch-up

He repeated the word, then leaned forward. “You’re not sleeping, though. I can see it—here, and here.” He gestured vaguely at his own face, mapping her exhaustion onto his features. “And your hands haven’t been steady since Tuesday. You hide it well on camera, but I watch the playback at half speed.”

Half speed. He’d been watching the dailies at half speed to study her tremor.

“I’ve also noticed Stefan.” His tone shifted—still warm, still conversational. “He’s been very attentive. Walking you to set. Making sure you eat. Showing up at your villa at hours that would be difficult to explain to a photographer.” He smiled. “It’s touching.”

She kept her face neutral.

“The thing is, Anneliese—” He opened his desk drawer and placed a photograph between them, smoothing one corner with his thumb. “I don’t think Stefan knows what he’s protecting.”

Bradley and Anneliese. The Malibu wellness center. The original.

“I paid quite a lot for this.” He tapped the photograph once. “More than Stefan Cruz was willing to spend to make it disappear.”

Stefan had tried to buy the photo.

“He almost managed it.” Martin’s voice carried admiration. “His people were fast. But I’d already had a relationship with the outlet for years. These things come down to trust.”

She forced the mask to hold. “I’m not sure what you’re implying.”

“I’m not implying anything.” He picked up the photograph and studied it. “I’m telling you that the woman in this photograph is not the woman sitting in my office.”

“That photograph has been questioned by every outlet that ran it. Olivia’s team confirmed the timestamps were⁠—”

“Erika.” He said it softly. Not Anneliese. Erika. And the floor dropped out from under her. She didn’t react.

“Same face,” he said, watching her like he watched playback. “Same bone structure. But the posture is different. The walk is different. And there’s a detail that took me a while to confirm.” He set the photograph down. “Anneliese has a scar on her left hand. Childhood accident—broken glass at a birthday party. Beau Monde did a piece on it. She shows it in interviews, touches it when she’s nervous.” He paused. “You don’t have that scar.”

She didn’t look at her hands. Wouldn’t give him that.

“The photographs were what did it.” He smoothed the corner of the photo with his thumb. “Two women in two places, twelve minutes apart. I bought the original before Cruz’s people could get there and I looked at it properly.” He tilted his head.

“If you believed any of this, you would have called the studio weeks ago.” She heard her own voice—steady, flat, Anneliese at her most dismissive—and held onto it. “You wouldn’t be sitting in a private office telling me about it over coffee.”

His face shifted. Not anger—interest.

“That’s the first intelligent thing you’ve said since you sat down.” He leaned forward. “You’re right. I didn’t call the studio. I didn’t call the insurers. I didn’t call the press.” He folded his hands on the desk. “Ask me why.”

“Because you want something.”

“Because I want you to understand exactly where we stand.”

He let the silence do what most men would have used volume for.

“I could end this with a single phone call.” He said it like he’d say let’s try that scene again—mild, professional, inevitable. “You know that.”

“Then why haven’t you?”

She watched the question land. For just a second, the flicker of a man who’d expected her to crumble and hadn’t gotten it yet. Something she could use.

“Because I don’t want to.” He spread his hands on the desk—the posture of a man offering a deal. “Ending this serves nobody. Your sister’s career is destroyed. My production loses its lead. The studio eats fifty million dollars. Everyone loses.” He paused. “I don’t like losing.”

“So what do you want?” She kept her voice steady. Her hands were shaking under the desk where he couldn’t see them.

“I want what I’ve always wanted. A great film. A lead actress who gives me everything she has.” His gaze held hers. “And a working relationship built on mutual trust.”

The words sounded reasonable. That was the worst part. Sitting in this office with the morning light coming through the blinds, they sounded like something any director might say to any actress on any production.

Almost. Except for the photograph sitting between them. Except for her real name in his mouth, like he was unwrapping something.