Page 108 of The Hollywood Switch-up

“I’m going to suggest something,” he continued, “and I want you to hear it as the opportunity it is. Private sessions. Just the two of us. Working on your performance—the places where you’re still reaching, still compensating for the training Anneliese had and you didn’t.” He tilted his head. “You’re talented, Erika. Genuinely. But talent without guidance is just potential, and potential doesn’t finish a film.”

She heard what lived underneath the words—the thing he’d never say plainly enough for her to repeat to anyone—and cold settled into her chest.

“And if I say no?”

“I’d be disappointed.” He smiled, the kind that said I’m offering you something precious and you’d be foolish to refuse it. “And I’d have to reconsider whether this production can sustain the risk you represent.”

Not a threat. Not quite. Just a reasonable man expressing reasonable concern about a reasonable risk, and if she said no, he’d make a reasonable phone call, and her sister’s career would be over.

She should say something. Fight back, negotiate, tell him she’d burn the production down before she’d let him touch her.

“I need time.” She said it evenly. Not a yes. Not a no. The only door she could see that didn’t lock behind her.

“Of course.” He smiled like she’d accepted a dinner invitation. “Take the weekend. Think about what kind of experience you want the rest of this production to be.” He picked up the photograph and slid it back into his drawer. “I’ll hold onto this. For safekeeping.”

A knock at the door.

Irritation crossed his face—then smoothed into the public version of Martin Blackwell.

“Yes?”

Lena stood in the doorway, clipboard against her chest. Her eyes found Erika in the chair and her face moved—quick, barely there, the look of a woman who’d seen this room arranged this way before.

“I’m sorry to interrupt, Mr. Blackwell. Lighting rig issue—insurance inspector needs you on set.”

Martin’s expression reset so smoothly she almost missed the seam. “Of course.” He stood, buttoned his jacket, and turned back to Erika with the public version of his smile. “I think Anneliese and I are finished here. Aren’t we?”

“We’re finished.” She made the words come out whole.

“Excellent. Enjoy the weekend.” He walked out without looking back. Lena followed. The door closed. Erika was alone in Martin Blackwell’s office with the photograph locked in his desk drawer.

She made it to her villa on muscle memory, the lock that took three tries because her hands wouldn’t hold still. She got the door closed and the deadbolt turned. Then she was on the floor, back against the door, knees against her chest.

The crying started before she knew it was coming—ugly, airless, the kind that doesn’t make sound because there’s no breath behind it.

Stefan’s name lit up her phone on the tile beside her. She watched it ring, watched it stop, watched the screen go dark.

She could call Stefan back. One tap and his voice would be in her ear—steady, warm, certain. He’d come. He’d hold her. None of it would change what Martin had asked her to do or the fact that she had no idea how to stop him.

But somewhere around midnight, still in yesterday's mascara, she found herself standing outside his door with no memory of the walk over.

STEFAN

She'd shown up at his door a few hours after ignoring his call, no explanation offered, and he hadn't asked for one—just pulled her inside and held on. Later, in the dark, she'd kissed him like she was trying to memorize it, and he'd said the thing he'd been circling for days because it felt true and because she looked like she needed to hear it. I love you. She hadn't said it back. He'd told himself that was fine.

He knew before she moved.

Her breathing had changed—the rhythm of a woman deciding, not resting. He’d been lying in the dark with her head on his chest and his arm around her waist, listening to her not sleep, telling himself it was a bad day, the weeks of pressure, the weight of everything she still wouldn’t name.

Then she sat up, and the air where her body had been went cold.

“I have to go.” She said it to the dark. Already reaching for her clothes. “Early call time.”

There was no early call time.

He sat up. He watched her pull his stolen shirt over her head, reaching for her own. She kept her back to him while she dressed. That told him everything.

“This isn’t about call time.” He kept his voice even, jaw locked. “You kissed me like you were saying goodbye and now you’re getting dressed in the dark. Tell me what this actually is.”