Page 125 of The Hollywood Switch-up

“I can’t reopen this and survive it, Lily.” It came out quiet. Not angry. Just true. “I’ve got nothing left. Annie’s on a plane. My name is trending. And I have to figure out how to get through tomorrow without the one person I—” She stopped. “I just need to get through tomorrow.”

Lily set the tequila bottle on the nightstand like an offering.

“For what it’s worth?” She paused at the door. “You’re the bravest person I know. Even when you’re being stupid.”

The door closed.

Erika sat in the dark. The tequila caught moonlight on the nightstand and she thought about Lily’s hands shaking on the counter and the way her voice had cracked on the word safe and she told herself it didn’t change anything, it couldn’t change anything, because if Stefan was right, then she was wrong, and if she was wrong, then she’d thrown away the only⁠—

She closed her eyes. Tomorrow. Just get through tomorrow.

STEFAN

Stefan sat on his porch in the dark with a bottle of tequila and watched Erika’s villa across the grounds. Every window black. Curtains drawn. Fifty yards of path between his door and hers and neither of them crossing it.

He’d stood at her door for five minutes after she’d gone inside. He’d raised his hand to knock twice, and twice he’d let it drop, because the silence on the other side was a wall he couldn’t break through.

The tequila wasn’t helping. He’d known it wouldn’t from the first pour, but drinking was something to do with his hands and the alternative was crossing that path again and standing at her door again and being met with silence again, and he couldn’t do that. Not tonight.

Three sharp raps on his own door. Evenly spaced. “Stefan. Open the door before I pick the lock.”

He opened it. Isabelle took one look at him—the bottle on the table, the split knuckles, the broken glass on the floor—and didn’t comment. She walked past him, sank onto the arm of his couch, pressed two fingers to her temple, and he knew from the circles under her eyes and her unwillingness to perform composure that whatever she’d come to say was going to be bad.

“The studio buried Stasia’s case. Again.”

His blood went cold.

“New lawyers. New NDAs. New payoffs.” She wasn’t looking at him. “Martin got on a call with Zenith yesterday and walked out with their full backing. A career’s worth of evidence—the testimonies, the patterns, the paper trail—neutralized. All of it.”

“You had witnesses.”

“I had women who were willing to talk.” Her jaw tightened. “Past tense. Two received settlement offers this week. The third was reminded—very politely—about the NDA she signed five years ago.”

He let that sink in. Three women who’d been willing to stand up. Three women who’d looked at the machine and said yes, I’ll speak. And in one week, Martin’s people had found each of them and closed their mouths with money or fear, and the system had worked exactly as designed, and something in Stefan that had held steady for eight years started to give.

He hit the wall before he knew he was swinging. Pain flared through his already-split knuckles and he didn’t care.

“So he wins? After Stasia, after eight years of testimonies and paper trails, after all of it?”

“For now.” She moved to the window, and the moonlight caught the silver in her hair and she looked older than he’d ever seen her, tired in a permanent way. “The only attorney in this town with the teeth to take on Zenith is Sebastian Solokov. But he needs a plaintiff willing to go public. And Martin’s machine has made sure there isn’t one.”

Stefan pressed his forehead against the wall he’d just punched.

“What about Erika?”

The question came from deeper than strategy. Not about the case or what about our evidence—what about the woman sleeping fifty yards away who had no idea what she was in the middle of.

Isabelle’s face changed. Not the cold calculation. Not the boardroom steel. Fear.

“That’s why I’m here.” She stood and crossed to him. “Martin knows about the switch. He’s known for weeks—maybe longer. And the studio just gave him a blank check and a pat on the back.” Her voice was careful now, measured—the way she talked when she didn’t want to scare someone. “If he’s feeling untouchable, if he thinks no one can stop him⁠—”

She didn’t finish. She didn’t have to.

“She’s a loose end.”

The words came out of his mouth and he heard them and the floor was gone. Erika was at a loose end. The woman he loved, the woman who’d pressed her hand over his heart and counted his heartbeat, who’d said Promise? in the dark—she was a problem to be managed, a risk to be neutralized, and Martin had the studio’s blessing and years of practice in making women disappear.

“Get her off this island, Stefan. Tonight. Anneliese is flying in—that’s your window. Get them both on a plane before Martin has a chance to move.”