Page 126 of The Hollywood Switch-up

“She won’t see me. She won’t answer my calls.” The words scraped out. “She thinks I’m the one who destroyed her.”

“Then send Lily. Send a carrier pigeon. I don’t care how you do it.” Isabelle was at the door now. Her urgency was real. “Get her off this island before sunrise.”

“And if I can’t?”

“Then pray I’m wrong about Martin.”

The door clicked shut behind her, and her footsteps faded fast down the path—too fast for a woman who dealt in calm, measured control. That, more than anything she'd said, told him how scared she actually was.

Stefan stood in the middle of his wrecked villa and the dread was everywhere now—in his hands, in his throat, in the fifty yards of dark path between his porch and her door.

He went to Erika’s villa. Knocked. No answer. He knocked again. Pressed his forehead against the wood. The paint was cool. Jasmine from the garden bed beside the door. He thought about Erika.

“Erika.” His voice came out wrecked. “I know you can hear me. And I know you don’t want to. But something is wrong—not the statement, not us, something else—and I can’t tell you what it is through a door.” He waited. Nothing. “You can hate me. You should hate me. But please don’t be alone tonight. Go to Lily. Go to anyone. Just—don’t be here by yourself.”

Nothing. Not a sound. Not a footstep. Not even the shift of weight on a mattress.

“I’m sorry.” He said it to the wood, to the paint, to the silence. “For not telling you sooner. For letting you find out the way you did instead of hearing it from me. I should have trusted you with it and I didn’t and I’ll carry that.” His voice cracked. “Te amo. Whatever else you believe about me, that part is real. That part was always real.”

He pressed his split knuckles against the wood. The blood left a faint smear on the white paint. He thought about how she’d pressed her hand over his heart on the yacht and counted his heartbeat. He’d stand at this door all night if he thought it would make a difference.

It wouldn’t. He knew that.

He stepped back. He called Lily. Straight to voicemail. He texted: Erika is in danger. Martin. Call me the second you get this. The message sent. The screen stayed dark.

He called Alex and got three words in before Alex started talking about the statement and damage control and crisis management. Stefan hung up. None of that mattered. The thing that mattered was behind a locked door fifty yards away. She’d rather be alone with whatever was coming than let him in.

He sat on his porch steps. Her villa stayed dark. The moon was silver on the path. The palm trees moved in the wind. Her curtains didn’t stir.

Anneliese wouldn’t land until morning. Lily still hadn’t called back. Erika was alone in that villa, and there was nothing—nothing—he could do about it except sit here and watch and wait for a dawn he was terrified of.

He told himself he’d see her leave if she left. He’d hear the door if it opened. He’d catch her at first light and make her listen, even if she hated him for it.

He fell asleep at five thirty. The sky was just starting to gray. His head was against the porch railing. The bottle was empty beside him. He didn’t feel himself go—just blinked, and the dark was lighter, and then he was gone.

He would not forgive himself for that for a very long time.

ERIKA

Erika woke in the dark villa with the tequila still on the nightstand and the sheets still smelling like nothing because she’d shoved his pillow off the bed hours ago. Gray light through the curtains. The alarm on her phone buzzed against the wood.

She splashed water on her face, pulled on the nearest set of clothes, and walked past the mirror without stopping.

A knock at the door. Sharp, efficient, no warmth in it.

She crossed the villa and opened the door and noticed, without understanding, a rust-colored smear on the white paint near the handle.

Lena stood on the porch, clipboard in hand, scarlet pixie cut styled despite the hour. But the usual sunshine was gone from her face—replaced by something tight and careful, like someone following a script she hadn’t written.

“Ms. Morgan. Call time moved up. You’re on set in ten.”

Ms. Morgan. Lena had always been professional, but there had been a warmth to it—a shared look over a steaming coffee cup, a quiet roll of the eyes at a director’s tantrum, a way of saying Ms. Morgan that sounded like an invitation. Now, it sounded like an indictment.

“No coffee today?”

“Ten minutes.” Lena’s voice was precise.

She turned to leave, and for a second an apology crossed her face that she couldn’t say out loud. She thrust a stack of pink pages into Erika’s hand without meeting her eyes.