Page 133 of The Hollywood Switch-up

Nobody had stepped up for Stasia eight years ago—nineteen years old, swallowed by the same machine. He’d heard the rumors then, too. Watched her disappear into an NDA. Told himself it wasn’t his fight. Told himself someone else would handle it. Mentiras. Lies he’d whispered to help himself sleep.

Now Erika’s face was there every time he closed his eyes. The same hollow look Stasia had worn.

He’d been a coward long enough. He grabbed the hard drive and stepped into the downtown glare.

The conference room smelled like recycled air. Stefan crossed to the windows. Below, the city moved. He stood there until Sarah spoke.

“You have time to walk away.”

He turned. His agent stood at the long table. He set the hard drive down between them.

Walk away. He could. Pack a bag, fly to Cudillero, let someone else be the hero. Let Erika hate him from a distance instead of up close.

“The studio’s lawyers called,” Sarah said. “They’ll sue for libel the second you go public. Brand you an obsessed ex. Dredge up every rumor, every headline.” She stepped closer. “Stefan, they will tear you down.”

“I’m not walking away.”

Sarah’s eyes widened. He pressed both palms to the table—felt the wood grain beneath his fingers, solid and real and unforgiving.

“Let them sue. Let them burn me down. Let them turn me into a cautionary tale they tell at industry mixers.” His voice dropped to gravel. “I’m done waiting for someone else to do the right thing. Ya basta. Enough.”

Silence. Sarah’s fingers stopped drumming. She looked at him the way she had ten years ago.

“You know what this will cost me.” Not soft. Just factual. “Verramago. The Meridian deal. Half my client list has Zenith money in their next picture. I’ve known about Martin’s patterns since Midnight Run. I kept placing clients anyway.”

“I know.”

She held his gaze another beat. Then her calculations stopped.

“Okay.” She straightened. “Then let’s burn it all down.”

The door opened. Two women—the first compact, cropped hair and black-rimmed glasses; the second taller, auburn ponytail, looking like she’d heard every version of every lie this industry had to offer. They sat down like they’d already decided how this would go.

The compact one offered her hand first, grip firm. “Mr. Cruz. I’m Kodi Jolal.”

The taller one didn't sit so much as claim the chair, making brief eye contact, already pulling out a notebook. “Teagan Truly. Thank you for meeting us.”

Kodi set a recorder on the table. The red light blinked.

“We’ve covered Hollywood scandals for twenty years,” Teagan said. “Nine times out of ten, men who show up wanting to ‘help’ are managing their own PR.”

“That’s not why I’m⁠—”

“You were on that set for six weeks.” Teagan didn’t blink. “You knew Martin Blackwell’s history—the rumors, the settlements, Stasia. And when he started circling Erika, you did what? Warned her? Reported him? Or did you take her to dinner and hope someone else would handle it?”

The dinner. Mierda. One night he’d let himself pretend wanting to protect her was the same as actually doing it.

Pendejo. He’d sat across from her, while Martin was planning how to destroy her. While the trap was being set.

The contracts, the NDAs, all of it—he could explain all of it. But excuses were another kind of cowardice. They wouldn’t undo what Martin did while Stefan was playing house.

Cobarde. The word fit.

Kodi leaned forward. “So tell us why you’re here, Mr. Cruz. Because you’re not the savior of this story. You’re part of the machine that made it possible.”

Stefan moved to the window. Pressed his palm against the glass. Sí. Todo. Yes. All of it. He turned back.

“I knew Martin’s name long before this. Heard the rumors at every gala, every wrap party, whispers that disappeared before they could stick to anyone’s conscience. Todo el mundo sabía. Everyone knew. And everyone did nothing. So did I.” He laughed bitterly. “That’s how this industry works. You hear things, you look away, you keep cashing checks. Complicity is the price of admission.”