Page 141 of The Hollywood Switch-up

“The exposé,” Anneliese said finally. “You and Isabelle.”

“Over a decade of evidence. Eight of them have gathered since Stasia.” He exhaled. “Fifty thousand people watched him hurt her and the studio called it a misunderstanding. I failed her when it mattered. Handing over the files was the only concrete thing I had left.”

She nodded slowly. Not absolution, just acknowledgment.

He reached into his bag. Pulled out a worn sketchbook—the cover soft from handling, warped from salt air, edges worn smooth. Sketches of the Bahamas set. Of him, apparently, though he’d only understood that later when he’d let himself look.

It smelled faintly of salt air. Of her.

He slid it across the table. “She left this on the set. I thought she might want it back.”

Anneliese’s breath caught. She didn’t touch it immediately, just looked at it.

“You kept this?”

“I kept everything.” The napkin she’d drawn on at craft services. A single earring she’d lost on the yacht. Patético. He knew. He didn’t care.

Anneliese picked up the sketchbook carefully. “I’ll make sure she gets it.”

She stood, but Stefan didn’t move. He turned the glass in his hands, watching the whiskey catch the light.

“Premiere’s next week,” he said. “After that I’m going back to Spain. Cudillero. My grandmother’s village. My career’s done. This city’s done. There’s nothing keeping me here.”

Anneliese looked at him, measuring the distance between what was written and what was true. “You’re not leaving because it’s time,” she said. “You’re leaving because it’s easier.”

“She made her choice.” His voice went flat. “Aunque me mate.”

“Hollywood didn’t break you,” she said. “She did. And you’re dressing it up as the same wound because the truth costs more.”

He didn’t answer. There wasn’t anything to say to that.

The silence held. Outside, the bar kept moving around them—glasses clinking, a low laugh somewhere near the door, the steady churn of people whose lives hadn’t stopped.

“Don’t leave for Spain yet.” She said it quietly, without pressure. Just the fact of it.

Before he could respond, she was gone. Bradley appeared from the bar, fell into step beside her, and the door closed behind them both.

ERIKA

Morning light pooled on the guest room floor—honey-gold, the kind she used to mix with cadmium yellow and chase across a canvas before she forgot how. Boxes lined the walls, sealed and labeled in Anneliese’s handwriting because Erika had run out of steam somewhere around the kitchen items. She crouched on the bare hardwood and tried not to look at the box of art supplies in the corner.

She still couldn’t draw. But she was leaving. That had to count for something.

“I knew I’d find you here.”

Erika looked up. Anneliese stood in the doorway, pizza box in one hand and champagne in the other.

“Carbs and bubbles,” she declared, folding herself onto the floor and sliding a slice toward Erika. “Mandatory for every new chapter.”

“You didn’t have to.”

“Please.” Anneliese waved her off. “Remember that rat that chewed through our bathroom wall in the old apartment? You barricaded yourself in your room until I promised cookies.”

Erika laughed despite herself. “I still hear it sometimes.”

“You’ll do amazing things out there.” Anneliese’s grin softened. “But who am I supposed to stress-bake for at two in the morning?”

“I hear Bradley’s very supportive of midnight brownies.”