Page 153 of The Hollywood Switch-up

“Hi,” she said.

He came down off the step. Sand shifted under his feet. “What are you doing here?” The words came out rougher than he intended. “At the premiere—you said you couldn’t trust⁠—”

“Before you say anything.” She lifted her hand. “I need to tell you something. Something I should have told you three months ago.”

He went still.

“That night at your villa. When I showed up. When I left.” She exhaled. “I told you it was the press. The paparazzi. Your world.” Her voice steadied on the last words, like she’d practiced them, or carried them long enough that they’d become muscle memory. “None of it was true. I lied to you, Stefan.”

“What?”

“Martin.” The name cost her something to say. “He cornered me that afternoon. In his office. He had photos—of us, on the beach—and he knew about the switch. He said if I didn’t end things with you, he’d destroy Anneliese’s career. Yours.” Her hands went to fists at her sides. “He said the only way to protect everyone was to walk away. So I did.”

Something went very still in him. Not rage. He’d expected rage. This was quieter. The feeling of a shape clicking into place and changing the geometry of everything before it.

Hijo de puta. And it had been Martin all along.

“You carried that.” He said it before the question fully formed. “The whole time—the assault, the recovery, all of it—you carried that alone?”

“Yes.”

The single word landing. He let it.

“Did you think—” He stopped. Started again. “Did you think I wouldn’t have chosen you? If you’d told me. Did you think I’d have let him do that?”

She looked at him. “I thought you’d try to fix it. And make it worse. And lose everything anyway.” A beat. “I was also just scared. And I was used to handling things alone.”

He wanted to argue. To tell her she was wrong, he would have found a way, he would have⁠—

He stopped himself. Because she wasn’t wrong. And because this wasn’t about being right.

“And when the statement came out⁠—”

"I know," she said. "I know you didn't authorize it. Martin made sure I'd see the worst possible version of what it meant. I didn't give you a chance to explain. I believed what everyone else was saying. I looked for the betrayal because I expected it. And when I thought I found it, I ran."

Her fingers came up and touched his jaw, not tentative, just careful. “I shut you out. I let you think you’d failed me when you hadn’t done anything wrong.” A beat. “I’m sorry. I’m done running.”

Dios mío.

His hand came up to cover hers. The warmth of her palm against his face after three months of nothing. He reached for the performance instinct and found it wasn’t there. No frame. No character. Just his hand over hers and the reality of her standing on his beach in a wet silk dress at midnight.

“You said something that night,” she said. Her voice dropped. “In your bed. After.”

He knew. He’d always known.

“Te amo,” she said. His language in her mouth—his language, his heart, the truest thing he’d ever said accidentally. “Stefan. Te amo. I love you. I’ve loved you since that night on the beach—the lanterns, your father’s song, the way you looked at me like you’d already decided I was worth the risk.” Her thumb traced his cheekbone and caught something there he hadn’t known was falling. “I’m sorry it took me so long.”

He couldn’t find words in any language. Three months of performing composure in interviews and on red carpets and in a corridor at his own premiere, and now here, with no camera and no audience and no character to hide behind, he had nothing. Not even the instinct to reach for something. Just this.

“You offered me Spain once,” she said. “That night, when everything was falling apart. You said you’d walk away from all of it. Disappear to some village where no one knew your name.”

“I was too scared to say yes.” She smiled—small and trembling and real. “I’m not scared anymore.” Her hand slid from his cheek to his chest, pressing flat against his heartbeat. “I’m not asking you to take me anywhere. I’m telling you I’m coming. To Cudillero. To wherever you’re going.” She pulled back slightly to look at him. The direct look. “I want to paint the Cantabrian Sea. Learn Spanish. Meet your mother.” The smallest smile. “If that’s okay.”

“Corazón.” His hands came up to her face, both of them, holding her like he’d been afraid he’d never get to again. “You don’t have to ask. Nunca. Never.” He pressed his forehead to hers and breathed her in. “I’ve been yours since the day my engine died and you called me a pendejo for looking helpless, Princesa.”

The laugh that escaped her was one he’d never heard before. Not braced for anything. Just released.

“You don’t have to make up for anything,” she whispered. “I’m the one who ran.”