Page 23 of The Hollywood Switch-up

She clutched her script tighter, the pages crumpling against her chest as she retreated a half-step.

Lily slid between them, chin tilted upward. “Just starting the final fittings, Martin.” Her voice was honey over steel. “Something wrong?”

“What’s wrong is that we’re already behind schedule!” Spittle gathered at the corners of his mouth. “The wardrobe was supposed to be finalized days ago, but between the studio rushing pre-production and my revisions, nothing is where it should be!” He jabbed a finger in Erika’s direction. “This film is bleeding money, and you’re playing dress-up!”

Erika’s stomach hollowed out. Martin’s eyes never quite met hers—they fixed somewhere below her chin.

“Fix it.” The tent flap cracked behind him like a whip.

Erika exhaled. “Is he always like that?”

Lily snorted, fingers flying as she sorted through a rack of costumes. “Martin? That was him being charming. Wait until he starts throwing things.”

“Lily,” Erika whispered, gripping the designer’s arm. “Why is Stefan Cruz here?”

Lily’s perfectly penciled eyebrows arched over her cat-eye glasses. “Saw the neighbor already, did we?” Her gaze flicked to Erika’s death grip on the costume rack. “Breathe, honey. You look like you’ve seen⁠—”

“A ghost with an eight-pack,” Erika whispered, the words escaping before she could catch them. Her grip on Lily’s arm tightened. “That’s the lead actor’s villa. Please tell me he’s just some . . . some stunt coordinator. Or Bradley’s personal trainer.” Her voice broke. “Or literally anyone except who I think it is.”

Lily glanced at the tent flap, then guided Erika behind a fortress of sequined gowns where a canvas director’s chair sat. “Sit before you fall.”

“Bradley’s coming, right? He’s just delayed or⁠—”

“Bradley Smart,” Lily said, slowly,” . . . is currently on a private jet to New Zealand. Production got the call yesterday.”

Erika gripped the armrests of the director’s chair, knuckles whitening. “What?”

“‘Family emergency,’” Lily said, with air quotes. “The rumor mill’s in overdrive. Some say he heard about your accident and bolted. Others swear he and Martin nearly came to blows over the third act. Bradley has the spine of a jellyfish. One whiff of delays and that ‘difficult director’ reputation, and poof—” she snapped her fingers “—New Zealand suddenly needed him desperately.”

“So the movie’s . . . canceled?”

Lily’s laugh was the sound of expensive jewelry against marble. “Sweetie, this is Hollywood. They’d reshoot with sock puppets before they’d walk away from forty million in pre-production.” She lowered her voice to a conspiratorial whisper. “The studio exec literally threw his Spinzone bike through a window when Bradley bailed. They’ve been making calls all night.”

“But who would—” The answer was already in her throat.

Lily’s crimson fingernails drummed against her tablet. “They needed someone who could start tomorrow. Someone the camera worships.” Her eyes darted toward the tent’s entrance, in the exact direction of the neighboring villa. “Someone whose tabloid history with Anneliese Morgan would have Page Eight camping on the beach before sunset.”

The dread in Erika’s gut solidified.

“They hired Stefan Cruz,” Lily said.

Erika thought she’d stopped breathing—the man who hated Anneliese more than anyone in Hollywood.

“Excuse me,” she whispered, stumbling to her feet. “I need to—” But there was nowhere to go. No escape. No convenient sinkhole to swallow her whole. Shit. This was a problem.

She could call Olivia. Confess everything. Get on the next flight home and let Anneliese deal with the fallout.

But she didn’t dial. Walking away meant Anneliese’s career was in ruins. And despite everything—the lies, the terror, the man next door—she wasn’t ready to be the sister who destroyed everything.

You are the sun. She exhaled. Fine. But even the sun has to fake it sometimes.

STEFAN

What the hell is wrong with Anneliese Morgan?

Stefan froze mid-sip. He’d spent years despising this woman. Fantastic. His body had apparently missed the memo.

She paused to speak with a PA, her white summer dress catching the breeze. From fifty yards away, the silhouette was unmistakable—honey-blonde hair tumbling past bare shoulders, that distinctive profile he’d memorized across red carpets and movie screens. But the hesitation in her step, the way she held herself. His instincts told him something had shifted. This wasn’t the woman who’d thrown champagne in his face at PLUMP.