Page 24 of The Hollywood Switch-up

The Anneliese Morgan he knew moved like she owned the room.

When a production assistant intercepted her, Stefan expected Anneliese’s trademark dismissive head tilt. Instead, she smiled—not the dazzling, camera-ready grin that had launched a thousand sponsored posts, but quieter, almost shy—the kind of smile you'd give someone who held a door open for you.

Something tugged at the edge of his memory—a dim hallway. A woman’s startled eyes in the dark.

What happened to you? The fall couldn’t have changed her this much. Could it?

Stefan’s fingers crushed the plastic water bottle. She looked . . . vulnerable. Lost. And Martin—Christ, Martin would have her in pieces by lunch. The thought made his jaw clench.

Why do I care? He shouldn’t. But he couldn’t look away.

He tossed the bottle into a nearby bin and pushed away from the craft services table. Three steps toward her, rehearsing opening lines, when Martin’s voice stopped him.

“Stefan.” Martin’s lips curled. Almost a smile. “The studio’s last resort, I see.”

Stefan turned, shoulders squaring. “Martin.”

Martin wiped sweat from his upper lip. “The prodigal son returns. Tell me, did they even negotiate your rate, or did you just say yes to the first number?”

Stefan stepped closer, close enough to smell the sour coffee on Martin’s breath. “You know why I left your last set. You’re lucky I didn’t take what I saw to the press.”

Martin’s smile tightened. “And you’re lucky anyone still remembers your name after that box office disaster.” He leaned in, voice dropping to a whisper. “We both know you’re here because you’re one flop away from streaming service purgatory.”

Martin’s smile thinned. “I am the director, Stefan. My vision. My rules.” His gaze slid toward Anneliese, lingering a beat too long on the curve of her neck. “Your costar seems . . . delicate today.” He clicked his tongue against his teeth. “Shame if something were to crack.”

Stefan tasted metal. “Touch her, and we’ll see who breaks.”

The words came out before he could stop them. What the hell am I doing? He hadn’t signed on to play white knight for Anneliese Morgan. But Martin’s gaze on her neck made something flare in him. Hot, unwelcome.

Martin pressed closer, cologne and coffee breath mingling in the humid air between them. “Careful, golden boy. One phone call from me, and you’re doing straight-to-streaming Christmas romcoms until you’re forty.” His finger jabbed Stefan’s chest. “Remember who buried your career after you walked off my set. I can dig the grave deeper.”

“And I could whisper a few things myself, Martin,” Stefan said, leaning in until their shoulders nearly touched. “Remember that actress on our last set? The one who suddenly quit? I still have her texts.”

He hadn’t been able to protect Stasia. He’d been too late, too careful, too worried about his own career. He wasn’t going to make that mistake again.

Martin’s smirk vanished. Something flickered behind his eyes. His eyes went flat.

“Keep your memories to yourself, Cruz.” Martin adjusted his baseball cap, the brim casting his eyes in shadow. “I run a clean set now.” He turned and walked away, but not before his gaze slid one more time toward the woman in the white dress.

Stefan watched Martin swagger away. He stepped over a tangle of cables, sidestepping a PA with sweating water bottles. Twenty yards. Fifteen. Ten. With each step, the strangeness sharpened—the bitten edge of her thumbnail, the faint tremble in her fingers, the way her eyes kept darting toward exits.

She spotted him. For a heartbeat, fear flashed across her face—real, unguarded—before her expression shifted. Chin lifting, spine straightening, lips curving into that familiar smirk. But something was off. The edges are too sharp. The smile is wrong.

“Stefan.” His name came out clipped. She paused, tried again with more honey in her voice. “I see you made it.”

“I wouldn’t miss it for the world,” he said, closing the distance between them until she had to tilt her chin up to meet his eyes. A grip shouldered past with a C-stand, forcing her to step sideways—directly into his space. Her perfume hit him then, like clean cotton warmed by the sun. His breath caught. Dios. That scent—familiar, though he couldn’t place it.

The white fabric of her dress clung to her collarbone, where beads of sweat had gathered. When she shifted her weight, the plastic water bottle in her grip creaked under her fingers. Nervous. Since when was Anneliese Morgan nervous?

He leaned closer, his lips nearly brushing her ear.

“Listen, Anneliese. About the other night . . .” His voice dropped to a murmur meant only for her. “Things got out of hand.”

His tone softened. “I’m glad to hear the injury wasn’t very serious. I hope you received the flowers.”

“Flowers?” The word escaped her like air from a punctured tire. For three heartbeats, confusion clouded her eyes before recognition dawned. Her mouth curved into what should have been Anneliese’s signature smirk, but her knuckles whitened around the water bottle.

“How quaint.” The words landed with all the bite of a wet napkin. “I’m surprised you didn’t just send a press release?” The uptick at the end—turning the statement into a question—was pure amateur hour. The real Anneliese would have drawn blood with that line. This version barely left a scratch.