Page 37 of The Hollywood Switch-up

“Sounds like pressure,” he said carefully. “Living up to your own mythology.”

She traced her finger along the pool’s edge, watching ripples spread outward. “My sister’s the artist. Charcoal, mostly. She used to fill sketchbooks until her fingers turned black.” Her voice softened. “People always said she was the talented one. The real one.”

Stefan watched her face in the moonlight.

“Sounds like you miss her,” he said.

Her hand stilled on the tile. “Yeah.” A beat. “More than I thought I would.”

“I think we’re all just trying to convince ourselves we belong in the story we’ve been given,” he said, voice rough. “Even when we know it’s bullshit.”

“Then explain something to me.” She turned to face him. “If you understand what it’s like to be trapped in someone else’s story, why did you do what you did at PLUMP?”

The question landed hard. He looked away, staring at the dark horizon.

“My father cleaned office buildings in Madrid at night,” he said finally. “I’d help him sometimes. Emptying trash cans while executives’ framed diplomas stared down at us.” The water lapped at their feet. “Then I’d watch those same men tell him he should be grateful for minimum wage.”

“When I got to Hollywood, I was everyone’s favorite flavor.” His voice stripped itself bare. “Bad boy with the accent. Heartthrob who could actually act. Until⁠—”

“Until Renegade Dawn tanked,” she finished, “and suddenly you weren’t bankable anymore.”

“Overnight, everything I touched turned to ash.” His gaze dropped to the water. “Tried directing—critics killed it. ‘stick to looking pretty, Cruz.’ When I finally gave them what they wanted—the bad boy, the heartthrob—they called me talentless. A stereotype with an accent.”

He exhaled slowly. “So yeah, when you got handed a lead role for a movie I auditioned for three times—because your StyleSnap numbers were better than my reviews—” He cut himself off. “It wasn’t personal. But you became the face of everything I couldn’t stomach about this industry.”

He pulled out his phone, swiped to a webpage, and handed it over. Her expression shuttered as she read.

A photo of them from rehearsal. Her expression contorted in what the caption called “barely contained hatred,” his hand at her waist.

“They need us to hate each other,” he said. “Or love each other. Either sells. ‘Stennalise’ is just this week’s product.”

She set the empty bowl on the tile with a hollow clink. “But none of it’s—” The confession stuck in her throat. She shook her head. “Never mind.”

He watched her wrestle with something she couldn’t say. Something was different about her—had been since the moment he arrived on this island. But whatever it was, she clearly wasn’t ready to share. And he wasn’t going to be the one to force it.

“We’re all performing something,” he said quietly. “Some of us just forgot where the script ends.”

“You could tell Martin I’m struggling.” Her voice cracked. “One word to the studio and I’m done.”

He held her gaze. “And what would that get me? Another headline? More drama?” He dismissed the idea with a wave. “Estoy harto de los dramas. I’m tired of the games.” His voice softened. “Whatever’s going on with you—I’m not interested in using it against you.”

The suspicion in her eyes didn’t fade. But hope flickered there, too.

The space between them shrank.

His hand hovered over hers—giving her time to pull away.

She didn’t. His fingers covered hers on the cool tile, his palm warm against her chilled skin. Her breath caught.

“You’re harder on yourself than Martin is.” His thumb traced the ridge of her knuckles.

She held his gaze. The air between them thickened. She jerked her hand away, the absence leaving his palm cold. A smile cut across her mouth, sharp. “Don’t mistake this for surrender. Tomorrow, we’re still enemies.”

“I wouldn’t dare forget it.” His laugh scraped the silence. “Enemies by daylight. I know the script.” The playfulness drained from his voice, leaving only ache. “Get some rest.”

ERIKA

Steam. Salt air. The rush of water against tile. Through the bamboo slats of his outdoor shower, Stefan stood with his back to her, moonlight and water painting silver rivers down his skin. Her body went tight.