Page 39 of The Hollywood Switch-up

Lily’s smile sharpened. “Honey, Stefan Cruz doesn’t ‘just check’ on anyone.”

“He hates my sister.” The words came out before Erika could stop them.

Lily stilled. “That feud? It’s industry nonsense. Press fodder.” She smoothed an invisible wrinkle. “Six years ago, Renegade Dawn. I was just starting out. Stefan brought me coffee every morning at five. Remembered how I took it. When the producer tried to cut corners on materials, Stefan threatened to walk.” Her eyes met Erika’s. “For costumes. The tabloids don’t print that part.”

“So he’s . . . not what they say.” She heard the hope in her own voice.

“He’s complicated. But he’s not cruel.” Lily lowered her voice. “And I’ve dressed a lot of his costars. I know what a professional looks like.” She tilted her head. “The way he looks at you isn’t professional.”

Heat crept up Erika’s neck.

“Maybe,” Lily said, turning back to her sketches, “you shouldn’t feel so guilty about looking back.”

Tomorrow’s call sheet sat between them on the makeup counter: the cliff scene. Luna suspended over the water while Jake confesses everything. Erika had read it three times and still felt sick.

Her fingers twisted in the hem of her top. Lily caught the movement and squeezed her shoulder.

“When it all goes sideways—and honey, it will—find me. One snip to that ridiculous harness Martin insists on, and we’ll have an hour-long safety inspection. Buy you a breather without anyone being the wiser.”

A genuine smile broke through Erika’s anxiety. “You’d risk your job for me?”

“I’d risk a lot more than that.” Lily winked, turning back to her sketches. “Now go. Try to look like you’re enjoying paradise instead of serving time in it.”

The morning shoot was a disaster. Three takes of the beach confrontation, each worse than the last. Martin’s voice rang in her skull: “Again! What part of ‘hatred’ don’t you understand?” By lunch, the crew had stopped making eye contact. By afternoon, the makeup artist had reapplied her foundation twice, sweat streaking it down her temples. Now the sun hung low and orange over the water, and Martin had called everyone to the beach.

“All right, everyone, gather ‘round.” Martin’s voice cut across the orange glow of sunset. He stood dark against the water, clipboard clutched to his chest. The crew shuffled into a half-circle. Twelve hours of filming. One usable scene.

“Let’s not pretend today wasn’t a disaster.” His gaze swept across faces suddenly fascinated by their shoes before settling on Erika. “I don’t know what this soap opera is between you and Stefan, but it’s killing my movie.”

Her chin dropped as a dozen pairs of eyes flicked toward her, then away. “Figure it out,” Martin said, stepping closer. “I’m paying you to be an actress. So start acting.”

“Yes, sir,” Erika said, barely audible over the waves.

The crew scattered. Martin called after them: “Anneliese. My office. Now.” The canvas tent flap slapped closed behind him.

Erika’s mouth went dry.

“Anneliese.” Stefan stepped up beside her, close enough that his breath warmed her ear. His fingers brushed her wrist—barely there, gone in an instant. When she met his eyes, his jaw was tight. He shook his head once. Don’t go in there alone.

The silhouette of Martin paced behind the tent walls, a shark in shallow water. Anneliese would march straight in, chin high. Erika wanted to bolt down the beach until her lungs burned.

She straightened her spine and gave Stefan a dismissive flick of her fingers. The tent canvas rasped against her shoulder as she stepped through. Martin sprawled in his director’s chair.

“That was a fucking catastrophe.” His voice was almost gentle.

Erika stood in the center of the tent, arms at her sides. Nowhere to sit or hide.

“The investors are watching every frame we shoot.” Martin leaned forward. “When they get nervous, they start hunting for heads.”

Erika’s vision tunneled to pinprick, the tent’s canvas walls swimming.

“I don’t care what’s going on with you and Cruz.” Martin rose from his chair. One step toward her. Two. “I care about what’s happening on my screen.”

He circled behind her. The air shifted.

“You know why I fought for you, Anneliese? That scene in Midnight in Malibu. The one where you slapped your costar?” He stopped beside her, near enough to catch the scent of his cologne—cedar and something medicinal. “Your eyes burned. But fire without control is just destruction.”

Erika’s hands clenched, nails biting crescents.