Page 40 of The Hollywood Switch-up

Martin moved in front of her, palms flat on the desk behind her, boxing her in. His aftershave couldn’t mask the coffee-sour smell of his breath. “The studio has a list. Five names. All of them hungry. All of them ready to fly in tonight.” His lips curled. “You want to stay in this picture? Show me you’re worth the trouble.”

Her stomach turned. She knew what worth the trouble meant in his mouth.

“I’ll give you a better performance.” She kept her voice flat. “That’s what I can offer.”

Something flickered across his face—disappointment, maybe. Or just recalibration. He straightened, tugging his cuffs. “Tomorrow. First take. You make me believe it, or I make that call.”

“Understood.”

He stepped back and the air rushed into her lungs. So the real problem wasn’t going to be Stefan. It would be surviving Martin Blackwell.

STEFAN

The craft services tent buzzed with the low hum of exhausted crew members fueling up before another day under Martin’s reign. Stefan leaned against a table near the coffee station, third espresso in hand, watching the entrance.

She appeared a few minutes later. Coffee cup gripped tight, shoulders set, scanning the tent like she expected an ambush.

He fell into step beside her before she could disappear again. “Still breathing. Impressive.”

“Don’t sound so surprised.” Her chin lifted, but a muscle jumped in her throat.

“After twenty minutes in that tent with Martin?” He kept his voice low. “I had money on a body bag.”

Her eyes cut to his. “You were watching.”

“I was waiting. There’s a difference.” He held her gaze. “Did he touch you?”

The question landed. She blinked.

“No.”

“Bien.” He exhaled, ran a hand through his hair. “Look—showing up at your door the other night. That was . . .”

“Presumptuous? Invasive? Wildly inappropriate?”

“I was going to say ‘a bad call,’ but sure. All of those.” He extended his hand, palm up. “Clean slate. Borrón y cuenta nueva.”

She looked at his hand, then back at his face. Searching for the trap.

“Fine.” She didn’t take it. “But you stay on your side of the camera.” She stepped back. “And out of my orbit.”

He withdrew slowly, eyes never leaving hers. The corner of his mouth lifted. “No te preocupes, Princesa.”

She walked away before she could second-guess herself.

The AD’s voice cut through moments later: “Places, everyone!”

A simple walk-and-talk along the beach. But by take seven, Martin was in rare form. Chair slamming. Coffee cup crushed in his fist. PAs scattering.

“Cut! Jesus Christ!” His voice sent seagulls wheeling. “Luna just found out Jake lied to her face. When you say ‘I can’t trust you anymore,’ I need to believe he gutted you. Make me feel it, Morgan!”

Stefan’s shoulders had locked up from clenching. And in Erika’s eyes, tears gathered at the edge of stubborn pride.

“Let’s take five,” Stefan said, cutting through Martin’s tirade.

Martin’s head snapped up. “I call the breaks here, Cruz.” His finger jabbed the air. “Not you. Never you.”

Stefan didn’t flinch. “And yet.” He turned toward the golf cart.