Page 5 of The Hollywood Switch-up

“Here.” Olivia materialized at Erika’s elbow, the champagne flute extended like a peace offering. “You look like you could use this.”

“Thanks.” The glass was cool against Erika’s palm. As Olivia disappeared back into the scrum, a figure peeled away from the VIP section.

He appeared at her side with predatory ease. Martin Blackwell. An expensive shadow in a suit so deliberately unremarkable it felt like a threat, his eyes pale and flat as sheet ice. He didn’t bother with a hello. His gaze flicked from Erika’s face to her shoes, then up again, as if checking for something.

“You’re Anneliese’s sister, aren’t you.” It wasn’t a question. His gaze lingered on her throat.

Erika’s polite expression felt brittle. “Erika. It’s nice to meet you.”

He didn’t offer his hand. Instead, he took a half-step closer, invading the bubble of space around her. “Your sister is . . . quite something. So much raw potential.” He said ‘potential’ as if it were a slab of meat he was considering buying. “I’ve been watching her work. The way she moves on camera—instinctive, unschooled. No one can teach that.”

“She works very hard, actually,” Erika said, the words escaping before she could stop them.

Martin’s eyebrow arched. “Of course she does. But it’s all about molding it, you see. Finding the right clay and shaping it into what I want it to be.” His fingers made a small squeezing motion in the air.

His attention settled on her face again, calm and steady. “You have the same good bones. A different kind of canvas, but the structure is there.” He reached out, his index finger hovering an inch from her jawline without touching. “The symmetry is remarkable, but you hold yourself differently. More . . . contained.”

“Twins,” he mused, almost to himself. “Such a useful thing, having someone who shares your face.” His smile sharpened. “I imagine Anneliese relies on you quite a bit. Sisters can be so . . . influential.”

Her arms prickled. She wanted to step back. Her feet wouldn’t move. The champagne in her hand was suddenly a terrible idea.

“What do you do, Erika?” he asked. He gave her name an extra beat.

“I’m an artist,” she said.

“Ah.” He nodded, as if confirming a suspicion. “Creating rather than being created. Interesting choice.”

Somewhere behind them, a flash cannon briefly lit Martin’s eyes to blank white. He didn’t blink.

“I hope you don’t take offense, but you’re not what I expected.”

“I get that a lot.” God. Really?

He smiled. Something pleased and patient. “There’s a dignity to that. To refuse becoming the thing people want you to be.” His gaze pinned her in place. “That’s rare. And, in its way, more dangerous than ambition.”

She was about to speak—anything—to reclaim agency, when a shrill “Martin, darling!” rang out from the carpet. A woman in red sequins beckoned him over.

Blackwell gave Erika one last look that didn’t reach his eyes. “We should talk sometime. About your work.” He leaned in, close enough that she could smell the mint on his breath. “Enjoy the party,” he said, before sliding back toward the cameras.

Erika stood alone. She needed a shower and possibly a priest.

The air along the velvet rope pulsed, a subsonic shudder that ran down the line of photographers before Erika registered the source. This was the actual arrival, the one the room had been holding its breath for. It hit her sternum like a bass drop.

He emerged from the far end of the carpet, solitary and slow: Stefan Cruz, the name murmured first in a tremble, then building, fractal, until everyone was saying it. Cruz, Cruz, Cruz. It ricocheted off the marble and glass, colliding with the brittle laughs of publicists and the staccato bark of camera shutters.

Erika had seen him in magazines, but in person, Stefan Cruz was a different creature entirely. Tall, broad-shouldered, with a jaw that belonged on a Renaissance sketch and dark eyes that swept the carpet without seeming to see it. His forest-green suit caught the light, the lapels shimmering under camera flashes. His collarless black shirt openly mocked the black-tie dress code, revealing a triangle of golden-brown skin at his throat.

He moved unhurriedly, each gesture deliberately delayed, making the crowd lean forward in anticipation. As he passed, Erika caught his scent—gin, sandalwood, something briny underneath—and her pulse did something inconvenient. Damn him.

“Erika . . .”

Anneliese materialized beside her, a flash of blonde at the edge of Erika’s vision, the scent of Maison Voss No. 9 announcing her presence. Her sister’s hand caught her wrist, tugging her closer. “Don’t look at him,” Anneliese said, smiling camera-ready. “He’s not worth it.”

“Stefan!” A reporter’s voice cut through the din as he thrust his microphone forward. “What do you think of influencers in Hollywood?”

Erika’s breath caught. He pivoted toward the voice. His smile unfurled slowly, revealing perfect teeth that gleamed under the harsh lights. Something flickered at the corner of his mouth.

“Influencers,” he repeated, drawing out each syllable. “You mean those people who are famous for having no talent?” He paused, letting the barb sink in, his eyes scanning the crowd with practiced nonchalance. “I think they’re a dime a dozen in this town. The digital equivalent of fast fashion—disposable, derivative, and ultimately forgettable.”