Page 64 of The Hollywood Switch-up

And she had seen Stefan with Isabelle. Yesterday by the pool, their heads bent together like conspirators. She stopped walking. The dock was ahead, barely visible through the curtain of rain. Crew members streamed toward it.

But Stefan was out here somewhere. Martin’s words wouldn’t stop circling. She needed to see Stefan’s face when she asked him about Isabelle.

She came around the corner of the storage unit and stopped dead. Stefan stood with his back half-turned to her. Isabelle faced him, pristine even now, her white blouse somehow untouched by the chaos. They were close. Too close.

Isabelle’s hand rested on Stefan’s forearm. Her fingers pressed into his sleeve, holding him there. And Stefan wasn’t pulling away. He was leaning in, head bent toward hers, listening with that fierce concentration Erika had thought was reserved for her.

She should leave. But she couldn’t make herself move.

Isabelle said something Erika couldn’t hear, and grief flickered across Stefan’s face before he looked away. He covered Isabelle’s hand with his own, just for a moment. Then the wind shifted, and their voices carried.

“—ready to go public.” Isabelle’s voice, sharp and clear in a lull between gusts. “Two weeks. Her lawyers confirmed it this morning.”

Stefan said something, his words swallowed by the wind. His hand curled into a fist at his side.

“Keep her safe until we’re ready to move.” Isabelle leaned closer. “If this gets out before we have everything in place, it ruins everything we’ve built. Everything.”

Rain streamed down Erika's face as she pressed herself against the storage unit. There had to be a thousand explanations for what she was hearing.

Then Stefan's voice cut through the wind, clear enough that she couldn't pretend she'd misheard.

“The Morgan situation complicates the timeline. If anyone finds out what she’s been hiding before we’re ready⁠—”

The rest disappeared into thunder. She’d heard enough. Did they both know? Had Stefan told her?

The truth was supposed to belong to the two of them. Just them. Instead of telling her, instead of warning her that the studio's executive was dissecting her secrets, he'd been whispering with Isabelle about how to "handle" it.

Anneliese had warned her. She hadn’t listened. He’s playing you. Gets close to someone, makes them feel special, makes them think they’re the only person in the room who matters. And then he twists it into something he can use.

Stupid. Desperate to be seen. She’d let herself believe she was worth choosing. Isabelle laughed at something Stefan said, and the sound cracked through Erika. She stumbled backward, her heel caught on a cable and she barely kept herself upright. Neither of them looked up.

The sketchbook. Still out there in the rain, dissolving. The one thing on this whole island that had been real—not Anneliese, not a performance, not a secret to manage. Just her. And she was about to let it wash away with everything else.

She took the long way around, cutting behind the storage units and through the gap between two equipment trucks. The dock was south. She went north. Arms wrapped around herself.

His villa appeared through the deluge. The sketchbook was right where she’d left it and already ruined. She grabbed it anyway, pressed it against her chest.

She ran for the golf carts. The path had turned to mud, sucking at her shoes with every step. Lightning cracked somewhere close enough to taste, and she flinched but didn’t stop. If she stopped, she’d have to think.

The cart started on the third try. She floored it, wheels spinning in the mud before catching, and aimed for the dock. She made it maybe fifty yards from his villa before the engine sputtered.

It shuddered beneath her, losing speed even with her foot mashed against the pedal. She pumped it once, twice. The engine caught, surged, and died. “No, no, no—” She slammed her palm against the steering wheel.

She was trapped. Soaked through, shaking so hard her teeth chattered, clutching the waterlogged sketchbook, her drawings destroyed.

His villa was still right there. She could go back. Wait out the storm. Except she couldn’t go back, because he might return, and she wasn’t ready to face him. The dock was too far. Nowhere to go.

She sat there, the water mixing with her tears running down her cheeks, and stopped fighting it. All of it. She just let it happen.

She didn’t hear him coming. One moment, she was alone. The next, a figure was out of the grey, tall, broad-shouldered, moving toward her with purpose that didn’t leave room for escape.

Stefan. Of course it was Stefan.

He was soaked through, breathing hard. He must have been looking for her, must have spotted her stranded from the path and come running.

He stood beside her without a word. Rain hammered the plastic roof above her head. His shoulder leaned into hers, warm and unbearable.

“I went back for the sketchbook,” she said. Her voice sounded like it belonged to someone else.