Page 7 of The Hollywood Switch-up

Hijo de puta. That one landed. He kept his face neutral.

“Enjoy your evening, Anneliese.”

“Always do.” She turned on her heel and sauntered away, leaving him stewing in a cloud of her expensive perfume.

His fingers curled at his sides. Fantástico. Ten minutes in, and he’d already wanted to set something on fire. Shaking his head, he turned back to the press line. A reporter with bright red hair and a mischievous glint descended.

“Stefan, over here!” she called.

He walked over, the mask back on. Here we go.

“Stefan,” she said, her microphone inches from his mouth. “Martin Blackwell is here tonight. Any plans to bury the hatchet after your last . . . collaboration?”

Of course. Of fucking course. Sarah’s voice was a frantic whisper in his mind: Be diplomatic. We can’t afford another fire.

But the question brought back his last collaboration with Martin—the screaming matches, the director’s casual cruelty, the young actress whose career he’d almost destroyed, whose life he’d nearly destroyed. Stefan had walked away from that film, from millions, to get away from that man. And now he was expected to sing his praises.

“Martin is a . . . visionary,” he said, the word tasting like poison. “He has a particular way of doing things. Let’s just say it was an educational experience. I prefer to work with collaborators, not dictators.” The word hung in the air. So much for Sarah’s media training. The reporter’s eyes widened. There goes the Verramago deal.

He didn’t wait for another question. He smiled, waved to the cameras, and headed for the restaurant’s entrance, desperate to escape the spotlight. He needed a drink—a strong one.

After an hour of schmoozing, of shaking hands and making meaningless small talk, Stefan had managed to secret himself away at the back bar. He nursed a Japanese whiskey, the smoky liquid doing little to soothe his frayed nerves. Jealousy. The word stung because it wasn’t entirely wrong. Perhaps he was stuck.

As he raised the glass to his lips, a stillness cut through the room’s oppressive noise. His gaze snagged on a flash of emerald green. And there she was.

She was sitting at a nearby table, a solitary figure in a sea of noise and motion. The emerald gown was the quietest thing in the room, and her dark brown hair fell in soft waves around her shoulders. But it wasn’t the dress that held him. It was the way she sat—no preening for invisible cameras, no scanning the room for someone more important to talk to. She was watching a waiter navigate a tray of champagne flutes like it was the most interesting thing in the room. With a small smile she wasn’t performing for anyone.

His breath caught, like some lovesick teenager in one of his Tita’s telenovelas. She had duende—that untranslatable thing Tita talked about when she was being serious.

And Stefan, who had bedded actresses and models and a minor Euaropean royal, found himself off-balance like a damn schoolboy.

He couldn’t look away. Whatever had happened on the carpet hadn’t been a fluke.

As if sensing his gaze, she turned. Their eyes met for the second time that night, and her expression shifted. Surprise, or recognition. He couldn’t tell. Then a slight, knowing smirk tugged at her unpainted lips before she looked away.

He was in trouble.

He watched her run a finger around the rim of her glass, tuck a strand of hair behind her ear, exposing the line of her neck. What would it be like to sit across from her? To have those eyes actually look at him.

His fingers twitched against his whiskey glass. He wanted to know what her skin felt like—wanted to see if she’d startle or lean in if he touched the spot just behind her ear.

Cálmate, cabrón. He didn’t even know her name.

Talk to her. The thought was absurd. He didn’t chase women at parties. That was beneath him. And yet his feet were already moving, the whiskey abandoned on the bar, the pull undeniable.

He needed to know her name.

As he approached her table, she stood and walked across the room, the emerald fabric swaying with each step. She glanced back over her shoulder—not coyly, but with a look of quiet purpose.

He followed, unhurried, weaving through the crowd. His eyes never left her.

She was heading toward a small group surrounded by cameras. And then the crowd parted, and a familiar blonde in white stepped forward.

The woman in green embraced Anneliese Morgan. Not a polite air-kiss, not a networking hug—a real one, warm and unguarded—the kind of hug you gave your family.

The resemblance stopped him cold. The same bone structure. The same full lips. Twins. She was Anneliese Morgan’s twin sister.

You have got to be fucking kidding me.