Page 8 of The Hollywood Switch-up

Of all the women in this godforsaken city, the one who’d derailed him mid-sentence was the sister of the woman he’d publicly eviscerated. The universe was laughing at him.

And yet, watching her smile at her sister—nothing like the one Anneliese gave the crowd—he couldn’t make himself walk away.

He retreated to the bar and ordered another whiskey.

A throng of well-wishers had swallowed the sisters. Probably for the best. What was he going to do, walk up and introduce himself? Hi, I’m the guy who called your sister talentless on camera. Can I buy you a drink?

He knocked back the whiskey. This night was a disaster.

The smart move was to forget her. Walk away. Pretend the last hour hadn’t rewired his chest. She was off-limits—Anneliese Morgan’s twin sister. No version of this ended well.

And yet some reckless part of him—the part that had walked away from Martin Blackwell’s millions, the part that believed in things like duende and fate—whispered: So what?

He found her in the crowd again. Idiota.

“Enjoying the party, Stefan?” a low voice drawled beside him.

Stefan didn’t have to look to know who it was. The voice was smooth. It always was. His grip tightened on his glass.

He turned slowly to face Martin Blackwell. Blackwell’s expression, smooth as polished bone, held a gleam of amusement.

“Martin,” Stefan said, his tone flat. “Didn’t realize you’d crawled out tonight.”

“Indeed.” Blackwell took a sip of his drink, unbothered. “I heard you had some . . . choice words for the press earlier. ‘Dictator,’ was it? A bold move. Very artistic.” He paused. “Sarah must be thrilled.”

Dictator was the cleanest word he could use in public. Predator was the truth. He remembered Stasia on set—the way she’d made herself small when Martin got too close, the night she’d finally told Stefan what had happened, what the studio had paid to bury. He’d walked away from Midnight Run the next day. Eight years later, the rage hadn’t dulled one bit.

“I speak my mind,” Stefan said, finally meeting Blackwell’s gaze. “Some of us don’t need NDAs to clean up after us.”

“So I see,” Blackwell said, following Stefan’s gaze toward where the sisters had disappeared. “You and Anneliese Morgan have that in common. So much . . . ambition. She’s a firecracker, that one. Thinks she’s untouchable.” He paused, swirling his drink. “And her sister . . . the quiet one. I had a word with her on the carpet. Erika, isn’t it? An interesting canvas. Very raw. Untouched.” His lips curled. “I do love a blank slate. So much more rewarding to be the one to make the first mark. Before anyone else . . . ruins the surface.”

The words hit Stefan like ice water. He’d heard Martin use the same language before—about Stasia, right before he’d systematically destroyed her. The memory curdled.

He wasn’t about to watch it happen again.

“Stay away from her.” Stefan’s voice came out low. The pretense of civility was gone.

Blackwell’s thin lips twisted into a smirk. “Protective, are we? How fascinating.” He placed his glass on the bar and leaned in closer. “A word of advice, my boy. In this town, it’s wise to keep your hands off another artist’s work. Especially before he’s had a chance to . . . break it in.”

Stefan’s grip on his glass was the only thing keeping it intact.

Blackwell smiled and disappeared into the crowd.

He scanned the room. There—the emerald dress, breaking away from Anneliese’s group, slipping down the corridor toward the restrooms.

He started after her.

ERIKA

The bathroom was a sanctuary of cool marble and blessed quiet. Erika leaned against the sink, the stone cold against her trembling hands. She splashed her face with water, staring at the stranger in the mirror. The image was hers, but the elegant hair and the lingering trace of party makeup felt like a costume.

Get it together. She glared at her reflection. He insulted your sister.

She forced herself to focus. The anger was real, at least—something solid to hold onto. No talent. The words were a direct assault on Annie.

Yet underneath the fury, something else. Low and insistent. The intensity of his stare had been unnerving, yes, but it had also been . . . singular. For one dizzying moment on that chaotic carpet, she hadn’t felt like Anneliese’s shadow; she had felt seen. Terribly, terrifyingly seen.

She wasn’t sure which was worse. That a stranger had made her feel more visible in ten seconds than she had in years. Or that the stranger was Stefan Cruz.