Page 94 of The Hollywood Switch-up

“Eight years ago, I produced Midnight Run with Martin.” Her voice was steady, but there was weight behind it now. “We had a young actress—Stasia Larke. First major role, talented as hell. Martin took a shine to her. Private rehearsals, personal notes, called her his muse. At first, she was flattered—we all were. Martin’s attention could make a career.”

Erika’s skin went cold. Stefan’s voice in her head—someone Martin hurt. Years ago.

“By the second month, she was falling apart. When she finally tried to tell someone what had been happening, the studio buried it. Called her difficult, unstable. She hasn’t worked since.”

The breeze died. In the distance, someone shouted for a C-stand.

“I didn’t speak up when I should have.” Isabelle’s voice dropped. “I told myself it wasn’t my place. That I didn’t know for sure.” Her mouth flattened. “I’ve carried that for eight years. So now I say something, even when it’s uncomfortable.”

Martin’s thumb on her neck. The patience in his voice.

“He touched me today.” Erika’s voice came out barely above a whisper. “During blocking. His hand on my neck. It was—he made it look like a direction. But it wasn’t.”

Isabelle closed her eyes. Just for a second. When she opened them, Erika recognized the look.

“I believe you,” Isabelle said. “And my door is open. Day or night. Whatever you need.”

They stood in the shade of the lighting truck, the set bustling around them. The weight wasn’t hers alone anymore.

Three secrets, she thought, watching Isabelle walk back toward the monitors. The fraud. Stefan. And whatever was building with Martin.

She wasn’t sure which one would bury her first.

ERIKA

The rooftop confrontation scene had taken four passes. On the last one, Martin nodded and moved on—no notes, no lingering looks, no fingers finding her shoulder as he passed. Just the nod. Like she was any other actress doing competent work on his film.

She hadn’t realized how starved she was for indifference until it arrived.

Now the set was dark, the crew scattered to their villas, and Erika stood on the terrace. Three days since Isabelle’s warning, and the catastrophe she’d braced for hadn’t come. Stefan fed her notes between takes—don’t anticipate the line, let it surprise you—and it had started clicking. Not Anneliese clicking. Luna clicking. That brittle defiance, that refusal to be small. She was finding it.

The screen lit up against the railing. Stefan.

Stefan:

You’re on your terrace staring at the ocean like it owes you money. Come outside. I found something.

She looked up. Scanned the dark. She couldn’t see him, which meant he couldn’t see her either—which meant he just knew.

Erika:

Found something. Very mysterious. Very vague. Definitely not how people get murdered on islands.

Stefan:

Trae tus chanclas, Princesa. Trust me once.

She was already reaching for her sandals.

She found him on a stretch of beach she hadn’t known existed—past the resort lights, past the tiki bar where the crew drank on weekends, past the rocky outcrop that hid this sliver of sand. Her sandals dangled from her fingers as she picked across the cool sand. She stopped.

He’d set up a picnic.

Just a faded blanket spread across the sand, a cluster of battery-powered lanterns casting warm pools of gold, a cooler sweating condensation, and two wine glasses catching moonlight. A guitar rested on the cooler.

Stefan sat cross-legged in the center of it all, barefoot, sleeves rolled to his elbows, forearms tan against the white linen. He glanced up when he heard her approach, expression soft, unguarded.

“You found a secret beach and didn’t lead with that information?” She dropped her sandals at the edge of the blanket. “I’ve been going to the resort pool like an idiot.”