Page 97 of The Hollywood Switch-up

He kissed her temple, still laughing, and she closed her eyes and let herself have this one moment.

He walked her to her villa, hand on her lower back, thumb drawing circles that raised goose bumps. At the door, she reached for the handle and he spun her around, pressing her into the frame. He kissed her goodnight, the kind of kiss that reminded her exactly what they’d been doing an hour ago.

“Stay,” he said against her mouth, and the word undid her.

She wanted to so badly it frightened her.

“Tomorrow,” she said. “I’ll see you tomorrow.”

He stepped back, and the look he gave her from the path—half-shadowed, still wrecked—was worth more than anything he could have said. She watched him disappear into the dark.

She was still smiling when she pushed inside and saw the envelope on the floor.

Plain white. No postmark. Anneliese—in handwriting she didn’t recognize. She bent to pick it up, already assuming a call sheet or script revision.

A photograph slid out. The beach at dawn. The morning mist still clinging to the sand. It was from the race—the moment they’d collapsed by the palms, looking less like two actors finishing a workout and more like two people who’d forgotten the world was watching. Stefan was leaning over her, his hand braced against the trunk beside her head, his face inches from hers.

She sat down on the floor because her legs stopped working. She turned it over—glossy white, nothing. Inside the envelope, a single note, folded once.

You belong to this production. To me. The sooner Cruz understands that, the better for everyone. Especially him.—M

Every sound from tonight—the guitar, his voice cracking on a note, her own name in his mouth—curdled at the back of her throat.

She looked at the photograph again. At the most private moment of her life, flattened into leverage by a man who thought he owned her.

ERIKA

At five in the morning, she’d hidden the photo in her sketchbook—slid it between pages, charcoal smudging her fingertips, Martin’s evidence pressed flat against a half-finished drawing of the coastline. Like burying poison in the only clean place she had left.

She hadn’t slept. Had sat on the bathroom floor with the shower running, turning Martin’s note over in her hands until the creases went soft. You belong to this production. To me. She kept coming back to the last line. Especially him.

It wasn’t a threat. It was a leash. And he’d just let her know he was holding it.

The screen on her nightstand lit up. Then again.

Stefan:

Buenos días, mi alma. Can’t stop hearing my name the way you said it. I’m wrecked.

Stefan:

I made coffee for two. Stared at your empty cup for ten minutes like an idiot. This is what you’ve done to me.

Her throat closed. She typed I love you and deleted it. Typed something happened and deleted that too.

Especially him.

Erika:

Can’t do it this morning. I’m sorry. Later?

Stefan:

Erika. What’s wrong?

Not a question. He’d read three words and seen right through them.

Erika: