The other inmates started calling him The Beast by year four of his twenty-five-year sentence. That’s how long it took to lose the soft edges of the skinny kid who came in at twenty-two with close-cropped hair and a baby-smooth face. Now he was total muscle and menace, pushing three hundred pounds and standing over six feet tall. His face, rough and worn, looked every bit his age of forty-seven. A wild tangle of black hair fell down to his shoulders, and a patchy, rough beard spread across his jaw.

At first, he was easy prey in the prison yard—a punching bag for the bigger inmates. They’d beat the shit out of him for sport, leaving him with cracked ribs and a shattered pelvis more times than he could count. But he didn’t just sit there and take it. He hit the gym hard, every minute of free time spent lifting, training, and practicing self-defense moves he’d learned from books in the library. The beatings came less often, then stopped completely. Eventually, he was the one doing the breaking, sending men to the infirmary and racking up a slew of nights in solitary confinement. The Beast wasn’t just surviving anymore—he was thriving, and now, he was a force nobody wanted to mess with.

After twenty-five years, he could finally see the light at the end of the tunnel. His release date was right around the corner, and soon he’d be out of this hellhole, back on his old turf. And when that day came, they’d pay. They’d pay for every minute of the torture he’d endured in prison, for every scar, broken bone, every night spent wondering if he’d ever see the outside again. He’d lost everything and he wasn’t going to let them get away with it. Not for a second.

Revenge wasn’t just a craving anymore, it was a hunger. And when he walked out that door, he’d make them regret what they did to him. He wasn’t just going to settle the score. He was going to burn it all to the ground.

Hollywood, see you soon.  

* * *

“Forty isn’t fatal.”  

Miranda Blackthorne recalled Linda Evans saying those words in a hair color commercial when she was a little girl and thinking to herself: god, that’s old!  But now here she was on the eve of her fortieth birthday on her way to work in her Mercedes SUV and feeling just the opposite. She wore forty like a crown of perseverance.  She’d earned the right to stand up and say she deserved the distinction turning forty would bring. From being a typical spoiled Hollywood nepo baby to being one of the leading talent agents in the city was quite a feat considering everything she’d done to mess it up. Running off and marrying a con-man gigolo in Vegas when she was twenty just to stick it to her father, cheating on the love of her life and getting pregnant with his baby, her stint working as the premiere Hollywood madame. The list went on and on.  

But she’d also had to overcome a lot to get where she was. A miscarriage before her daughter, Tiger, was born, her parent’s bitter divorce, the hotel she meticulously managed burning to the ground, the scar on her face resulting from the big earthquake of 2006. Some mornings when she looked into the mirror—before she put on her makeup—and in certain lighting, she could still see faint reminders of it. She thought about having the last remnants fixed once and for all, but so far she hadn’t. Battle scars never completely went away. 

Turning forty brought with it the privilege of tapping into a wealth of experience that came from growing up in the heart of Hollywood. From a young age, Miranda had lived amidst the glitz and glamour. Celebrities, movie sets, and the world of entertainment were her playground. She’d spent countless nights at her father’s lavish parties and on her stepfather’s yacht, mingled with A-listers on her mother’s film sets, and walked the red carpet, trailing behind the stars, basking in their spotlight. It was the only world she knew, so it made sense to her to use that to her advantage and become a world-class talent agent.  She couldn’t do it alone, however, so she—

Only then did Miranda remember she wasn’t alone in her Mercedes. In the passengers’ seat, her step-sister was rambling on about something she wasn’t really paying attention to.  In many ways, Heather Rydell shared similar experiences—growing up as the daughter of a Hollywood actress and a film mogul—so bringing her on to the agency felt like a natural fit.

“And that’s only if we can talk him out of putting first-dollar gross in his contract,” Heather was saying. “I mean, I’d like to think we can get it, but who knows.”  

Heather was a thin, waifish woman of forty-one with long straight locks of golden hair—though sometimes she went several shades darker depending on her mood. Her father was Jordan Rydell, the acclaimed film producer and retired CEO of Rydell Productions. Her mother, Suzanne Rogers, a former actress turned self-help guru.  

Miranda smiled at her, admiring her for the obstacles she’d had to overcome, which in many cases were far bigger than any she’d been dealt, culminating with a court-ordered stay in a mental institution fifteen years ago. But miraculously, Heather had rebounded and was living her best life, as the saying goes. Her daughter, Violet, born during a total eclipse of all things, had just celebrated her sixteenth birthday. That, if anything, made her marvel at the fleetingness of time.  

Steering her Mercedes to the front of a contemporary house in Beverly Hills, Miranda shifted into park just long enough for her sister-in-law to hop into the back seat with what appeared to be a week’s worth of work stuffed into a Berluti attache case. 

As Jane slid in and shut the door, As it Was by Harry Styles played low through the speakers of the SUV.

“Umm, since when do you bring that much work home? Miranda asked, spying her through the rear-view mirror.  

Jane Blackthorne let out an exasperated sigh.  “Would you believe they’re all scripts for Michele Van Buren?  I had no idea that many casting directors were interested in eighties primetime soap stars.”

Like Heather, Jane had long, blonde tresses and a painfully thin frame—though, to be fair, that described about ninety percent of the female population in Los Angeles.  She was married to Miranda’s older brother, Stormy, and was step-mother to his teenage son, R.J.  

“Don’t you know everything old is new again?” Heather remarked.  “Ever since Donna Mills guested on Doctor Odyssey, everyone wants a primetime soap diva.” 

“Well, tell them to hurry up and make a decision because this is getting ridiculous,” Jane said and leaned her head back against the headrest with another sigh.  

Miranda laughed. “What’s wrong? Late night?” 

Jane exchanged knowing gazes with Heather who had craned her neck around to the back seat. “Well….” she began with a grin. “Sort of.  I mean, not that you want to hear about me and your brothers’ sex life, but—”  

Eyes widened, Miranda nearly drove the SUV off the road.  “Yeah, I so don’t want to hear about it,” she said with a grimace.

Jane threw her a look. “It’s not like that.  Stormy and I are…trying again.”  

“You are?!” Miranda exclaimed happily.

Jane nodded, beaming.  “Dr. Mitchell says there’s no reason it can’t happen. She thinks last time was probably just a fluke.”

“I hope so because I know how you were both so devastated when you miscarried,” Miranda said, still eyeing her through the rear-view mirror.  “I’d hate to see you go through that again.”

“Maybe it won’t.” Heather reached her arm behind the front seat and squeezed Jane’s hand. “We have to think positively.” 

“Absolutely we do,” Miranda agreed. “God, I’m so excited for you guys. “I know you’ve been hesitant about trying again, but I think you’re doing the right thing.”

“Thanks,” Jane gushed, all smiles, then quickly shifted topics. “So, I was thinking for your birthday tomorrow, we should just go out for a quiet dinner. I know you don’t want a big fuss, so I figured 71 Above would be fun. Then we could—”

Miranda shot her a cool stare through the rear-view mirror. “Relax, I already know about my surprise party.”  

“He told you?” Jane exclaimed incredulously.  

Laughing, Miranda threw a hand up in resignation as she steered up to a Spanish-style bungalow in Hancock Park with a giant lemon tree in the front yard. “My father is terrible at keeping secrets. And my mother’s even worse. You know I hate surprises anyway, so this actually works out. I can prepare my outfit appropriately.”

Heather and Jane laughed as Miranda issued a sharp blast of the horn.  

“Oooh, you know she hates that,” Heather said with a wince. 

Miranda grinned. “I know.”  

When the front door of the house opened and Kelly Kahoano emerged looking irritated, laughter erupted in the Mercedes. “You really do like to provoke her, don’t you?” Jane asked.  

“Habit,” Miranda mused as the back door opened and Kelly climbed into the seat next to Jane.  “Morning!”

Kelly shot her a wry grin.  “Right,” she said incredulously.  “Next time can you just text when you get here?” 

Kelly was the Blackthornes’ former maid’s daughter and had a brief marriage to Stormy which resulted in their son, R.J.  She was thirty-eight and a knockout with long clouds of black hair and striking brown eyes. Her mother was of Hawaiian descent and her father, American— the result of a drunken one-night stand when he was stationed in Hawaii in the military.  Her mother, Leilani, now retired from the Blackthornes’ employ, enjoyed a peaceful life living with her daughter.

Stifling a laugh, Miranda proceeded along their route.  “Sorry.”  

For all intents and purposes, Kelly was her third sister even though no longer by marriage.  While at one time there was no love lost between the two women, their hostility had waned for the most part. Granted, they still had their moments, but bringing Kelly on to the agency had turned out to be one of her brightest moments in recent memory.  Having once pursued an acting career—with some moderate success—Kelly had learned something the others hadn’t: the industry was brutal, but she was living proof that you could survive just about anything.

Just then, Miranda’s cell phone rang through the car speakers. She quickly plugged an Airpod into her right ear and answered. “Hi, this is Miranda.” 

While she spoke, Heather, Jane and Kelly conversed quietly about tomorrow night’s party and each other’s roles in the festivities. It was to be held at the Blackthorne mansion, and each one was supposed to have a part in discreetly getting Miranda there without suspicion. Now that the cat was out of the bag, that hardly seemed necessary. 

“He did what!?” Miranda cried, her voice sharp with disbelief as she floored the gas pedal, sending the car speeding forward.

“What happened?” Heather asked, alarmed.

The vehicle raced along Highland Avenue, weaving between cars at breakneck speed, nearly getting T-boned at the intersection of Highland and Rosewood.  In the back seat, Jane and Kelly held on for dear life.  

“Miranda, who was it?” Heather asked again.  

“He’s gone too far this time,” she said, tires squealing as she pulled a hard left onto Melrose. “Son of a bitch!”  

A few minutes later, they pulled into a parking space marked Reserved, the nameplate gleaming beneath the early-morning sun. One by one, they stepped out of the car, designer bags slung tightly over their shoulders. Miranda led the way, her stride long and purposeful, stilettos clicking against the concrete as the others fell in behind her like an entourage on a mission.

They walked up the wide stone steps of the sleek glass tower in West Hollywood where Miranda pulled open the double doors and entered the expansive marble lobby. Without so much as a glance around, she made a beeline for the express elevator.

Moments later, the doors slid open to reveal the top floor, flooded with light and framed in minimalist glamour. Directly ahead stood a towering glass partition, etched in bold lettering: The Miranda Blackthorne Agency.

* * *

By nine a.m., the glimmering pool was already filled with suntanned bodies—some cooling off in the sparkling water, others sprawled on lounge chairs along the deck. Music played from a nearby speaker, competing with the hum of scattered conversations drifting across the courtyard. The air was thick with the scent of sunscreen and chlorine, a signature cocktail of Los Angeles.

Riley Weir and his wife Natalie carried their suitcases along the pool deck where the boobs were packed tighter than eggs in an Easter basket.  He could barely restrain himself from staring, but with his fairly recent bride trailing just behind and already a bit displeased, he tried to maintain his composure. 

“There it is, over there,” Riley called out, pointing to Unit A4 of the small apartment building surrounding the pool.  He gauged the proximity of their front door to the action.  “Wow, when Steve said this place was poolside, I didn’t think he meant it so literally.  Pretty cool, huh, Nat?”

“Yeah,” she replied, wincing as she felt the splash from a cannonball spray against the back of her neck.  “It’s great.”  

Natalie Weir—formerly Rush—was a twenty-five-year-old Midwestern girl with big dreams of making it in Hollywood. She had the essentials: a striking face, long, voluminous hair, and a toned, head-turning body. Still, she was convinced a boob job would seal the deal—and judging by the crowd they’d just walked through, the sooner, the better. But with money tight, it was not in the cards.

Riley opened the door of the small one-bedroom apartment and Natalie followed him inside.  It was nice enough. A decent sized living room that flowed into an updated kitchen, and a bedroom and full bathroom at the back of the unit.  

“Isn’t this place great, hon?” he asked, grinning from ear to ear as he looked around their new digs.  When she didn’t answer right away, he looked over to her.  “Nat?  I said isn’t it great?” 

“Yeah, it’s great, Riley,” she said irritably. “I told you it was.”  

He suddenly got the impression she wasn’t as thrilled as he was to be moving again.  “Hey, you okay?” he asked and put his arms around her.   

Riley Dean Weir was twenty-six, a certified stud, and—like Natalie—an aspiring actor. Of medium height with a lean, sculpted physique, he’d had no trouble attracting attention from women since moving to L.A. the year before. The only problem? Women weren’t what he was after. He and Natalie had tied the knot before making the move west, and he couldn’t have been happier. What Riley truly longed to attract was an agent.

“I just hate that we had to move again,” Natalie said.  “I was really starting to feel comfortable at that place in Valley Village.”

“I was too,” Riley agreed. “But Nat, the rent was insane. We’re getting a good deal here subletting from my buddy Steve at work.” 

She nodded meekly and looked around. “Why is he subletting it again?” 

“Because he moved in with his girlfriend and he still has seven months on the lease.  Look, it’s clean, it’s comfortable, and it’s ours. Besides, we’re not going to be here that much.  Between work and auditions—”

“If we ever got auditions,” Natalie said crossly while she peered through the venetian blinds out to the crowded pool.  “Doesn’t anybody work around here?” 

Steve came up behind her and followed her gaze. “They probably work nights like we do.”  He turned her toward him. “And there will be more auditions, hon.  You just have to have hope.”  

Sighing, Natalie walked to the kitchen to take stock of what they had to work with. After moving to L.A., they’d had to economize a lot of the time, and she’d become quite a good cook.  “I know, and I’m sorry for being such a downer.  It’s just that this year hasn’t been easy. I mean, when we first got here we were both riding high. You got that recurring part on that soap, and I did that FlickFix movie. But now I’m stuck waiting tables, and you’re parking cars at the club. We just can’t seem to catch another break.” 

Riley set his gaze on her, his emerald eyes boring into her. “Hey, I promised you we were going to move to L.A. and make our dreams come true. No one said it was going to be easy. But I promise you, stick with me and I will do everything I can to make it happen for us.”

She melted from the sultry way he stared at her. The thing about Riley was that when he set his attention on you, you felt it, and you felt it deep.  “Okay.”

“Are you with me?” he asked, a grin forming on his lips.  

“Yes,” she said, finally letting herself relax. She smiled and pulled him into an embrace. “Oh, Riley, I love you so much.” 

“I love you too,” he said and then kissed her.  A pause while a mischievous look came over his face. “How about I lock the door and we go christen this place?”  

Natalie nodded eagerly.  “Sounds perfect.”  

He kissed her again before she took off to the bedroom. Walking to the door, he turned the deadbolt while peering through the blinds at the crowd of pool-goers.

“It’s going to happen for us, Nat,” he murmured. “Just wait and see.”  

* * *

The Miranda Blackthorne Agency office décor was the definition of minimalist luxury. Italian leather chairs and low, sculptural couches in muted earth tones lined the waiting area, anchored by a marble coffee table stacked with Variety, The Hollywood Reporter, and a few photography books. A collection of modern art hung on the walls—bold, abstract pieces with just enough edge.

The air smelled faintly of eucalyptus and wood, piped in through a built-in ventilation system. Beyond the frosted glass doors etched with the agency’s monogram were the inner workings of Miranda’s efforts—an open area with glass desks, custom lighting, and framed headshots like medals on a mantel. 

Miranda—the only one of the four with her own office, had been pacing back and forth for so long that her heels were creating indentions in the carpet.  She ran her fingers through her long, dark hair as she made call after call.  Every once in a while she would pause and look out of the floor-to-ceiling windows that offered panoramic views of Los Angeles.

After nearly an hour, she finally emerged from her office and approached the others, each stationed at their desks in the bullpen. Standing before them, she placed her hands on her hips and took in a deep breath. 

“Okay, ladies, here’s the situation,” she began, all business. “Another agency has issued an attack on M.B.A and is targeting our number one client. He was seen wining and dining her at Chateau Marmont last night.”

“Not Sioban Saxton,” Kelly said with disbelief. “She was the first client you signed. She wouldn’t be thinking about another agency after everything you’ve done for her career. I just don’t believe it.”  

Miranda shrugged. “It’s a fact.” She began pacing before them, clasping her hands together as she walked. “Now, we all know how cutthroat this business can be, which is why I have spies hitting all the major hotspots every night. Normally, there’s nothing to report, but that phone call this morning tipped me on to the fact that Vaughan Novak has been courting Siobahn for weeks.”  

“That slimy S.O.B.,” Jane said with a glare while shaking her head.  

“Yeah, we can’t let him get away with this,” Heather chimed in.  “Novak’s been in the business for decades. He was my mother’s agent. He’s got power.” 

“He was my mother’s agent too,” Miranda said.  “And Eddie’s dad’s. The list goes on and on, and the fact is he does have more experience than we do. He could even be trying to sweeten the pot with Siobahn somehow, but we’re going to take this thing head on.”  

“How?” Kelly asked.

Before she could respond, Miranda’s cell rang and she quickly went to look at the display.  “It’s Tiger’s school. I better take this.”  She turned and walked back to her office, trying to shift gears, which in the middle of a work crisis was nearly impossible. “Hello, Principal Nunley. What can I do for you?” 

Sighing in frustration as she listened to the man speak, Miranda ran her fingers through her hair. “Yes, okay. Fine. I’ll have someone come get her. Thank you.”  

Clicking off the phone, she racked her brain. Why did trouble with her fourteen year old daughter always come about at the worst times? She was in danger of losing her number one client and had to stop in the middle of everything because her daughter got into another fight?  Shaking her head in exasperation, she dialed the number of the one person who had been there for her her entire life.

* * *

The war room at Sunset Studios pulsed with chaos. Floor-to-ceiling windows let in rays of hot L.A. sunlight, partially diffused by blackout shades that had been hastily drawn halfway. At the center of the room sat a long conference table buried beneath laptops, iPads, wrinkled script pages, stale croissants, and a slew of energy drinks.

Half a dozen people moved through the space like chess pieces—executives, producers, assistants, and a line producer in a hoodie that hadn’t seen a washing machine in at least a week. One corner of the room had been converted into a “chaos board,” plastered with index cards, pushpins, color-coded sticky notes, and scribbled timelines. At the front of the room, a digital countdown clock glared: 22 DAYS TO PREMIERE.

When Stormy Blackthorne’s phone rang, he stopped mid-sentence in a side conversation with Nina, a contractor who worked in post-production, and fished it from his pocket. Seeing that it was Miranda calling, he answered hastily. 

“Hey sis, what’s up?  It’s crunch time around here and I—”

“Tiger’s in trouble at school and I can’t leave to go pick her up,” Miranda said urgently. 

“Seriously, Miranda, you could not have picked a worse time,” he said, walking to the far end of the room so he could hear better over the voices.  “A rough cut of Dominion Protocol got leaked online last night and—”

“Please, Stormy. I don’t know what else to do. I’m in the middle of the biggest crisis of my career.” 

“So have his father go pick her up,” Stormy said incredulously. 

At forty-one, he was the CEO of Sunset Studios, having stepped into the role after their father transitioned into a more part-time role in daily operations. With thick black hair, intense dark eyes, and a well-groomed beard, he exhibited an effortlessly sexy vibe. Tattoos crawled up his arms, partially revealed by the hastily rolled sleeves of his rumpled oxford shirt.

“David’s shooting The Bachelor!” Miranda reminded him.  

“Fine, what about your husband?”

“Eddie’s on a case in Sacramento,” she said.  “Come on, Bro.  Help me out here.”

Stormy glanced back at the meeting he was missing out on and saw the friction between their father, the Sunset Studios financial controller, and the marketing head to a breaking point.  “Sorry, I gotta go, Miranda.”

“But—” she insisted, but was met with nothing but dead air. 

* * *

The last thing Brett Armstrong planned on when he popped into Brunello Cucinelli on Rodeo Drive to pick up a birthday present for Miranda was to meet a woman. But there was in one of the fitting rooms, his Gucci pants around his ankles, his Ralph Lauren shirt unbuttoned, having hot, sweaty sex with the petite young sales girl. 

Brett, a forty-three-year-old Lothario with blond hair, a trace of stubble, and a chiseled jawline, had a knack for finding himself in situations like this more often than most men. Time hadn’t dulled his swagger. He was still in great shape—broad-chested with defined pecs—but the six-pack of his youth had softened into an endearing dad bod. It suited him, though, giving him a cool confidence that he didn’t need perfection to turn heads.

“You’re incredible,” the sales girl gasped, panting between thrusts as she held onto the door handle for support. Her blouse was hiked up, her bare breasts exposed, bouncing wildly with every movement.

When his cell phone rang, Brett did his best to ignore it, instead focusing on the sales girl and how tight she was. One wrong movement and he felt like she could rip his dick off.  Finally, the ringing stopped and he picked up his frantic pace, entering her fast and deep from behind, his hot breath on her neck. 

Again, the phone started ringing, causing him to almost lose focus on what they were building up to, which was shaping up to be pretty explosive. Hastily, he grabbed his phone from the changing room bench and answered in bated breath. 

“Armstrong,” he said, attempting to steady his voice.  

“Brett, it’s Miranda.”  

“Miranda, I’m kinda busy.  Can I call you back in—” 

“Look, I have a big favor to ask. Tiger got in trouble at school and I can’t pick her up because my business is literally about to go under! Can you pick her up for me?”

Something about the sound of his ex-wife’s voice ignited something primal in him. It fueled the moment, intensifying each thrust—his girthy seven-and-a-half inches growing even harder. The saleswoman responded with high-pitched squeals of pleasure, which Brett quickly stifled with a firm hand over her mouth. 

“I’m sorry, it’s not a good time,” he said, somehow able to carry on the conversation at the same time as feeling as though he’d bust at any moment.  “Can’t Stormy pick her up?”

“He’s got an emergency at work too.  Ugh, this is awful.”  Her voice went up an octave. “What are you doing, anyway?”  

He closed his eyes, biding his time to keep from unloading into the young sales girl too soon.  “Uhh, shopping for your birthday present.”  

“Oh, well don’t go to any trouble, but if you’re thinking Brunello Cucinelli, tell the sales girl I said hi.  She was so helpful when I was there the other day.  And don’t get any ideas, she’s too young for you.”  

Brett coughed and nearly choked, fumbling with the phone as it flew out of his hands and landed on the changing room floor.  He went to pick it up and when he did, he reached the point of no return.  

“Jesus,” he groaned as he climaxed, waves of pleasure hitting him one after the other.  

Moments later, the sales girl rose and turned toward him.  “Wow, whoever that was certainly did it for you,” she said and kissed him on the neck.  She reached down and picked up a discarded garment.  “That’ll be six hundred and ninety five dollars.” 

“Huh?” Brett asked, his face twisted. 

“For the blouse,” she said and slid outside of the fitting room.  “I’ll meet you at the register.”  

Brett chuckled, trying to catch his breath before he buttoned up and followed her out.

* * *

“Here’s one,” Sadie Knox said while pouring over the casting calls in Variety, a palo santo stick smoldering in a ceramic dish beside her. “Emily, mid-20’s, any ethnicity. Emily is confident, intelligent, and emotionally grounded. She’s navigating the ups and downs of young adulthood with determination and wit. Seeking a strong actress who can balance vulnerability with strength and bring authenticity to emotionally layered scenes. Improvisational experience is a plus.”

“That sounds good,” remarked her younger sister, Iris, who was busy painting her nails in the pool chair beside her.  

“Improv, honey?” Sadie said with a scoff.  “No way. That just means the writing isn’t great to begin with. I think you can do a lot better.”

Iris looked up and frowned. “But I thought the idea was to audition for anything we could find. You said it’s the best way to get my name out there.” 

“And as your sister-manager-agent, I can feel in my solar plexus this isn’t the right project.”

She was probably right, Iris thought to herself and continued working on her nails. Sadie usually was. Or thought so anyway.

They had moved to L.A. from Alberta just a few weeks ago, leaving behind the bitter cold of Canadian winters in exchange for sunshine, palm trees, and the hope of stardom. Renting a cozy pool house tucked behind the home of a sweet old woman named Sally Tremond in the heart of Hollywood felt like the perfect beginning. For Iris, it was more than a change of scenery—it was the first step toward a dream she’d had for as long as she could remember. She was determined to make it as an actress.

At twenty-five, Iris was full of quiet ambition. With a trim, compact figure, a playful shag haircut and wide-set blue eyes, she presented herself as shy and timid—until she stepped in front of the camera. There, she transformed. The camera became her escape, the place where she could forget her inhibitions and become anyone she wanted to be. 

Sadie, Iris’s sister, was four years older and carried herself with confidence, despite her slightly overweight frame, pudgy cheeks, and a tendency toward flowy, dowdy clothes layered with crystals, scarves, and the occasional ankle bell. She had no interest in beauty treatments or dieting—those were Iris’s world. As her manager and agent, Sadie focused on what mattered to her: the business. 

“I guess I’m just impatient,” Iris said while looking out at the pool. “I know we’ve only been trying a few weeks, but I haven’t even had one callback.” 

Sadie looked up from Variety and cocked her head.  “The universe has your back.  Trust the journey.”  She pulled at a crystal that hung around her neck from a thin black string and rubbed it between her thumb and forefinger while she thought.  “Maybe we should move out to a place on the beach. Negative ions are known to be very powerful by the sea. Plus, I read that dolphins are psychic. Imagine the clarity.” 

Iris capped the bottle of nail polish and twisted off of the chair.  “Moving isn’t going to change things, Sadie,” she said, frustrated.  “Look, maybe it’s time I look for a real agent. I mean, one with contacts that can help me.”

Her eyes glossing over, Sadie let out a slight whimper. “And kick your own sister to the curb?” she asked. “Why would you want to do something like that?  Do you just want to hurt me?”

“No, of course not. I just want this to work and I don’t want to make any mistakes, you know?”

Sadie shook her head. “The only mistake would be turning your career over to someone who doesn’t know you the way I do, or care about you the way I do. You’re from Edmonton, Alberta. Do you want people in this town taking advantage of your good nature? Because they will. You’d be left with nothing, and what’s worse, not even your dignity, or your own sister to help guide you. Is that really what you want?”

The truth was, Iris didn’t know anything but the desire to be on the screen. Wasn’t taking risks and putting yourself out there all what being an actress was all about?  How was she going to grow if she didn’t?  

“But if that’s what you really want, I’ll step aside,” Sadie said from her pool lounger. “I’ll go back to Alberta. I’ll tell Mommy that you’re determined to do this on your own.  I know she’d be proud of you.” 

Iris suspected that her sister was manipulating her, but she didn’t want to take the risk.  “You wouldn’t have to leave.” 

“But what would I be staying for?” Sadie asked with a sigh and a shake of her head.  She rose from the chair, clutching her magazine and her little velvet pouch of tarot cards. “I’ll go call Mommy and tell her the news.”

As she watched her sister turn and walk to the pool house, Iris lost her nerve. “Sadie, wait,” she began.  “Don’t go.”

Sadie slowly turned back.  “But—” 

“I guess I was being hasty,” Iris said with an awkward shrug.  “We’ve only been here a few weeks. Something’s bound to come up.” 

“Of course it will,” Sadie said and went to pull her into an embrace.  “Just try to think good thoughts. What do I always say? Positive vibes attract positive lives.”  

Feeling a surge of renewed hope, Iris smiled. “I’m going to go call Mommy and give her some updates.” 

Sadie smiled. “Tell her hi from me.,” she said, then called after her.  “And don’t worry. Everything’s going to work out. You’ll see.”  

“Okay,” Iris said before going inside the pool house. 

Sadie turned back to the copy of Variety and flipped to the cover story that featured a picture of an attractive man posing in his office in some mega movie studio. “Brett Armstrong: Building Blockbusters with No-Name Stars,” she read from the title. Her lips curled into a smile. She gave her tarot pouch a squeeze. “Well then,” she whispered. “Time to manifest.” 

* * *

Eastland Prep in Bel Air was composed of several Spanish Colonial buildings with white stucco facades and terracotta roofs. Ivy climbed up stone walls, with tall cypress trees lining the walkways.  A far cry from Hollywood Junior High School with its chain-link fences and cracked blacktop surrounding a courtyard where Miranda and her friends would gather around chipped concrete benches sporting carved initials dating back decades.

She parked in the student pickup and drop-off only zone, knowing she wasn’t supposed to, but in the interest of time, she’d put up with a scolding or two. When she neared the front of the building, she saw Brett approaching from the parking lot. 

“What are you doing here?” Miranda asked. 

“I felt bad so I came anyway,” he told her. “What about you? I thought M.B.A. was moments away from going under.” 

“It still might,” Miranda grumbled.  “Look, thanks so much for coming, Brett, but I’ve got it from here.”

He pointed to the front of the school. “Actually, I think Stormy’s got it.” 

Miranda turned and saw her brother guiding Tiger toward them.  “You came too?” she asked with surprise.

“Did you really expect me not to?” Stormy asked, giving his niece a nudge toward her mother.   

Tiger, clad in her school uniform consisting of a navy blazer, white shirt and gray pleated skirt, scowled and clung silently to her backpack.  

“Well, what’s going on, toots?” Miranda asked, quickly shifting to mom duty.  “Another fight?  That makes three this month. You can’t keep doing this or they’re going to kick you out.”  

Glaring, Tiger’s frown parted while she explained.  “It wasn’t my fault. The other girl started it.” 

“Oh, and you finished it, is that right?”

“So what?” Tiger replied belligerently.  “What would you have done? Just stand there and take it? Doubt it.” 

Miranda would absolutely have done the same thing, but that didn’t make it right.  “Okay, well, what’s the damage?”

“Three day suspension,” Stormy told her.  

“Brilliant,” Miranda said with exasperation and then pointed her finger at her daughter.  “Don’t think this is going to be a vacation like last time, Miss. No TV, no internet, no phone.  You’re in serious trouble here.” 

Tiger, with her long dark hair tied back in a ponytail, rolled her eyes and murmured something Miranda couldn’t quite make out.

“What was that?” Miranda asked, cupping her ear and straining toward her.  

“Nothing,” she replied through thin pursed lips.

Miranda pointed to the street.  “Fine, go get in the car while I talk to Brett and your uncle Stormy.”

“Why, so you can talk about me behind my back?”

“Go!” Miranda shouted, still pointing, backing the young girl toward the street. “Now!”

“Fine!” Tiger screamed and walked toward the Mercedes.  “God, you’re mean!”

Miranda was used to her daughter’s attitude by now. The teen years hadn’t started off great, but then again, hers hadn’t either.  “Oh yeah? Well, I can be a lot meaner, so don’t push it!”

“Like a chip off the old block,” Stormy mused after Tiger had retreated. 

“Nicely handled,” Brett said and stifled a laugh. 

“Ugh, she can really push my buttons,” Miranda said, then exhaled sharply and tried to shift gears.  “Thank you guys so much for coming. I really appreciate it.  Eddie’s been gone all week on a case and things at work are really going shitty. This is all I need right now.”  

“Anytime,” Stormy said, kissing her on the cheek. “See you tomorrow night.” 

“Yeah,” she said, mouthing a thank you to Brett before turning and walking to her Mercedes. 

After she’d gone, Brett couldn’t help but twist the knife into Stormy’s wounds like the old days.  “Saw the rough cut of Dominion Protocol online last night. What’s going on with security over there at Sunset Studios, junior? That kind of thing never happened when I was in charge.” 

“We’re handling it,” Stormy said incredulously.  He couldn’t help but grin. “You know, there was a time I’d have accused you of being behind some underhanded shenanigans like this just so Rydell Productions can pull one over on us, but those days are behind us, right?”

Brett’s lips curled into a confident, cocky grin. “Of course they are,” he said, giving him a casual pat on the shoulder before turning back toward his car without another word.

Stormy let out a low chuckle, shaking his head as he walked off in the opposite direction, heading toward the parking lot.

* * *

The Wilshire Country Club had an old Hollywood feel, tucked away in the heart of Hancock Park. Tiled roofs and Spanish-style architecture, palm-lined fairways and views of the Hollywood sign all gave it a cinematic feel. The clubhouse was warm and sophisticated with plush furnishings, soft lighting, and vintage golf photos lining the walls. 

Riley stepped out of the employee locker room in his crisp valet uniform, heading toward the porte cochere for a last-minute shift he’d agreed to cover. After checking in with the shift manager, he headed to the valet stand and scanned the list of expected VIPs. It wasn’t part of the job, but he made a point to stay informed just in case a Hollywood executive or talent agent pulled up. As far as he was concerned, aspiring actors were never off the clock, and every interaction was a potential audition.

The first member to arrive was a smoking hot woman whose enormous breasts strained against the buttons on her form fitting white blazer. As she stepped out of her Porsche 718 Spyder, Riley couldn’t look away, his eyes locked onto her.

She smiled playfully, then sauntered over to him. “Take good care of her,” she drawled, slipping a folded twenty into the waistband of his trousers that were already stretched tight from the effect she’d had on him.

Flushed, Riley took a moment to reflect on the encounter. Since moving to L.A., he’d been pinched and ogled by more women than he’d thought possible. From guests at the country club to the Amazon courier who delivered packages to their door, he got the feeling they looked at him like a piece of meat. Not that he was complaining. He took care of himself because that’s what you did when you were an actor. After fifteen hours a week in the gym, the attention came with the territory. 

He broke from the daze when he heard someone call out to him. Turning, he saw a man pulling up in a silver BMW.  Immediately, he recognized him.  

“Wyatt!” Riley said, grinning as he approached and opened his car door. “I didn’t know you were a member of the Wilshire Country Club. Or that you drove a Beemer.  Wow, times have sure changed.”   

Stepping out of the car, Wyatt shrugged modestly while shaking Riley’s hand.  “What can I say? All those acting classes finally paid off.” 

“Are you working?”

Wyatt, a dark haired, slim thirty-something, nodded exuberantly.  “Yeah, I got a part in a FlickFix series.  Should be streaming in the Spring.” 

“That’s great man!” Riley exclaimed genuinely.  “I’m happy for you. At least one of us got something out of those classes.”

“What are you up to now?” Wyatt wanted to know.

Riley gestured to the cars backing up in the porte cochere. “You’re looking at it,” he said with a self deprecating laugh. 

“No luck, huh?” Wyatt asked.  “Fuck, I thought for sure you were on to something when you got that gig on Empire Crest last year.” 

“Yeah, well, I’ve got a few things in the pipeline,” Riley said, feeling the sting of his own fib. His ego was delicate, especially when it came to success.

Wyatt seemed to see through the facade, offering a sympathetic tilt of his head before stepping closer and speaking in a low voice. “Between us, you gotta blow this pop stand, man. Parking cars is ok for a while, but there’s ways you can make a lot more money.” 

Always up for making more money, Riley’s interest was piqued.  “How?” 

“Ever heard of Noir Companions?” 

Riley shook his head.  “No, what’s that?” 

“It’s an app for men,” Wyatt explained.

“What’s it do?”

Wyatt stepped closer still.  “Men advertise on it. Women shop on it, so to speak.”  He grinned and tapped Riley with an elbow.

Realization dawning, Riley felt an immediate aversion to the idea. “Ah, gotcha. Well, I’m not sure that’s something I’d want to do. I’m married, remember, man?” 

Leaning casually against the door of the BMW, Wyatt flicked a dismissive hand through the air.

“This doesn’t have to change anything,” he said, his tone relaxed. “Besides, it’s not exactly dinner conversation. But think about it—one hour of this, and you’re making more than you would in ten hours parking cars for entitled rich assholes. More time for auditions. More time with Natalie.”

Riley studied him carefully, ignoring the honks from cars backing up down the drive.  “Are you speaking from experience?”

“How do you think I afforded those acting classes?” Wyatt asked. “Start making some real money and you can start up again and learn more about the craft.”  

“How much money are we talking?”

Wyatt looked up as if calculating a sum in his mind. “Couple grand a day—depending on how motivated you are.”

That was more than Riley made in a week at the club. He found himself growing intrigued, but immediately thought better of it. He didn’t have it in him.  

“Nah, but I’ll think of something,” he mused.  “Besides, like I said, I’ve got some stuff in the works. It’s only a matter of time.”

“Suit yourself,” Wyatt told him with a pat on the back.  “Well, good luck, buddy.  Good to see you. I got a tee time. Catch you later.” 

Riley nodded and offered a quick wave goodbye before turning back to the lineup of impatient club members idling in their luxury cars.

* * *

Sadie dressed in her most conservative outfit—a flowy maxi dress layered with an embroidered blazer and vegan ankle boots. She tied her long mane of wispy hair into a sleek low bun and proceeded to the Rydell Productions offices in Studio City. 

It didn’t take much effort to convince the ditzy big breasted receptionist to let her in to see Brett Armstrong. She immediately got a feeling for his type before even meeting him. 

“Brett will see you now,” said Sam, the perky young receptionist who eyed Sadie with disapproval. 

With her purse slung over her shoulder and a portfolio tucked beneath her arm, Sadie walked into the office and found the CEO standing by the window.

Situated on the top floor of the studio’s sleek high-rise, there were panoramic views of Los Angeles from every angle.  Brett’s office was modern and minimalist, with clean lines and expensive taste. A large glass desk faced the window, nearly empty except for a laptop, a few documents, and a designer pen.

Behind it, shelves displayed awards, signed film memorabilia, and curated art pieces. The walls were lined with framed posters from Rydell Productions’ biggest blockbusters. A sitting area featured a plush couch, a marble coffee table, and a fully stocked bar in the corner.

“Mr. Armstrong, thank you for seeing me,” Sadie said and went to shake his hand. 

“Of course, Miss—?”

“Sadie, please.”

Brett gestured to the sofa in the sitting area. “Have a seat. I understand you’re a journalist? Who do you write for?” 

“New Age Woman magazine,” she said, making things up as she went along. She had no real plan other than to get in to see the man. Maybe improv had its place after all.  “We wanted to do a follow up piece on the one you did for Variety last month. The one about turning no name stars into household names. This would be from the point of view of women exclusively.” 

“Women just so happen to be my favorite people,” Brett said and sat down two spaces apart from her.  “What would your article be about specifically?” 

“Casting,” she said.  “I mean, I’m sure a successful man like yourself running a studio of this size doesn’t concern himself with things like casting, but—” 

“Actually, I very much concern myself with it,” Brett told her.  “Two of my ex–wives are casting agents and they send all the best talent to me.  My philosophy on filmmaking is there’s nothing I don’t want to be involved in. From locations to casting to what they’re serving in craft services.”  

“A man who wears many hats,” Sadie said with a thin smile. She pulled out a tiny roller bottle of lavender oil and dabbed a bit behind her ears, murmuring, “Just grounding myself.”

Brett smiled back. “Yes, well, I’d be happy to answer your questions, but unfortunately my schedule is a bit tight today. Maybe we could set something up for early next week. My receptionist can book some time for us.” 

“Wonderful,” Sadie said and rose to her feet, orchestrating a convenient slip of her hand, letting a stack of Iris’s headshots slip from her portfolio and drop to the floor.  “Oh, shoot.  I’m so clumsy.”  

Brett quickly went to help.  “Here, let me,” he said and knelt to the floor where he started gathering the glossy photos.  “Pretty. Who is she?” 

“Oh, you don’t know her?” Sadie asked.  “Iris Knox. A very in demand up and coming actress from Henderson, Nevada.”  

Brett rose to his feet while looking at the photo.  “Really? I’m from Henderson.”  

“You don’t say?” Sadie asked, feigning surprise. She came prepared.  

“What’s she done?” Brett wanted to know.  

Sadie made an exaggerated gesture with her arms.  “All kinds of things.”

“Is she a subject of your article or something?”

“She is,” Sadie said, nodding. She studied his face, certain that he was intrigued. 

Brett raised an eyebrow, setting one of the headshots on the coffee table before leading Sadie to the door.  “Well, thanks for stopping by, Sadie. Make sure to set something up with Sam.”

“I will,” she said, her gaze going to the headshot on the table.  She grinned.  Things were going just as she’d planned.  “Thank you, Mr. Armstrong.”

With a goodbye nod of his head, he closed the door.  Sadie shivered—not from cold, but from the tingling in her spine she always got when things were aligning. The energy was shifting. She could feel it.

* * *

Natalie was in high spirits when Riley got home from his shift at the club. No sooner had he opened the door to their poolside apartment than she was rushing over and jumping into his arms, her long, sexy legs wrapping around him like vines around a tree trunk.

“Oh, honey, I had the best day,” she said, smothering his face with kisses. 

“What happened?” he asked with an excited laugh.

“Oh, nothing,” she said casually, walking to the kitchen counter and showing him a map of the city.  

Riley looked at it and shook his head with uncertainty. “Umm, you went on a tour of celebrity homes?” he asked with a shrug.  

“No! I got a catering job at a big Hollywood party!” she exclaimed. “My manager at the Smoke House recommended me to the caterer. It’s tomorrow night. Some big birthday bash.”

“That’s great, hon. Should be good money.”  

Natalie dropped her arms to her sides.  “It’s not just the money, Ry. Think of the connections I could make. I mean, I know I’ll just be waiting tables and cleaning up, but what do you always say?— every encounter is a potential audition.”  

He said the words along with her and nodded in agreement as he looked at the map.  “Yeah, that’s fantastic.”  A pause as his eyes widened.  “Oh wait, hold up.  Do you know whose house this is?”

She shook her head.  

“James Blackthorne,” he said, pronouncing each syllable firmly.  “The family that owns Sunset Studios.  Do you know how many movie execs are bound to be there?”  

“Exactly, so get excited!” Natalie squealed happily. 

Riley picked her up in his arms and spun her around, confident that good things were about to happen for them.  

* * *

Titan Artists Group was the talent agency Vaughan Novak had owned ever since Jonas Lamont died and Vaughan ceased being Lamont 3’s resident fixer. The list of stars he’d managed was long and prestigious.  Alex Reynolds, Lola Lamont, Nathan Blackthorne, Victor Distefano and Jack Childers just to name those Miranda had been and still was close to. He was the one who orchestrated her father-in-law’s return from the dead after vanishing when Victor’s yacht exploded in an attempt to kill Heather and her mother years ago. He was also the one who basically enabled that nutjob Marilee Walker to kill several Hollywood A-listers back the year she and Eddie married.  

Today, though, she wasn’t thinking about the questionable decisions he’d made in the past. What mattered now was what he was trying to do to her agency, and she wasn’t about to take it lying down. After picking up Tiger from school, she drove straight to his Beverly Hills office, plopped her daughter in a chair in the waiting room, and stormed past the handsome assistant, Travis, stationed like a watchdog outside Vaughan’s ultra modern office.

Vaughan looked up from his desk when she entered. He was mid-conversation, probably closing some bullshit streaming deal, but his smug expression froze the second he saw her.

“Miranda,” he said, ending the call before standing. “This is unexpected.”

She didn’t wait to be offered a seat.

“I bet it is,” she snapped. “You know what’s also unexpected? You trying to poach my number one client. After everything I’ve survived to build that agency from the ground up, you think you can just waltz in and fuck with it?”

Vaughan didn’t react. Maybe he was thinking of something to say, or maybe he was intimidated. Either way, she wasn’t finished.

“I didn’t spend the last fourteen years trying to get out from under my family’s shadow, shedding every nepo baby label people threw at me, just to be undermined by has-been with a podcast and a penthouse.”

He blinked. “I don’t have a podcast.”

“Give it time,” she fired back. “You’ve already stolen everything else that makes you remotely interesting. And if you want a fight, you’ve got one. But mark my words, people who go against me don’t walk away clean, so buckle up.” 

She took a breath, smoothing a stray lock of hair that had fallen out of place, and turned and walked out the same way she came in—leaving only the faint scent of Killian Paris behind.

Tiger looked up as she passed.  Miranda took her arm and led her back out of the reception area.  “That’s how you finish something.”  

***To Be Continued***