Miranda Blackthorne’s home sat behind a gated drive in the hills of Bel Air, tucked among tall hedges and swaying palms. The house was large but not overly flashy—white stone with clean lines, big windows, and total refinement.

Inside, the entry was bright and open, with marble floors and a curved staircase that led upstairs. The living room offered an impressive view of the city below, softened by sheer curtains that billowed in the breeze. The scent of gardenias lingered in the air. Every piece of furniture, every framed photograph, had been carefully selected. 

Upstairs in her bedroom, Miranda lay in her canopied bed with her husband of fourteen years. Naked beneath the sheets, they both basked in the afterglow of a perfect round of explosive lovemaking. 

Eddie Distefano, now 42, had once been the epitome of dorkiness—awkward and lacking confidence. But time had done wonders for him. Years of chasing leads and navigating L.A.’s dark side had turned him ruggedly sexy. His frame had filled out with lean muscle, a hint of scruff on his jawline, and his brown eyes were intense and drew people in. He was still often unintentionally funny, but now he came in a package that made even Miranda do a double take.

“I should go out of town more often,” he said, pulling his fingers through his short brown hair in amazement. “I’m guessing you missed me.”  

“You guess right,” she said, luxuriating in the Frette sheets, enamored by the way the soft fabric felt on her skin. “I hate it when you’re gone, but I love early morning surprises like this.”  

“Which reminds me,” Eddie said, jumping up and walking to the door where a cart awaited with a light breakfast—a croissant with butter and jam, a cup of fruit, juice and coffee.  A single red rose in a thin crystal vase complimented the spread.  

“When did you do this?” Miranda asked with surprise, sitting up against the headboard.  

Eddie steered the cart toward the bed, avoiding his bags which he’d haphazardly discarded on the floor upon returning home before surprising Miranda in bed that morning.  “Well, I had help.” 

“You must have,” she said as he placed the tray on her lap.  

“Yeah, Tiger was up early making freshly squeezed O.J.” Even as he said it, he couldn’t keep a straight face.

Miranda laughed and sipped her coffee.  “Yeah, right. That’ll be the day.”   

“I asked Mei Lin to get it ready,” Eddie confessed, then leaned down and kissed her. “Happy birthday.”  

“Thank you,” she said contently.

When she lifted the napkin from the tray, she saw a Cartier jewelry box hidden beneath it.  Eyes wide, she looked at Eddie and then opened the red leather lid. Inside was a Panthère diamond cuff bracelet set in white gold, the iconic panther designs encrusted with emerald eyes. “Eddie, it’s beautiful,” she said, slipping the bracelet onto her delicate wrist.  “This is…. I mean, wow.”

“When I saw it, it reminded me of you,” he said.  “Panthers are supposed to be a symbol of feminine power. I think that sums you up pretty well.”  

“I love it,” Miranda said and kissed him.  

“Are you ready for tonight?” Eddie asked. “Your father’s going all out for this shindig—I hope you know that.” 

Miranda picked at the croissant and sighed heavily. “I have a feeling it’s more Lara’s doing than his. She’s always trying to go the extra mile with me. I don’t know why she still feels like she has to.”  

Eddie smiled incredulously. “Uh maybe it’s because of the way you treated his last wife for their entire marriage?”

“That was twenty years ago,” she reminded him. “Besides, I eventually warmed up to Brooke. And I’ve never said a single harsh word to Lara. I actually really like her.”  

“Well, I better get busy,” Eddie said and walked to the bathroom where he turned on the shower.  “Lots to do.”  

“Like what?” she called after him.  

He emerged a few seconds later with a loaded toothbrush and grinned. “Don’t worry about it.”  

She gazed at the bracelet, wondering what other surprises he had in store for her.  Setting the breakfast tray aside, she twisted out of bed and walked into the bathroom, already clouded with steam.  

Pulling the glass door open, she stepped inside the shower where Eddie was busy soaping himself up.  He turned with surprise as she pressed her body against his.  

“Again?” Eddie asked with delight.  

Miranda nodded. “Hey, I’m forty. I’m in my sexual prime.”  

She sank to her knees before him. Eddie’s eyes widened, his head tipping back as a surge of pleasure overtook him.

* * *

Brett Armstrong’s house on Ocean Front Walk in Venice was steps from the sand.  It was a mix of concrete, steel and reclaimed wood with plenty of huge windows that let in loads of sun. The inside was masculine with polished concrete floors and a kitchen with matte black fixtures. It was simple but cost a fortune.

Brett was dressed in a robe, sipping from a mug of coffee when Sadie showed up at nine sharp.  “Miss Knox, right on time.  I trust you found the place okay.”  

“Yes, no problems,” she replied eagerly as she followed him inside. “I was surprised when your receptionist said you wanted to meet at your home. I would have been happy to go to your office.”  

Brett led her through the sprawling house. “Well, it is Saturday and while I do work most weekends, I decided to work from home today.  I hope this is okay.” 

“Oh, fine,” she said. 

He led her into his home office and instructed her to sit in a chair across from his desk while he perched on the edge.  

“Can I get you anything?” he asked her. 

“I’m fine, thank you,” Sadie replied, all smiles with pen poised to paper.  “I’d like to get started with the interview if that’s okay.”  

“Shoot,” Brett said, studying her carefully.

“Now, in your interview in Variety, you said that you like to cast unknown actors and actresses because they haven’t been jaded by the business, giving them a clearer vision of their character. Can you explain more about what you look for in an actress?” 

Brett folded his arms and nodded along.  “Yes, I look for someone with emotional range, authenticity, and versatility.”

Sadie nodded along, pretending to jot down notes while really just doodling spirals and crescent moons.  “I see,” she said.

“And most importantly, they have to eat Cornflakes for breakfast,” Brett went on, pausing to gauge her reaction.

It took a moment for Sadie to register. “Cornflakes?”

“It’s a joke,” Brett said, growing more serious.  “Just like this entire charade of yours.” 

Suddenly alarmed, Sadie tried her best to defray her reaction. “I beg your pardon?” 

“The jig is up, Miss Knox. I did some checking up on your story after you left my office yesterday. New Age Woman magazine?”

“Well, I mean, it has a relatively small readership,” Sadie stammered as she rose to her feet.  “More of a regional base—that’s probably why you haven’t heard of it.” 

“So it’s a Henderson publication?” Brett asked, eyeing her squarely. “Which would make sense except that you’re from Alberta.”  

“By way of Nevada,” she said, trying her best to steer her plan back on track.  When he started walking back toward the front door, she trailed along after him.  “Look, if it’s the angle, I can work on it. You tell me what you want to say in the story.”  

“How about goodbye?” Brett said, reaching for the door handle. “I don’t like having my time wasted. Especially by new-agey wannabe talent managers trying to get their sister her big break.” 

Finally dropping the ruse—which she had to admit wasn’t terribly original to begin with, Sadie took on a more defensive approach.  “Well, fine, yeah, so I made up a story to try to get in to see you. But you could have told me you weren’t interested instead of having me come all the way down here and put me through all this rigmarole!”

Brett slammed the door shut and gave an exaggerated and sarcastic plea for forgiveness. “Oh, so sorry! Did I inconvenience you?”

“Yes, as a matter of fact,” Sadie said.  “I’m very busy. Not only am I Iris’s biggest fan but I’m her manager slash agent and that’s a full time job. And by the way, I’d thank you not to use the phrase wannabe talent manager. I am a talent manager.”  

“Lady, you couldn’t manage a lemonade stand in a heat wave!” Brett yelled. He couldn’t remember the last time someone infuriated him as much as she did. The gall of her and her entitlement.  

“Oh, and you’re such a big shot. You slept your way to where you are. That’s how guys like you operate. I mean look at you.” Sadie gestured to his robe—hitting just above the knees and open to his chest. “Who wears that to do an interview? I mean, are you trying to entice me?” 

Brett made a face. “Don’t flatter yourself, sweetheart. You’re not my type.”  

The remark got to Sadie.  “Fine,” she said and went to pull open the door.  “But when Iris becomes a major movie star and some other movie studio is profiting off of her success, you’ll be sorry.”  

Stopping the door from opening all the way, Brett gave a resigned sigh. “I’ll see your sister, but on one condition. That I never have to see you or hear from you again.” 

Sadie looked at him in confusion.  “You mean it?  Why?” 

“Because you’re annoying.” 

She shook her head.  “No, why would you want to see her?”

Brett rolled his eyes. “Because she does have something,” he admitted. “When I was checking up on you, I saw some of her audition preps on YouTube. She’s good.”  

Stunned, Sadie couldn’t help but gush. “Brett, I don’t even know how to thank you,” she said, stepping forward to initiate a hug. He stopped her cold with a raised eyebrow and a firm shake of his head.  “Oh, okay, yeah.  Okay, so should I have her call you or—”

“I’ll have Sam reach out to you.”

“Yes, of course—Sam,” Sadie said and started to leave again.  “Really, I just can’t thank you enough.  Turns out my horoscope was right today. ‘Look to the moon and stars to find the answers that lie within you’.”

“Goodbye, Sadie,” Brett said with a groan, practically having to push her out the door.  

* * *

After Sadie announced she was going to visit a sound bath to help visualize success, Iris decided to head to the beach to take in the fresh ocean air. She drove to Santa Monica and strolled barefoot across the sand, the foamy waves curling around her ankles.

She thought again about her career and if entrusting the whole thing to her sister was the wisest idea. Maybe she would bring up the subject of finding an agent again—though when she did, it was usually met with the same gaslighting as before. She had to stand firm. 

Heading back to the blanket she’d spread out a ways up the beach, she knelt down and picked up a script she’d been studying.  For what, she didn’t know. She didn’t have anyone to read for but Sadie.

With a sigh, she started reading the next line and before long she was deep in character, mouthing lines to herself, oblivious to the world around her. The morning sun bathed her in sunlight, the waves rolling in beside her.

Suddenly, a gust of wind tore through, whipping the pages from her lap. With a gasp, she scrambled to her feet, chasing after the flying script as it scattered down the shoreline.

“Wait—no, no, no!”

She lunged for a page and missed, nearly falling face-first into the sand. Up ahead, an attractive shirtless guy jogging with a golden retriever came to a stop. He caught two pages mid-air with surprising ease and looked them over, amused.

“You auditioning for a soap,” he called out, “or having a dramatic beach breakdown?”

Iris stopped in front of him, laughing. He was average height—maybe 5’10”—with short dark hair, a thin mustache, smooth skin, and a sculpted, muscular form. He looked to be in his early thirties. “That depends,” she said, brushing hair from her face. “Do I look more tortured ingenue or washed-up extra?”

He laughed, handing her the pages. “Definitely ingenue.”

She blinked at him, suddenly aware of how ridiculously good-looking he was. Her heart literally skipped a beat, and that wasn’t even part of the script.  “Well, thanks for your help.  Guess I better get back to rehearsing.”

He handed over the last page, then took a few slow steps backward, grinning.  “Well, if you land the part,” he said, walking in reverse along the shoreline, “try not to let the fame ruin you.”

Before she could reply, his phone buzzed. He glanced at the screen, lifted a hand in a quick wave, and pressed it to his ear.

“Blake Distefano,” he answered, turning away and continuing down the beach with his dog trotting at his side.

Iris stood there in the breeze, script in hand, lips parted like she still had something to say. But he was already gone.

* * *

The gym sat just off the courtyard, a few feet from the pool—part of the original design of the aging Hollywood apartment building. Two cardio machines lined the wall, one of them seemingly always out of order. Free weights were stacked on a rack that wobbled slightly when touched, and the floor mats had long since lost their padding. Still, it offered privacy, and for Riley, that was enough.

He stood near the window, shirtless, muscles gleaming with sweat as he curled a set of dumbbells in steady rhythm. The splash of someone doing laps echoed from the pool outside, mixing with the hum of the old ceiling fan.

He thought about what his friend Wyatt had said to him yesterday and paused between reps, reaching for his phone and navigating to the app store. He searched for Noir Companions and found it quickly—its icon consisting of a silver background with a matte black masquerade mask centered inside of the square.  

After a quick sweep of the gym and a glance through the window at the pool to make sure no one was watching, he let out a chuckle, shook his head, and slipped the phone back into his pocket before getting back to his workout.  Why would he even be curious?  Their money problems weren’t that serious, and besides, he loved Natalie and had made a commitment to her. 

He moved to the bench press and took his position. He was mid-set when the gym door creaked open behind him. He caught a woman’s reflection in the mirror—young, fit, and tan. Her biker shorts and crop top clung in all the right places.

She strolled past slowly, offering a deliberate glance and a smile. “Guess I picked the right time to work out,” she said, sliding onto a nearby treadmill. 

Riley didn’t miss a beat. He smirked, reached for a heavier weight and kept going. Let her watch. Then the door opened again. This time, it was Natalie.

She walked in dressed in short shorts and that sweet girl next door ponytail in her hair. Her eyes flicked from the girl on the treadmill to Riley—shirtless, pumped, and flustered.  The girl lowered her eyes, suddenly focused on the treadmill settings. 

“Hi, hon,” Riley said as he replaced the dumbbell to its rack. “You want to work out with me?” 

“Yeah,” Natalie said, her gaze going from him to the girl on the treadmill again.  “But can we talk first?”

He nodded, grabbing a towel to dab his face with and followed her out to the pool deck.  “What’s up?” 

“I was thinking about tonight and a way that I could get you into the party,” Natalie said, suddenly all smiles.

“You’re kidding?” he asked with excitement. “How?” 

Lowering her voice as if anyone around would be paying attention, she took a step closer.  “I found a tuxedo in the back of your friend Steve’s closet with the other stuff he left in the apartment. Suppose you get all dressed up and show up? No one would even give you a second look or think you don’t belong.” 

He laughed.  “And how do I get in once I’m there?” 

Natalie shrugged. “I’ll get you in a back door or something. I could text you when there’s no one around.  See?  It’s perfect. While I’m working, you can work the room and find out who’s who.”

Grinning mischievously, Riley looked at her in admiration. “I knew there was a reason I married you.” 

She kissed him before turning back to the gym. When he pulled her back, she pointed to the door. “I thought you wanted to work out.”  

Sheepishly, he motioned back to their apartment. He’d gotten himself worked up, and now could only think of one thing that would satisfy him.  “How ‘bout we work out some other muscles?” 

Shivering from the way his eyes locked knowingly onto hers, she gave her hand to him and followed him across the pool deck to their apartment. Inside, Riley drew the blinds before turning and quickly stripping off her clothes.  He loved big breasts, and while Natalie’s were not exactly big, they were perky and firm.  After lowering her to the sofa, he spent a few minutes on them—letting his tongue flick around her pink nipples. Natalie threw her head back in ecstacy, placing a hand on his head and guiding him down to her hairless pussy. Riley let his tongue drive her to a wild climax, her body arching and bucking beneath him. Only then did he lower his gym shorts and ease himself inside, slow and deliberate.

For a moment, he thought back to the girl on the treadmill and the way she’d looked at him. The thought hit like a spark, sending him over the edge in a sudden, shuddering release.

* * *

Miranda couldn’t stop staring at her Cartier bracelet even as Eddie pulled her Mercedes SUV up to the porte cochere of the Blackthorne mansion that evening.

Nestled high in the Hollywood Hills, Miranda’s childhood home was reminiscent of the majesty of a Roman estate. Commissioned by Jonas Lamont in the early 1900’s, it featured sunlit courtyards with marble statues among the pools and manicured gardens. Though she moved out when she and Eddie married fourteen years ago, it still felt like her home.   

Her father had made her promise to act surprised when she walked in, which was ridiculous because the grounds looked like a parking lot.  Even if she hadn’t already been tipped off, the sheer number of luxury cars in her sightline alone would have given it away. 

Placing her hand on the door handle, Miranda pushed and stepped into the mahogany paneled foyer. When she saw the sheer number of people there to celebrate her 40th, it genuinely almost brought tears to her eyes.  

“Surprise!” the crowd roared. 

“This is incredible!” Miranda squealed with delight as they descended on her rapidly. “I can’t believe you all did this! I’m so surprised!”

Greeting the vast number of well-wishers proved to be a feat of grace, stamina, and social finesse.  Her father, her mother, and their respective spouses came first, followed by the girls from M.B.A, Leilani, her brother, Brett, and business associates of her father’s. It became a bit overwhelming, so when Eddie expertly whisked her off to get a drink, she was secretly relieved. 

“Wow, that was a lot,” Miranda said, sipping a glass of champagne.  “Wasn’t it?” 

Eddie nodded in agreement. “It was a lot. Remember Stormy’s 40th?”

“No, because you and him took off for that walkabout in Australia!”

“And this is exactly why,” he said, gesturing to the crowd. 

There were waiters dressed in black and white zig-zagging the first-floor rooms with trays of hors d’oeuvres and champagne. Three well-stocked bars were set up in strategic locations offering anything imaginable, manned by bartenders who entertained by throwing bottles in the air and mixing cocktails with flair, often met with raucous applause. A marble table in the foyer was piled high with lavishly wrapped gifts. 

A band struck up outside near the pool, and Miranda craned her neck in disbelief. “There’s a band?” she said, half-laughing. “Okay, this is getting a little—”

“There’s the birthday girl!” James Blackthorne called out, cutting her off as he approached with his wife, Lara, on his arm.

“—exciting,” Miranda finished smoothly, forcing a bright smile. “It’s a little exciting. Isn’t it, Eddie?”

“I’d say it’s a lot exciting,” he said, playing along. 

Miranda gave her father a squeeze and then turned to Lara. “This is so lovely. I can’t thank you enough. Both of you.”  

“You’re welcome, sweetheart,” James said.

James Blackthorne, at sixty-two, was a man who’d spent decades at the top. Tall and still classically handsome, he had a commanding presence that now had a new sense of ease after stepping back from the manic pace of running Sunset Studios. Now semi-retired and letting his son Stormy handle the day-to-day operations, James was more relaxed—his tailored shirts unbuttoned just enough, his silver-streaked hair tousled a bit. 

His fourth wife, Lara Devon, was once America’s sweetheart on the cult-favorite 90’s teen drama, Malibu High. She faded into alcoholic obscurity following its end in 2002, then made appearances on Dancing with the Stars and Celebrity AA.  Then, at 50, she made headlines again—this time as the new wife of famed movie producer James Blackthorne. The pair wed in an intimate but lavish ceremony in Lake Como five years ago, and since then, Lara had stepped into her role as The Next Mrs. Blackthorne with ease.

Miranda recalled an interview Lara did on Entertainment Tonight during her courtship with her father. “People love to call me a comeback story,” Lara had said with a laugh, sipping a matcha at the Beverly Hills Hotel. “But the truth is, I never really went anywhere.”

“We wanted it to be special,” Lara said, exchanging glances with James. “You’re his little girl.” 

Spotting her mother and Jordan standing with Heather in the formal dining room, Miranda excused herself gracefully.  “I’m gonna go say hi to Mom.”

“Have fun, sweetheart,” James said and blew her a kiss. 

She made her way across the foyer and walked up to Alex Reynolds who stood arm in arm with Jordan Rydell—Heather’s father and Alex’s second, third and fourth husband.  

“Happy birthday, darling,” Alex said and kissed her on the cheek.  She stood back and took in her daughter’s outfit—an Elie Saab tulle Cocktail Dress in champagne gold with Tom Ford metallic stilettos. One look at the diamond cuff bracelet and she was pulling Miranda’s hand up to investigate. “It’s beautiful!” 

Smiling happily at the bracelet, Miranda replied dreamily, “Eddie says the panther symbolizes powerful women.” 

“That’s you,” Jordan added and clinked his champagne glass to hers.

“It really is beautiful, Miranda,” Heather agreed, stepping closer to inspect the lavish gift.

“Your husband has great taste,” Alex agreed.

Alex Reynolds, sixty-one, was Hollywood royalty. A career that spanned over forty years, she was best known for her roles in pictures produced by Sunset Studios and directed by Miranda’s late uncle, Nathan Blackthorne.  Even now, she was beautiful with high cheekbones, perfectly arched brows, and skin that defied time. 

Jordan Rydell was just a year older than Alex and the definition of old-school Hollywood power.  He had a sexy smile and sultry eyes that commanded attention. He spent over three decades running Rydell Productions, one of the industry’s most profitable film studios, before handing the reins over to his one-time son-in-law, Brett Armstrong. 

“I was glad to see that Eddie made it back in time for the party, darling,” Alex said, her auburn hair cascading over her shoulders.  “It would have been a shame if he had to miss it for work.”  

“I’ll say, because he’d be dead,” Miranda deadpanned.

“Where’s Tiger?” Jordan asked.  

Miranda took a deep breath. “Don’t get me started. Little miss Ronda Rousey got suspended again today for fighting a girl over a read that went too far,” she said, repeating her daughter’s words verbatim, each one enunciated for maximum effect. “I swear I don’t know what I’m going to do with her.”

“Sounds like someone else we know,” Jordan mused.

“No comment,” Alex singsonged, looking away nonchalantly immediately after saying it. 

Miranda smirked, her expression laced with sarcasm, just as she spotted Renee Merteuil gliding past.  “Which reminds me,” she said, already moving. “I’ll be right back.”

She dashed after her, catching up in a few quick strides and gently pulling her aside.

“Happy birthday, Miranda,” Renee said and gave her a quick squeeze. She took a step back and looked her up and down. “Honey, you are looking fabulous tonight.” 

Renee Merteuil was the picture of elegance. A striking black woman in her early sixties, she carried herself with the kind of poise that turned heads. Her style was impeccable, dressed in a purple Versace creation with plenty of daring cleavage.   

“Thank you,” Miranda replied graciously. “Renee, I have to talk to you. I know you’re close with Siobahn Saxton.”

“She’s been a dear friend for a long time.”

“Well, do you think that she’s thinking of leaving the Miranda Blackthorne Agency?  I only ask because Vaughan Novak is trying to sink his claws into her. I wondered if maybe she’s said anything to you.”  

Renee shook her head.  “No, honey, she hasn’t, but if you want to know I suggest you ask her.  She should be here soon.”

“Siobahn is coming here?” Miranda asked. 

“She told me she wouldn’t miss it.”  

At least she’d be able to get this out of the way and enjoy the rest of her party, Miranda thought as she scanned the crowd.  As soon as Siobahn arrived, she’d get to the bottom of it.

* * *

Steve’s tuxedo fit Riley almost perfectly. It was a little snug here and a little big there, but he didn’t think anyone would notice. After Natalie snuck him in through a back door in the kitchen, he melted into the crowd and blended easily. 

He ordered a whiskey and Coke—not because he liked the taste, but because it gave him something to hold. He wasn’t much of a drinker, but at least he didn’t look out of place. The house was wrought with the kind of glamour he’d only seen in magazines. The clothing, the jewelry, the deals being made. Being this close to the action was like a dream.

He tilted his glass to his lips, scanning the crowd and taking in every detail. Agents, producers, stars—all gathered in one house. He recognized a few faces from the trades. A showrunner from Network Wars. A casting director he’d DM’d more than once without reply. He just needed an opening. A moment. Someone to look his way and think, Who’s that guy?

He shifted his weight, flexed slightly, and set his jaw into the look he practiced in the mirror. The brooding, mysterious up-and-comer.

Then he saw her—a woman in a silk jumpsuit, hoop earrings, and large glasses commanding attention near the outdoor bar. Her laugh was infectious. People leaned in when she spoke. She had to be somebody.

Riley decided to make his move. Show time.

He weaved through the crowd with as much confidence as he could muster, careful not to appear like he was angling. But as he neared the woman in the silk jumpsuit, she turned—just as someone bumped into him from behind.

His whiskey sloshed, just missing her outfit.

“Shit—sorry,” he said, steadying the glass and his nerves at the same time.

The woman raised an eyebrow, amused more than annoyed. “You always make an entrance like that?”

Riley gave her a sheepish grin. “Only at parties I’m technically not invited to.”

Her smile widened. “That so?”

“I’m Riley. Riley Dean Weir.”

She paused. “Dean. Like James Dean?”

“Exactly. Only hungrier,” he said, leaning in just enough. “And alive.”

She let out a short laugh. “You’ve got guts, I’ll give you that.” She glanced around, then nodded toward a quieter corner near the terrace. “Come on, tell me your story. Anyone who crashes a Blackthorne party without getting thrown out in the first ten minutes deserves a few of mine.”

They walked side by side, and Riley’s nerves were going berserk. He still didn’t know who she was, but people looked her in the eye when they passed, and some nodded humbly. A producer? An exec?

They settled near a fire pit lined with white cushions and flickering candles in hurricane vases. She crossed one leg over the other and swirled her drink. Riley sat opposite her, doing his best not to look overeager.

“So,” she said, eyes locked on his, “what’s your angle, Riley Dean Weir? Aspiring actor, I’m guessing?”

“Guilty,” he said with a self-deprecating smile. “I moved here a year ago. Just trying to get in the right rooms. Figured this party might be one.”

She chuckled softly. “You’re bold.”

He leaned forward slightly. “And you? You definitely seem like someone important.”

The woman’s eyes sparkled, amused. “You really don’t know, do you?”

Riley blinked. “Should I?”

She extended her perfectly manicured hand. “Willow Grant. I run casting for Monarch Pictures.”

He nearly choked on his drink. Monarch Pictures. They were one of the biggest studios in town.

“You’re kidding,” he said, his voice suddenly hoarse.

“I never kid about talent,” she replied smoothly. “And lucky for you, I happen to be looking for a new face. Something raw. Something different.”

Riley tried not to let his jaw drop. Instead, he nodded casually once as if he did this kind of thing all the time.

“Well,” she said, standing, “don’t blow it.”

Then she slipped him a card with nothing but her name, number, and the Monarch logo. 

By the time he looked up, she was already halfway across the patio—being stopped, kissed on the cheek, and waved at.

Riley stared down at the card, heart pounding.

He hadn’t just snuck into a party. He’d just walked into his big break.

* * *

Stormy was talking to James, Alex and Lara in the family room when Jane approached and pulled him aside.  

“What’s up, babe?” he asked and kissed her warmly.  

Jane glanced around to ensure no one was in earshot. “Okay, I don’t want you to think I’m being obsessive or anything, but I just took my BTT and I’m currently—at this moment— the most fertile I’ll be this month.” 

“Seriously?” Stormy asked, also making a visual sweep of the room while steering her further still away from his parents. “What should we do?” 

“Well…I would hate to leave Miranda’s party, but, if we don’t do it now, we won’t have this big of a chance until—”

Before she even finished her sentence, Stormy had taken her hand and was leading her out into the hall.  When they neared the front door, he suddenly paused and glanced back at the staircase.  “Wait, we don’t have to leave.”

Jane followed as he led her up the stairs and down the hall to his old bedroom. Once inside, he closed and locked the door and gave her a devilish grin. “Duty calls,” he said, untying his necktie and tossing it aside. 

Jane smiled giddily, helping him undress while stripping her Badgley Mischka dress from her taught body. She lay on the bed, pulling him on top of her and guiding his fully erect penis inside of her. She gasped, still to this day always a bit amazed at how perfectly they fit together. The raw, animal attraction she had to him as he covered her with his strong body, staring into her eyes as he drilled into her with feverish intensity. Their lips never parted. She came in less than two minutes, overcome by waves of intense pleasure. Stormy had a way of doing to her what no man ever had before him. And when he emptied himself inside of her, she came again, crying out in pleasure as their bodies synced with unparalleled urgency.

* * *

Riley was still staring at Willow Grant’s card when a voice behind him cut through the buzz of the party.

“Well, well. Didn’t expect to see you here.”

He turned, instinctively slipping the card into his pocket. The voice belonged to a guy in a sharp navy suit, drink in hand, smirk firmly in place.

Of course. Ty Stratton.

They’d crossed paths a few times—most recently at a cattle call for a pilot Riley didn’t get. Ty did. The guy had a square jaw and the kind of smug, entitled charm producers ate up. Not exactly talented but connected. Which, in L.A., was sometimes better. He and his twin, Max played a baby on Malibu High in the mid-nineties and ever since then thought he was hot shit.

“Ty,” Riley said, forcing a grin. “Didn’t know you were tight with the Blackthornes.”

“We’re very tight, actually.” Ty took a sip. “But you? You crashing this thing? Ballsy.”

Riley didn’t respond. 

Ty’s eyes narrowed slightly. “You were talking to Willow Grant, weren’t you?”

Riley tried to keep his expression neutral. “Just making conversation.”

“Sure,” Ty said with a scoff.. “Well, I’d be careful if I were you. Willow’s smart. She doesn’t like being played.”

“I’m not playing her.”

Ty stepped in close, his voice lower now. “You think a card in your pocket means something? You’re not in, Weir. You’re a party crasher. A nobody. One call and security would be happy to show you the door. Want me to test it?”

Riley’s jaw clenched, but he didn’t bite. He just smiled, cool as ever.  “Guess we’ll see who gets the callback.”

Ty stared for a beat too long, then gave a scoff and turned back toward the house, already laughing with someone new. Riley exhaled.

He looked down at the card again. Willow might’ve been intrigued—but guys like Ty had connections, and that was something he was sorely lacking. Suddenly, his big break felt like walking a tightrope.

* * *

Iris was pacing the floor of the pool house when Sadie finally walked in, well after eight, her arms weighed down with shopping bags.

“Where have you been?” Iris asked and stormed over to her. “You haven’t returned a single text all day. I was worried.”  

All smiles, Sadie set the bags on the sofa and took her sister’s hands in hers, her fingers cool with the weight of her crystal rings. “I’m sorry, but I’ve had a million things to do. The energies today were… potent.”

“You said you were going to a sound bath, and—what are all these?” Iris gestured to the bags and started peaking through their contents.  

“After the sound bath, which by the way was incredible—my whole root chakra felt like it clicked into place—I went to meet a producer,” Sadie told her, pulling her down onto the sofa. “Have you ever heard of Rydell Productions?”

Iris shrugged. “Yeah, of course. Wait, you didn’t tell me you were going to meet a producer.” 

“I was going to, but I decided it was best to keep the energy clear for it to manifest,” Sadie explained. “I didn’t want to jinx it. Mercury just went direct, and I didn’t want to block the flow. But honey, it’s finally happening. You’ve got a meeting tomorrow with the CEO of Rydell Productions.”

Flying off the sofa, Iris shook her head in disbelief. “No way!”

“Yes!” Sadie said, nodding eagerly.

Iris threw her arms ecstatically around her sister’s substantial frame.  “Oh my god, Sadie, thank you. I don’t know how you did it but—wow, I mean, this is incredible!” 

“Maybe now you’ll trust me when I tell you I’ve got things handled.” 

“I should have had more faith in you,” Iris admitted. “I’m sorry.”  

“Well, you can finish apologizing later,” Sadie said and handed her the shopping bags.  “I went shopping after the meeting and picked out some outfits for you to try on.  Pick one you want to wear to the meeting and I’ll return the rest later.”

Squealing with delight, Iris grabbed the bags and disappeared into the small bedroom they shared—two twin beds separated by a single nightstand stacked with Sadie’s journals, healing crystals, and a tiny diffuser misting ylang-ylang into the air.  “I can’t believe this is actually happening,” she said, breathless as she began sorting through the options.

“Let me see once you have the first one on.” 

“Okay,” Iris called from the bedroom. “Oh, I almost forgot. I went to the beach today and met the nicest guy. He was so hot, Sadie. I mean, gorgeous.”

“That’s nice,” Sadie replied. “Do you have the outfit on?” 

Iris emerged wearing a lavender wrap top with a ruffle along the neckline, cinched slightly at the waist. A denim mini skirt gave the look a breezy, youthful vibe, and she paired it with white platform sneakers.

“What do you think?”

“Hmm,” Sadie said, wrinkling her nose. “It looked better on the mannequin. Could be the cut… or maybe your aura’s just not syncing with that color today.”

“Hey!” Iris exclaimed with a laugh. “I won’t take that personally.”  

“It’s not you, honey.  Go try the other one on.” 

Dashing back into the room, Iris began changing again. “Anyway, I hope I run into him again. I don’t know why but I just have a feeling we shared some kind of connection. I think it has to do with what you’re always saying about negative ions at the beach.”

Sadie laughed. “Well, if you were in the market for a relationship, I’d agree, but you’re focusing on your career now, not boys.” 

“I’m not talking about a relationship,” Iris called out to her. “But it’d be nice to have a nice guy to go out with once and a while. I mean, it can’t just be you and me sitting home alone together every night.”

Sadie crossed the room and began picking up discarded tissue paper, folding it absently. “Just remember why we came out here. To jump start your career, not to find you a love interest.”

Iris barely heard her, already dreaming out loud. “But you never know, right? What if it all just… happens?”

Sadie gave a quiet laugh, low and almost sad. “Yeah. What if.”

She walked to their small kitchenette, pretending to straighten the stack of plastic plates on the counter, all the while thinking: And where does that leave me?

* * *

Eddie let Miranda make her rounds at the party rather than follow her around like the lost puppy dog he often was in social situations like this. When his brother, Blake, showed up, they caught up near the bar in the foyer.  

“Jeez, man, I feel like I haven’t seen you in weeks,” Eddie said.  “Mr. Big Shot FlickFix Executive too busy for his big brother?” 

Laughing, Blake took a sip of his drink. “Nothing like that,” he said.  “Just a lot of projects in development. What about you? Still helping out with the governor’s investigator’s caseload?”

“That’s confidential,” was all Eddie said, smirking.  “But yeah, it’s ongoing.”  

Blake’s boyish grin widened. “Damn, look at you turning your scrappy little detective shop into some government-grade operation. Color me impressed, bro.”

“Appreciate it, man. Turns out all those years of chasing cheating husbands finally paid off. Who knew?”  He looked at his watch and flew into action. “Crap, it’s time for my toast to the birthday girl. Catch you later.”  

As Eddie disappeared into the crowd, Blake turned, and suddenly time stalled.

Sheldon Novak.

The same jawline, the same way he moved through a room. And his eyes—piercing and unreadable. Blake had spent fourteen years learning what that gaze could do—how it could pull you in, make you feel like the only person in the room… and then shut you out like a door slamming in your face.

Their history was long and messy. They had burned hot, gone cold, and circled back more times than Blake cared to admit. Lovers, strangers, enemies, and everything in between. No one had ever gotten under his skin like Sheldon.

And now here he was. Moving toward him through the crowd, his trademark grin in full effect.

“Long time no see,” Sheldon said.

“When did you get back from New York?” Blake asked.   

“A few days ago. I would have called, but I didn’t know if you were talking to me.”

Shrugging, Blake put his hands in his pockets, his gaze directed to the floor before looking up wordlessly. 

Minutes later, they found themselves in the narrow hallway leading to the kitchen, kissing like no time had passed at all. Hands all over one another, breath short, mouths hungry. Blake pressed Sheldon against the wall, one hand on the back of his head, the other gripping his waist. His tongue explored the inside of Sheldon’s mouth, tasting him. He didn’t think of all the nights they’d sworn they were done. It had been too long, and it felt too good to stop.

Even as servers brushed past with trays and wide eyes, neither of them cared. They were too locked in, too used to losing control whenever they got together again.

* * *

At ten o’clock, the band stopped and Eddie took Miranda’s hand, leading her to the first landing of the grand staircase in the foyer. She knew what was about to happen as all eyes turned to them. Instantly, she flushed. 

“Alright, alright—can I have your attention for just a moment?” he called down to the crowd, using a handheld mic the band’s lead singer had passed along to him.  “I promise to keep this short, because if I go on too long, Miranda will give me that look.  You know the one that says wrap it up before I regret marrying you.”

A few laughs erupted from the crowd as party guests from other rooms gathered around the staircase.

“So,” Eddie continued. “Miranda. The big 4-0. You wear it like you wear everything—flawlessly. Honestly, I still can’t believe I married a woman who looks like she walked out of a Vanity Fair spread… and still married me, a guy who she would often refer to as superdork, doofus, cornball.  The list goes on and on.”  

More laughter, and Miranda couldn’t help but join in. Eddie was good at this.

“In all seriousness though. Miranda, you are amazing. You’re smart, you’re fierce, you’re the queen of multitasking. You run a business, a household, and somehow, me, without ever breaking a sweat. You’ve been my best friend for the last fourteen years. You’ve made our life one hell of a ride, and I wouldn’t change a thing.”

Miranda turned and scanned the crowd. Her gaze landed on a woman toward the back of the crowd and instantly grew tense.  Siobahn.

“So here’s to 40 more years of laughter, love, and you rolling your eyes at my jokes. Happy birthday, Miranda. I love you.”

The crowd erupted into applause as the band started up again. Miranda kissed Eddie, wrapping her arms around him in a rush of emotion. She hated to leave, especially now—but she couldn’t shake the urgency pressing at her. 

She whispered, “I love you,” hastily, and without waiting for a reply, turned and made her way down the stairs.

Weaving through the party guests while smiling sweetly and thanking everyone for coming, she made her way to a spot near the front door where Siobahn was standing.  

“Siobahn,” Miranda said intensely.  “Can we have a minute to talk?” 

“Of course,” replied Siobahn Saxton.

Miranda led her across the foyer and down the hall to the game room where she and Stormy used to stay up nights challenging each other to billiard challenges and ping pong tournaments. Once inside, she closed the door. 

“You look beautiful tonight,” Miranda began. 

Siobahn Saxton was a force on screen and off. A British-born black woman in her mid-forties, she was regal with luminous brown skin, high cheekbones, and eyes that could go from warm to cold as ice in a blink.

Her voice—smooth, confident, tinged with a London accent—was instantly recognizable, commanding attention at all times. Tonight, she wore a deep emerald gown that hugged her curves, clouds of black hair spilling over her shoulders. 

“Please don’t tell me you dragged me in here to flatter me,” Siobahn said, turning with a knowing smile. “Though I never mind a little ego stroke.”

Miranda crossed her arms. “We’re overdue for a check-in. Awards season’s coming. Offers are piling up.”

Siobahn’s smile continued, but her tone turned sour. “We turning them down, you mean.”

“We’re a team.”

Siobahn arched her eyebrows. “Teams only work when everyone knows who’s steering.”

“I haven’t taken my hands off the wheel.”

“No,” she said, slowly. “But it feels like you might be driving distracted.”

Miranda stepped forward. “If you have something to say, Siobahn, say it.”

“I took a meeting the other night.”

Miranda’s jaw tightened. “With Titan.”

“Vaughan made a strong case. Said he’d make me his top priority. I have to admit, I enjoyed hearing it.”

“You already are a top priority,” Miranda said. “You leave, and you’ll get attention, but you’ll lose someone who actually knows how to protect your brand.”

Siobahn gave a slight shrug. “Then I hope you’re still up for the fight.”

With that, she turned and walked to the door, leaving Miranda staring after her, jaw clenched and mind racing.

Before she left, Siobahn turned and offered a smile. “Oh, happy birthday, Miranda.” 

Miranda shook her head with the realization that she was in serious trouble. Glancing down at her cuff bracelet, she now more than ever needed to be reminded of what a powerful woman she was.

* * *

The television in the prison common room cast a glow across the linoleum floor. A group of inmates lounged beneath it, some watching the screen, others conversing about a fight in the cafeteria that afternoon.

The Beast sat across the room, hands folded in his lap as he stared at the television. 

Onscreen, the voice of an entertainment anchor rang out.  “Hollywood’s brightest stars gathered last night for Miranda Blackthorne’s fortieth birthday bash, and as you can probably guess, this was the party of the year…”

The camera panned across the mansion with its winding drive, the flood of expensive shoes and tailored suits spilling out of black SUVs. Everyone smiled too wide, posed too perfectly. 

The Beast watched it all, unmoved.

He knew some of the guests—actors, producers, directors. Some had helped put him here. Others had just stood by and watched. 

He leaned back slowly, arms crossing over his chest, the muscles in his jaw twitching.

He wasn’t jealous. That would imply he wanted what they had. He didn’t. Not anymore.

But he remembered.

He remembered what had been taken. Who had smiled while it happened. Who had looked away. And who had clapped the loudest when the door slammed shut behind him.

Onscreen, applause was rising. Laughter echoed faintly beneath the anchor’s closing line.

“A night to remember,” she said. “A celebration fit for royalty.”

The Beast’s lips curled into a smile. There was nothing joyful in it.

Let them celebrate. Let them laugh and toast and pose for their next headline. But very soon, he’d be out.

He wasn’t planning a return. He was planning a reckoning.