Last time on L.A. Connections…

Brett learned that Rydell Productions is in deep financial trouble. At Sunset Studios, Stormy dazzled the board with a bold plan to use the Dominion Protocol leak to their advantage. Miranda agreed to meet with Iris—doing Brett a favor she may soon regret. Across town, Vaughan schemed to undermine Miranda’s FlickFix pitch by whispering that Siobahn was “difficult,” but Miranda’s savvy won the day. Meanwhile, Blake stunned Iris with a confession that left her reeling—he’s gay. Kelly was floored when she learned her late father, Matthew, had left her oceanfront land worth over twenty million dollars. And in a move that could change everything, Riley accepted a gig through Noir Companions—and walked away with a thousand dollars… but at what cost?

* * *

Riley stirred beneath the thin sheet, groggy and warm from the morning sun that filtered in through the venetian blinds. Before he could fully open his eyes, the bed dipped under a sudden weight.

“Oh my god, I couldn’t wait for you to wake up,” Natalie squealed, practically bouncing beside him. Her eyes were wide with excitement, her hair still damp from a shower and pulled into a messy topknot. “I have the best news.”

Riley blinked, propped himself up on an elbow, and rubbed at the sleep in his eyes. “Is this like when you found twenty dollars in your laundry?” he asked sheepishly while grabbing his phone from the nightstand to check the time. When he did, he saw that he had multiple new notifications from Noir Companions. Quickly, he dismissed them. 

“Better!” Natalie said, grinning like she was about to burst. She was dressed in one of Riley’s old t-shirts that hung off one shoulder, the hem barely grazing the tops of her thighs. Beneath it, only a pair of pink cotton panties. One long, tanned leg was tucked beneath her as she perched beside him, eyes wide with anticipation.  

“Well, go on and tell me already,” Riley said with a grin while stifling a yawn. 

“Last night at the restaurant, I waited on this guy who asked if I was an actress,” she began, her words tumbling out of her mouth at breakneck speed. “He saw me in The Bride’s Maids and said I was really good.”

“You were,” Riley said in his reassuring tone as he massaged her leg. “I still say FlickFix was crazy for not putting you in the sequel.” 

“That’s what he said,” Natalie went on. “Anyway, turns out he’s an agent and he said he wants to meet to talk about representing me!”

“Nat, that’s fantastic,” Riley said and pulled her into a warm embrace. “I told you that job at The Smoke House was going to lead to a big break. It’s right across the street from Sunset Studios, for pete’s sake. So, when is your meeting?”

She shrugged, her excitement dimming a bit. “Well, I’m not totally sure yet. He said I should get new headshots first. Like a fresh start, I guess.”

Riley opened his mouth, but she was quick to dismiss whatever protest was forming.

“I know, we can’t afford it right now, which is exactly what I told him,” she said quickly, her tone lifting again. “But then he said he might be able to help with that too. I think he really believes in me, Riley.”

“Wait, so this agent told you he’d help pay your headshots?” Riley asked, suspicious of the generous offer. “That seems a little odd.”

“Well, why?” Natalie asked. “It’s only like eight-hundred dollars. To him it’s probably a day’s walking around money.”  

Riley squinted. “Still, I don’t like the idea of this guy doing you these favors. What does he expect in return?”

She frowned. “Nothing! Geez, when did you get so cynical? He’s just someone who knows the business and thinks I have what it takes. Is that so hard to believe?”

“Of course not,” Riley said, his gaze drifting back to his phone. He thought about the thousand dollars he’d made from his hour with Mila, and his whole reasoning for doing it was to make his and Natalie’s lives better. “But we’ll take care of the headshots ourselves.”

“How? We don’t have an extra eight hundred bucks.” 

Riley smiled proudly. “Actually, I do,” he said, already a plausible story running through his mind. “Last night a really rich guest at the club Venmo’d me a big tip. I mean really big. A thousand dollars.”  

“What?” Natalie exclaimed with excitement. “You’re kidding! Why such a big tip? What’d you have to do, like wash their car naked or something?”

If only that was all he had to do for it.  “No, we just got to talking and I said that my wife and I were struggling actors. Next thing I know, I get a notification that she tipped me a thousand dollars.” 

“Wow!” She flew off the bed.  “Well, we should use it for something else. Something for both of us. I can’t take almost all that money for myself.”

“Hey, it is for us,” Riley told her and reached for her hand. “We’re in this together, remember?”

Thrilled, Natalie jumped on top of him and kissed him hard. “You are the best husband in the world,” she said, straddling him. “What did I do to deserve you?” 

Riley could only smile. He tamped down the guilt that started to rear its head. This was for them, he kept saying to himself. 

“I’m gonna go make an appointment with the photographer,” she said, flying off the bed again.  She paused in the doorway and looked back.  “Thanks, Ry. I love you.”

“I love you too, hon,” he said.

* * *

When the black Mercedes SUV pulled up to her bungalow in Hancock Park, Kelly stepped out into the warm morning sun and slid into the back seat beside Jane. From the sound system, Cake drifted through the speakers, the singer serenading them with the line: “How do you afford your rock and roll lifestyle?”

“I was expecting mimosas or something,” Kelly said with disappointment, glancing toward the front seat where Miranda sat poised behind large Chanel sunglasses and Heather tapped away on her phone.

The car lurched forward, pulling away from the curb and heading down Fairfax. “What for?” Heather asked, craning her neck to the backseat.  

Kelly shrugged. “I just thought we’d be celebrating our victory over Vaughan Novak.”

From the driver’s seat, Miranda glanced at her through the rear-view mirror. “We may have won the battle, but the war is not over,” she said. “I’m just waiting for the other shoe to drop. I know Vaughan will make another attempt at trying to railroad this FlickFix deal.”

When they reached their destination, the four women stepped out of the SUV with purpose, heels clicking against the pavement as they marched toward the building’s glass doors.

Moments later, the elevator doors slid open and they strode into the sunlit offices of the Miranda Blackthorne Agency.  

“But for now, things are copasetic with Siobahn,” Miranda said, setting her Hermès bag on Jane’s desk. “And we can’t put all of our efforts into one client, as important as she is, so let’s talk about opportunities. Kelly, what do you got?” 

“I started following this woman on TikTok based in Beverly Hills,” Kelly began. “She’s got brand deals with everyone: La Mer, Diptyque, Rolex… you name it. Over a million followers, and most of them are women in our age range. Total luxe lifestyle vibe.”

Miranda shot her a death stare. “I swear to god, Kelly… For the last time, the Miranda Blackthorne Agency does not, and will never, represent social media influencers.”

Jane and Heather gave each other knowing looks, suddenly interested in heel scuff marks on the floor.

Miranda crossed the room to her desk, arms folded tightly across her chest, her tone sharp and final. “They are not celebrities. Celebrities are people like Alex Reynolds. Like Siobahn Saxton. People who earned their name through talent, grit, and years of work—not by lip-syncing into a ring light to push product.”

Kelly had heard this sermon before, but still thought it was worth another try. “I just thought—”

“Think again,” Miranda snapped. “It’s not our brand. What else have you got?” 

“Well, since this whole Siobahn thing blew up at your birthday party, I haven’t had a chance to mention it,” Kelly began. She’d already dropped the influencer idea. No use in beating a dead horse. For now.  “I noticed a young guy at the party that I think has that James Dean look so many casting directors are wanting right now.”  

“Who is it?” Jane asked. “Does he already have representation?”

Kelly shrugged. “I didn’t get a chance to find out,” she said. “I saw him talking to Willow Grant, and then I lost him.”

“Monarch Pictures’ Willow Grant?” Heather asked and made a face. “Tragic.”

Miranda knotted her hands together as she paced. “Well, if you think he has something, find him. Call Eddie and see if he can get surveillance footage from my dad’s house from that night. Should be able to pick him out pretty easily, and then Eddie can use that… facial recognition tech thingy he’s always talking about.”  

“Got it,” Kelly said, leaning back against her desk.

“Oh, Eddie’s looking into that parcel of land near Santa Barbara that Matthew left you,” Miranda added. “Maybe he’ll be able to find out who this mystery man was who gave it to him.” 

“Thanks,” Kelly said.

“Oh, Heather,” Miranda continued. “I have a meeting with a new client today. Name’s Iris Knox. Someone Brett recommended. Can you take it for me? I’ve got to brainstorm so I can be one step ahead of Vaughan at all times. There’s no room for slacking.” 

“No problem,” Heather said.  

“And Jane, you’re handling those modeling offers for Amelia Strong, right?” Miranda asked.

Jane gave a quick nod. “Yes, we’ve got a meeting lined up for later this week.”

“Perfect,” Miranda said, glancing around the bullpen. “Alright, ladies, let’s get to work.”

* * *

Sadie emerged from the bathroom in a fluffy terry bathrobe patterned with moons and stars, her long dark hair twisted into a pink towel turban. She looked in dismay at her sister, Iris, who lay on her stomach on the sofa poring over a copy of The Hollywood Reporter.

“Honey, why aren’t you getting ready?” Sadie asked, slightly panicked. “We have to be at the Miranda Blackthorne Agency in two hours and you’re reading trade papers? That’s what the agency is for.” 

Sadie took the magazine from her and narrowed her eyes at the page Iris had been reading. The headline read: ‘FlickFix’s Leading Man: Blake Distefano Is Reshaping Hollywood—And Looking Good Doing It’. Beneath it was a photo of Blake, arms folded, dressed in a crisp Hugo Boss suit.

“Him again?” Sadie asked and set the magazine on the coffee table next to a half-melted cedarwood soy candle.  “You said he wasn’t into women so why are you still obsessing over him?” 

Iris frowned and twisted off the couch. “I’m not obsessing, Sadie,” she retorted. “I was reading an article about him. And besides, we’re friends. I’ve accepted that there’s no romance in our future.”  

“Well, good, because there’s no time for that,” Sadie said, steering her by the shoulders into their bedroom.  “Now get busy and get ready. I laid out the outfit you should wear. Oh—and don’t worry, I’ll sage it before the meeting to make sure it’s energetically aligned for success.”

She went into the bathroom and turned on the shower.  “Are you going to wear your hair up or down? I think down. You want them to get a sense of your femininity. Venus is in Leo—let’s use it to our advantage.” 

Sighing, Iris turned and looked at her reflection in the dresser mirror. “Sure, sounds good,” she said, her tone unenthusiastic. She didn’t know why.  She was two hours from a meeting with one of the top talent agencies in Hollywood. She should be on top of the world.  And she was, but she couldn’t shake her disappointment over Blake.  It was silly because they barely knew each other, but something about him captivated her.  

“I told Mommy we’d call her and fill her in as soon as we get back from the meeting,” Sadie said, emerging from the bathroom amidst a shroud of steam. “Iris! Come on, get busy. You want to be fresh-faced and dewy for the meeting, don’t you? Let’s go!”

Rolling her eyes, Iris went into the bathroom, dropped her robe and stepped into the hot spray of the shower. She leaned her head back and let the water run over face as she tried to shift into high gear. She had to get it together. This was her career. Blake was just some guy.

Her thoughts were interrupted when Sadie’s voice called over the sound of the shower running.  “I have a good feeling about today,” she was saying from outside the bathroom door. “I mean, I know I was hesitant at first about relinquishing control as your agent, but a manager is much more important anyway. Fielding offers, making sure we’re protecting your brand. That’s what a manager is for. And Iris, let me tell you, the universe is calling. Mark my words, before you know it…”

The sound of Sadie’s voice trailed off as Iris tuned her out. 

* * *

In his office at Rydell Productions, Brett scanned through the dailies of The Procedural when the door opened and his secretary, Sam entered. 

“There’s a Mickey Donovan here to see you,” she announced.  

Brett barely looked up from his phone. “I don’t have anything on my calendar,” he said.  “Ask him to make an appointment.”

As Sam turned to retreat to the reception area, a man entered the office.  

“Mr. Armstrong,” he said, smiling faintly. “Appreciate you making the time.”

He moved with self confidence. He was tall, mid-fifties, and wore a neatly tailored pale gray suit. His presence was quiet but commanding.  In one hand he gripped a briefcase.  

Sam backed out without another word, closing the door behind her.

Brett rose slowly. “I’m sorry, I don’t believe we’ve met.”

“No, but I’ve been following your work. Sunset Studios, Double Strike, now Rydell Productions. I heard through my networks that you’ve run into money troubles and are seeking investors. That’s a smart move.  It would be a shame to see all of this… dismantled. Not to mention the disapproval of your former father-in-law.”

He placed the briefcase beside the chair and sat down.

Brett remained standing. “What exactly do you do, Mr. Donovan?”

Mickey smiled. “Let’s just say I move money where it needs to go. Quietly and effectively.”

Brett’s brow furrowed. Donovan. The name sounded so familiar, but he couldn’t place from where. Not from finance, not entertainment…

And then it clicked. He recalled an article he’d read years ago, or maybe it was just from whispers he’d overheard in a boardroom somewhere—but something about pension funds and a contractor who disappeared. He recalled hearing things about quiet pressure, favors called in, unofficial enforcer.  Like mob tactics without being credited as so. His spine stiffened.

“Yeah, come to think of it, I’ve heard things,” Brett said carefully.

“I’m sure you have.” Mickey gave a slight grin. “People in this town love to talk. But what matters is that I’m here to help.”

“How?”

Mickey reached into his jacket and set a slim envelope on the desk. “I’ve taken the liberty of moving some funds through a couple of holding groups. You’ll see the details inside. It’s already in motion.”

Brett stared at the envelope like it might bite.  “But… I didn’t agree to anything,” he said. 

“No,” Mickey replied.  He stood, brushing an invisible speck from his lapel. “But I know your numbers, your payroll, the pension obligations you’ve been deferring. Not to mention the insurance audit you’ve been dodging.  And with four major films in production, you don’t have much choice.”

“I appreciate the offer,” Brett said, then swallowed. “But I’d need more information before I could entertain anything serious.”

“Trust me. This is in your best interests, Mr. Armstrong.” He turned and started toward the door, pausing just before he reached it. “Let Sam know we’ll need a monthly breakdown of incoming and outgoing expenses. Nothing complicated. Just transparency. Helps build trust.”

He opened the door, then looked back one last time. “I’ll stop by tomorrow once you’ve had time to process everything.  And don’t forget those expense breakdowns.”

And then he was gone.

Brett sat down slowly, eyes fixed on the envelope.  What had just happened?

* * *

The afternoon sun cast a hazy glow over the backlot at Sunset Studios, reflecting off the metal scaffolding and faded set facades. Stormy walked beside Eddie, their shoes crunching over the uneven gravel path between soundstages. Golf carts whizzed past them, and in the distance, someone called “rolling” before a studio bell rang.

“Anything new from your end?” Stormy asked. “I hate to even ask.”

Eddie kept his gaze forward, dodging a messenger on a scooter. “We’ve been talking to anyone who might have had access—editors, techs, even a couple of temps who were only here a week. Most of them say the same thing: they don’t know anything.”

Stormy frowned. “And you believe them?”

“No reason not to, I guess.”

They turned down a quieter path lined with trailers and production carts covered in tarps. Eddie pulled out his phone and scrolled through a few notes. “Most of post-production was handled in-house, but you did have a few contractors. Nina… what’s her last name—”

“Jelani?” Stormy offered.

“Yeah, that’s the one. Smart, quiet. Stayed late a lot from what I’ve been told. She wrapped just after the leak. She’s not on my radar.”

Stormy nodded. “Okay. Who is?”

“Still narrowing it down. That security guard, Anton, acted sketchy about handing over the footage. And that production assistant who conveniently quit the day before the leak went public? Talk about suspicious. But so far, it’s all circumstantial.”

Stormy sighed with defeat. “Truth is I don’t think we’ll ever find who leaked the damn thing,” he muttered. 

Eddie turned to him, brows furrowed. “You think they’ll get away with it?”

Stormy gave a half shrug. “They already have. The leak’s out there. The damage is already done. Thankfully I got my dad and the board off my back. We’re spinning it to our favor, and by the time the premiere happens on Friday, everything will be fine.”

 “Want me to keep digging?” Eddie asked.

Stormy shook his head.  “At this point, it won’t change anything.”

They walked on, arriving at their destination just outside Stage 10, where a vintage silver makeup trailer sat between grip trucks and a large green screen wall. A faded decal of the Sunset Studios logo stuck to the door, its sunburst edges peeling from too many punishing California summers. 

Stormy knocked twice before pushing the door open.

In the main chair sat Eddie’s father, Victor Distefano, draped in a black cape, halfway through a touch-up. Lenny Korvanski, Sunset Studios’ longtime makeup artist and resident gossip, was dabbing Victor’s temple with a sponge.

“Looking good, Dad,” Eddie said. “How’s the big return to Sunset Studios treating you?”

Victor beamed. “It feels great to be in pan-cake again,” he said, turning his head this way and that while eying his reflection. “Lenny’s work is divine, as always.”

“Oh, stop,” Lenny muttered.

Victor was a seventy-year-old screen legend, one of the last remaining contract actors from the days when Sunset Studios was still known as Lamont 3—the original production company founded by Jonas Lamont and his two brothers. Tall and classically handsome, with a head of silver-streaked hair and a voice made for soliloquies, Victor carried himself with dramatic flair.

He lifted his chin, striking a pose in the mirror. “You know, back in ‘84, the great Jack Childers once told me I had a face the camera loved. ‘Melancholy with a touch of menace,’ he said. Not sure what he meant by that, but it haunted me for years.”

Stormy smirked. “Maybe he just didn’t want to say you looked tired.”

Victor wagged a finger at him. “Ah-ah! Never underestimate the character of an aging face, my boy. Every line tells a story. This one?” He pointed to a wrinkle by his mouth. “That’s from the Cannes premiere of Crimson Silence. The champagne was warm, the critics colder.”

Eddie rolled his eyes. “And yet somehow you still made it to the after-party.”

Victor shrugged with mock modesty. “A standing ovation does tend to open a few doors. I can’t help it, Edward. It’s the actor in me. I see a word and I bring it to life!”

Lenny capped his brush and began tidying the station. “Alright, you’re good to go. Try not to cry between takes. I don’t want to have to re-powder those tragic little laugh lines.”

Victor stood, smoothing the front of his costume. “No promises, Lenny. My performance today may very well break hearts.”

“Break a leg,” Eddie told his father.

“All the world’s a stage, my dear boy,” Victor replied, straightening to full height. “And even in silence… some of us steal the scene.”

Stormy shook his head, grinning. “Jesus. Remind me again why I brought him back?”

“Because I’m still cheaper than the CGI alternative,” Victor said with a wink.

He turned and strode toward the door, smiling politely at Kelly who walked up to the trailer at that moment, then disappeared onto the set of Midnight Boneyard.

“Good, I caught you,” Kelly said as Stormy and Eddie stepped outside of the trailer.  “I was just down the street and the guard said you were here.”

“What’s up?” Stormy asked. 

“Oh, I told Kelly I’d get her some footage from Miranda’s party,” Eddie said, reaching into his pocket and handing over a flash drive. “File was too big to send digitally.”

“Thanks,” Kelly said and took the drive from him.  

Stormy raised an eyebrow. “What do you need the footage for?”

“I saw someone that night who had a look we’ve been talking about,” Kelly said. “Young, handsome, rugged.”

Stormy raised an eyebrow. “Are you casting an actor or scouting your next love interest?”

Kelly shot him a glare and gave him a playful shove. “Not funny.”

He smirked. “As long as it’s not my half-brother again, date whoever you want.”

She ignored the dig and looked to Eddie. “Thanks for your help.” 

“No sweat. Let me know when you spot him on the footage and I’ll try to track him down for you.”

“Will do,” Kelly said, then turned to Stormy. “Oh, R.J. has that paper for English Lit due tomorrow. He was working on it when he spent the night last weekend but I don’t think he finished it. Make sure he’s done.”

“Did you tell Jane?” Stormy asked.  

She gave him a crusty look. “Yes, but you’re his father. Jane can’t do it all, especially if you two are going to have another little one some day.”

“Busted,” Eddie said with a smirk, prompting Stormy to nudge him with an elbow. 

“Well, gotta run,” Kelly said, backing toward the lot. “Eddie, I’ll call you.”

“Bye,” he said, watching her disappear into the crowd.

* * *

The afternoon sun bathed Natalie’s body as she lounged poolside, stretched out on a striped pool chair. Her barely-there black bikini clung to her curves. A warm breeze blew strands of her honey-blonde hair off her shoulders. She reached for the pages of a script tucked beneath one of her toned legs, her abs flexing subtly with the movement.

“Damn,” a voice cut through the quiet. “Riley said you were a smoke show, but I had no idea—”

She turned her head slightly. An attractive man of about thirty with dark Italian good looks loomed above her, blocking the sun. He had a tight, square jaw and his lips curled into a boyish grin just beneath a thin black mustache that made him look like trouble.

“Oh, hi,” she said, adjusting her sunglasses as she looked him over. “Steve, right? I recognized you from pictures in the apartment.”

His grin widened. “That’s me.”

Natalie sat up, suddenly self-conscious dressed in her tiny bikini in front of Riley’s co-worker.  “Oh, I wasn’t snooping,” she said, securing the pages of the script underneath a bottle of suntan oil. “I found them in the dresser drawer while I was unpacking.” 

Suddenly aware that he was leering, she brought her knees up to her chest in an effort to conceal her exposed body.  He sure did have that smoldering look down pat. She didn’t recall Riley mentioning if he was an actor, but he certainly had the right look.  

“Riley isn’t here,” Natalie said.  

“Oh,” he replied, eyes finally drifting away from the view of her body. “Well, I figured I’d take a chance. Had some good news I wanted to share with him. He’s not at the club, is he?”

She nodded, brushing a strand of hair from her cheek. “Yeah. He picked up an extra shift.”

Steve raised a brow, clearly surprised. “Huh. Cool.”

His gaze dropped to the script resting on the lounge chair beside her. “That for a role you’re auditioning for?”

Natalie picked up the pages and fanned herself with them. “No, meeting with an agent. He sent these over to test me with.”

“An agent?” Steve said, grinning as he dug his hands into the pockets of a pair of white shorts. “That’s rad, Natalie. I’ll be seeing your name up in lights before you know it.  Riley’s too, of course.”  

She exhaled. “Yeah, well, I wish I had your positive outlook. I never thought it was gonna be this hard to be seen. I mean, how do people do it?” 

Steve shrugged, gesturing with open hands. “No clue. Personally? I couldn’t do it. Acting’s way too much pressure.”

He nodded toward the script again. “But hey, if you need someone to run lines with, I’m all yours.”

“Yeah?” she asked, her tone light and teasing. “You sure you’re not ditching something important for this?”

He grinned. “If I am, I’ve already forgotten what it was.”

With that, he sat next to her on the chair, looking over her shoulder as he skimmed the first page of the script. 

* * *

On the terrace at The Maybourne in Beverly Hills, white tablecloths billowed gently beneath striped umbrellas as waiters zig zagged around the lunchtime crowd. Miranda sat with her legs crossed, a napkin draped over her lap and her phone facedown beside a half-finished glass of Sauvignon Blanc. 

Across from her sat Alex Reynolds in a cream cashmere wrap and tortoiseshell frames, her auburn hair swept into a perfect chignon. 

“I’m a little nervous going back to work,” she said to her daughter. “I haven’t been in front of the camera in almost ten years. But this role in Glass Garden just sounded so good. Vaughan really fought for it for me.”  

Miranda rolled her eyes. “I’m sure he did, mother. But at any rate, you have no reason to be nervous.” 

“I must say, darling,” Alex murmured, dabbing her lips with a cloth napkin, “I’m so proud of you for taking on Vaughan the way you did. You really showed him you are a force to be reckoned with.”

Miranda gave her a tight smile. “I’ll take that as a compliment.”

“You should,” Alex said.  “That man is a low-down, dirty son of a bitch. He’d smile while he stabbed you in the back and then have the nerve to offer you a band aid.”  

“Mother, he’s your agent,” Miranda reminded her incredulously. “If you feel that strongly, why are you still letting him represent you?” 

Alex sighed and fanned herself with a drink menu. “We have a lot of history, darling,” she said with a wave of her hand. “Oh, did I tell you Jordan’s on this edible kick now? Says he’s into microdosing. Can you believe it?”

“He’s retired. Let him live a little.”

Just as the words came out of her mouth, something got Miranda’s attention. Across the terrace, walking as if he owned the place, was Vaughan Novak being led to a table by the hostess. What’s worse is that his companion was Elise Stoner—Hollywood’s prestige darling of the moment and star of the recent gothic box office hit, The Vow of Silence.

She was also one of Miranda’s clients. 

“You have got to be fucking kidding me,” Miranda deadpanned.

“What is it?” Alex asked, lost. 

She gave a subtle nod toward a nearby table. “Look who Elise Stoner is with. She canceled lunch with me two days ago, and now she’s here with him!”

Miranda’s chair scraped back as she stood, tossing her napkin onto the table. “I’ll be back.”

Alex reached out, gently grabbing her wrist. “Miranda,” she said, voice low but firm, “don’t make a scene.”  A beat. Then, with a knowing look, she added, “Or do. At this point, I suppose it would be on brand.”

Marching across the terrace, Miranda arrived at the table where Vaughan and Elise were being served iced matchas and a tower of cucumber sandwiches. They’d obviously called ahead.

“Elise,” she said through pursed lips. “Feeling better, I see.”

Elise looked up, caught mid-sip, a tinge of guilt crossing her face. “Miranda. Yes, much better. I was just—”

Miranda didn’t even glance at her. Her eyes were locked on Vaughan, cutting and unblinking. “How convenient. I suppose this was just a chance run-in then?”

Vaughan leaned back in his chair, unbothered dark sunglasses covering his eyes. “Didn’t realize lunch was such a crime.”

“No, but leeching off other people’s work might be,” she snapped. “First Siobahn, now Elise? You really don’t have a single original strategy left, do you?”

He smirked. “I’m just talking to people, Miranda. Isn’t that what we all do in this business?”

“No,” she said sharply, her voice rising.  Some lunch goers turned to look, others whispered. “Some of us build careers. Others wait in the wings like vultures and take credit when the work’s already been done.”

A waiter approached the table and leaned in to Miranda. “Ma’am, would you please lower your voice?”

“I’m not talking to you,” she said dismissively, barely acknowledging him before turning her attention back to Vaughan. 

Elise shifted, clearly uncomfortable, but Miranda continued, her rage laser-focused on the man who was obviously out to get her. “You can try to charm your way around this industry all you want, but you don’t have vision, Vaughan. You have tactics. And the only reason they ever work is because people like me are too busy doing the real work to stop you.”

She turned briefly to Elise, her tone becoming a touch lighter. “This isn’t about loyalty. It’s about knowing the difference between someone who invests in you and someone who’s only interested when it’s easy.”

Then, looking back at Vaughan, she issued him a look of warning. “Come after another one of my clients and you’ll have me to deal with. And trust me, that’s a problem you’re not ready for.”

With that, she turned on her heel and returned to her table, where Alex sat waiting behind her sunglasses, smirking in approval.

“Well done, darling,” her mother said, clearly impressed. “You really put him in his place. That’s it, I’m officially canceling lunch with him next week. Let him sweat.”

Miranda sat down, reaching for her wine without glancing back at Vaughan. She refused to give him the satisfaction. Let him wine and dine her client like he could just swoop in and take whatever he wanted.

That might have worked on someone else. But not with Miranda Blackthorne.

* * *

The elevator doors opened at the Miranda Blackthorne Agency and Iris stepped out first, her eyes wide with amazement. 

“Wow,” she murmured. “This is… next-level.”

Behind her, Sadie followed in vegan boots and a matching bag criss-crossed over a flowy caftan. A bundle of lavender poked out of her bag next to a leather-bound journal labeled Intention Log.  “Well, it should be. With a name like Blackthorne on the building, I expected nothing less. And by the way, this place is manifesting big energy.”

Heather greeted them, a welcoming smile on her face. “Hi, I’m Heather Rydell. Thanks so much for coming.”

“You must be Miranda’s assistant,” Sadie said with a smile, barely glancing at Heather before gesturing to her sister. “This is Iris Knox, and I’m her sister-slash-manager, Sadie Knox.”

“Actually, I’m Miranda’s partner,” Heather said. “Miranda couldn’t be here today so I’ll be meeting with you.” 

Sadie’s tone shifted. “Brett told me this meeting would be with Miranda. You know, the person whose name is on the building?” 

Heather didn’t flinch. “Miranda and I co-run the agency along with two other women. We split the meetings, depending on who’s handling what. I’ll be spearheading your representation if we move forward.”

Iris, starry-eyed, stepped forward and shook her hand. “That’s totally fine. I’m so happy to be here. Thank you for seeing us.”

Heather’s smile widened slightly at Iris’s enthusiasm. “Of course,” she said, then gestured toward the conference room. “Shall we?”

Iris nodded quickly, nudging her sister gently. “Come on, Sadie. Let’s hear what she has to say.”

Sadie hesitated, then finally moved forward, though her face was still in protest. She paused just before entering the conference room, closed her eyes for a moment, and murmured, “Let this space be one of aligned intention,” while pressing a tiger’s eye stone in her palm.

They stepped inside. Heather moved to the head of the table while Sadie and Iris took the seats opposite her. A folder with the M.B.A. logo sat in front of each chair, along with bottles of chilled sparkling water.

“So,” Heather began, folding her hands. “Iris has a really compelling look. There’s a softness to her on camera, but she’s got this edge too. It’s rare. And we’ve seen enough of her screen tests to know she reads well. She’s very natural.”

Iris beamed. “That’s so great to hear. Thank you.”

Heather offered her a warm smile. “We’d love to bring you on in a development capacity. Smaller guest roles to start to get your feet wet, then put you up for a role on a network mid-season replacement. I already have a casting director at Silvervale Telepictures looking for a fresh face for a new series. It could be the perfect fit.”

Sadie leaned back, arms crossed. “Guest roles? That sounds small-time. Iris is leading lady material. I thought you people launched careers.”

Heather turned her gaze to Sadie. “We do. But we also build them. If you’re looking for a shortcut, there are other agencies who might be happy to over-promise, but that’s not what we do here.”

Sadie scoffed. “I’m just saying, she’s not playing waitress number three. She’s the it girl, you just don’t know it yet.”

Heather kept her voice even. “And what we don’t want is to throw her into something she’s not ready for, only for it to flame out. We’re interested in longevity. Not hype.”

Iris glanced between them, her excitement waning from her sister’s tone. “I’m open to anything, honestly. I just want to get started.”

“Exactly,” Sadie said. “Started at the top. Not schlepping through the bottom rung like some background extra.”

Heather flipped open a folder and slid it across the table. “This is the Silvervale role. It’s an eight-episode series airing on CBS in the summer about a young woman with a complicated past who moves back to her hometown after her mother’s disappearance. Casting wants to see fresh talent. We’d submit her for the lead.”

That shut Sadie up for a second.

“Hmm,” she said, studying the breakdown like it had personally offended her. She pressed her fingers to her temple, then to the center of her chest. “I’ll need to meditate on this. But I’d want to see a full script before she auditions. And I’d want approval over the wardrobe, nudity clauses, and any press language attached to her name. Also—no red carpets near eclipse cycles. It messes with energy fields.”

Heather nodded slowly. “Of course, we’d go through all the standard negotiation points if she books. For now, let’s just get her in the room.”

Sadie looked unimpressed. “We’ll think about it.”

Heather turned to Iris, her voice warm again. “We’d love to work with you, Iris. Take your time, talk it through. But just so you know, this part won’t be open long.”

Iris nodded, her excitement bubbling back up. “Thank you. Really. This is… kind of surreal.”

Heather smiled. “That’s how it starts.”

* * *

Riley’s second Noir Companions gig didn’t have the same casual feel as his first. But then again, Mila had set an impossibly high bar with her exotic eyes, suntanned skin, and a pair of breasts that fulfilled his every fantasy.

MsNoBS, as her profile name read, was a heavyset woman in her forties. Not someone Riley would normally give a second glance if he passed her on the street, but as long as she was paying, he could fake the rest. 

Initially, she’d stated that she just wanted to exchange oral sex. But after thirty minutes of non-stop—and surprisingly decent head—she told him that she wanted to do more.

She straddled him, pulling her G-string to the side and lowering herself onto his dick. Riley concentrated on her breasts as she eagerly grinded into him. She came immediately, and after just a few minutes, he burst into an explosive orgasm, filling her to the limit. 

After another thousand dollars was transferred into his app account, he dressed and drove back home. At least he’d made up for the money he’d given Natalie for her headshots, so they were still ahead. A few more encounters and he’d have at least a small cushion for emergencies. That’s really all he wanted. 

When he got home, Riley stepped into the courtyard of the apartment complex, silently rehearsing a story where he did an hour of his shift and then got sent home due to how slow it was at the club.

Laughter drifted from the pool that was light and playful. Twisting his Dodgers cap backwards on his head, he rounded the corner and paused. 

Natalie was waist-deep in the water, her hair slicked back and glistening under the sun, laughing as Steve splashed toward her. She shrieked in mock protest, shoving water back in his direction. Steve wore nothing but swim trunks that if Riley wasn’t mistaken, were his.

Riley didn’t speak at first. He just stood there for a beat too long, watching as Steve lunged forward. Natalie squealed, ducking under the water. When she came back up, her hands went to her face, pushing back her wet hair as she caught her breath.

She finally noticed him and lit up. “Hey! You’re home early!”

Steve turned as well, wiping water from his eyes. “What’s up, man?”

Riley managed a nod, but something in his gut got twisted. Jealous, Ry, really? You just got done busting a load inside a soccer mom from the valley, and you’re gonna be jealous of your wife and friend?

“Hey,” he said. “I got cut early. Made some decent tips though. Steve, what brings you by?”

Steve took the steps out of the pool, shaking water from his ears. “I came by to talk to you but then started helping Nat run lines,” he said. “Got hot so we went for a dip. Had to borrow your trunks. Hope you don’t mind.” 

Riley’s eyes narrowed. “Just as long as that’s all you’re borrowing,” he mused.  

“Anybody in the mood for a beer?” Natalie asked as she dried her hair with a pool towel.

“I could go for that,” Steve said. 

“Sure, thanks, hon,” Riley said sheepishly.   

After she’d gone back into the apartment, he turned his attention back to Steve. “So what’d you wanna talk to me about?” 

“First thing’s first,” Steve said, his voice low. “You gonna tell me how it went last night or what?”

Riley glanced away awkwardly. “It was fine.”  He didn’t even bother to mention he’d just come back from another one. 

“‘Fine?’” Steve snorted. “That’s all I get? You had your first gig with some rich, hot older woman and all you’ve got for me is fine?”

Finally, Riley let his guard down some.  “She was nice. It was… chill. Classy.”

“What did she wear when she opened the door?” Steve wanted to know.

Riley smirked reluctantly, eyes still cast downward. “A robe.”

“A robe?” Steve nearly groaned. “Was she hot?”

Riley gave a begrudging nod. “Yeah.”

“Like, actress in early retirement hot, or yoga instructor who bangs college dudes hot?”

“Steve.”

Steve held up his hands in mock surrender. “Alright, alright. I’ll stop. You’re sensitive now, I get it. Gentleman escort and all.  So what’d she pay you?”

Riley hesitated, then grinned. “A thousand.”

Steve’s jaw dropped. “For one night?”

“One hour,” he corrected him.

“Dude,” Steve said, still reeling. “You just got paid more for one round of sex than I make in three shifts at the club.”

Just then, the glass door slid open and Natalie stepped back outside, two bottles in hand. She handed them off with a smile, settling beside Riley on one of the lounge chairs.

Steve straightened up, tone immediately shifting. “So, uh, I got good news,” he began. “I got promoted to valet shift manager.”  

“Yeah?” Riley asked as he gave him a pat on the back. “That’s great. Congrats, man.”

“Thanks. I’m pretty stoked.” 

Natalie grinned, the sunlight catching in her hair. “Steve gets a promotion, I get a meeting with an agent. Good things are finally happening.”

Steve raised his bottle, clinking it against hers. “To new opportunities.”

Riley lifted his beer and forced a smile. His gaze dropped to the pool surface.

New opportunities.

They were talking about real ones. Jobs with futures. Doors that opened without strings attached. And here he was, nodding along like he belonged in the same conversation when deep down, he knew his so-called “opportunity” only existed because of a tight torso and a boyish grin.  A body for rent.

He took a sip of his beer, hoping it would drown the taste of that truth.

* * *

Stormy wiped the back of his arm across his forehead and squinted up at the late afternoon sun. The tennis courts at the Mulholland Tennis Club radiated heat, and his clothes clung to him like a second skin. He pulled his shirt over his head, his broad shoulders and chiseled chest slick with sweat. A sprawling tattoo ran along his ribs, disappearing beneath the waistband of his shorts just beyond a faint trail of dark hair. He ran the shirt across the back of his neck and spotted someone on the next court over. 

Brett.

Stormy watched as he launched into a serve with a little too much flair—like he knew someone might be watching. Typical.

When Brett finished his set, he grabbed his towel and crossed over, water bottle in hand and sunglasses perched low on his nose.

“Well, if it isn’t Sunset Studios golden boy,” Brett said, grinning. “You always this intense so late in the day?”

Stormy smirked. “Only when I know someone’s watching.”

Brett chuckled. “You mean your father? Or the press?”

“Neither. Unlike some people, I don’t need an audience.”

Brett took a swig from his water and leaned against the fence. “So,” he said casually, “how’s the studio? Last I heard, Dominion Protocol’s already racked up two million views on pirate streams and the premiere is this Friday.”

Stormy’s jaw clenched tightly for a second. “We’re aware.”

Brett raised his eyebrows. “And?”

“And I’ve got it handled. Thanks for asking, Brett.”

“Oh?” Brett said, clearly unconvinced. “Because from what I hear, FlickFix is circling like vultures, and your board’s having panic attacks right and left.”

Stormy stepped closer, his expression cool. “Let them circle. Dominion’s still ours. And the leak doesn’t change what the film is.”

Brett grinned. “No, but it changes how much money it makes. Or doesn’t.”

Stormy didn’t blink. “It’s a setback. Not a collapse. You should know the difference.”

Brett shrugged. “All I’m saying is, if you need help—financially, strategically—I’ve got contacts.”

“I bet you do,” Stormy said dryly. He’d known Brett for twenty years, and had learned that help from him came with a slew of other problems, usually bigger than the one you started with.

“Hey, I’m just being a friend.”

Stormy stepped back to the service line, gripping his racquet. “When have we ever been friends, Brett?”

Brett seemed genuinely surprised. “When Miranda and I first got married,” he reminded him. “We were inseparable, remember?”

“That was a long time ago,” he said coolly. “Besides, word has it Rydell Productions has its own problems. People are saying you’re out looking for investors.”

Brett’s trademark grin faded. “You know how this town is.  People love to talk,” he said, brushing it off with a snap of his towel. “Anyway, good luck.”

“You too,” Stormy replied, eyes following after him as Brett turned and jogged off, zeroing in on a pretty young resort guest who’d been eyeing him from behind her sunglasses. He slipped back into charm mode like it was reflex, the grin returning, arms flexing.

* * *

“I just don’t understand why you had to be like that!” Iris’s voice rang out as she paced the living room of the pool house, her bare feet thudding against the hardwood. “You practically bit Heather Rydell’s head off. Do you know who her parents are?”

Sadie barely flinched. She was sprawled across the white linen sofa, legs tucked beneath her, sipping iced green tea from a glass tumbler like she didn’t have a care in the world. Her eyes followed Iris lazily.

“It doesn’t matter who her parents are, honey bunny,” she said coolly. “What gives her the right to act like she’s doing us a favor?”

Iris stopped in her tracks, hands planted on her hips. “Because maybe she is! This is Miranda Blackthorne’s agency, Sadie. They don’t need us—we need them. And you acting like some know-it-all stage mom isn’t helping.”

Sadie let out a dry laugh, shaking her head. “Oh please. I’ve seen enough of these Hollywood types to know when someone’s bluffing. Showbiz is all about politics. I don’t think you understand the forces of the universe you’re dealing with here. I was just reminding her who’s sitting on the real talent.”

“You weren’t reminding her of anything,” Iris snapped. “You were showing off. Like always. And you embarrassed me.”

Sadie sat up a little straighter. “I’m trying to protect you, Iris,” she said. “This town eats girls like you alive. If I don’t ask the tough questions, who will?”

Iris turned away, arms crossing tightly over her chest as she stared out the window toward the glimmering pool. Her voice was quieter now, but edged with hurt.

“You weren’t protecting me,” she said. “You were making it about you.”

Sadie sipped her drink again, though her lips were pressed thinner now.

“Well,” she said finally, “I’m not sorry for having standards. Energetic boundaries are important.”

“Maybe you should be sorry,” Iris murmured, barely loud enough to hear before walking outside to the pool. 

* * *

The next morning, sunlight streamed into Brett’s office at Rydell Productions as he scrolled through a financial report from Jim Morton, the studio’s controller. In less than forty-eight hours, their financial outlook had worsened. Things were about to go from bad to worse, and he wondered how long before he could keep it from Jordan and the board of directors. 

There was a quiet knock at the door when Sam stepped in, her voice shaky. “He’s here again.”

Brett didn’t need to ask who. He looked up from his desk. “Take a run down to the production offices,” he said. “See if Lydia has the revised call sheets. I want them printed.”

Sam lingered in the doorway, uncertain.

“Now,” he added, firmer. He wasn’t sure why, but something about the man waiting outside unsettled him. There was something threatening about his presence—unspoken but unmistakable. Brett didn’t want anyone else around when he could barely handle being in the same room himself.

Sam nodded, stole a quick glance over her shoulder, and slipped away without another word. The door hadn’t even clicked shut before Mickey Donovan stepped inside.

“You’re making a habit of showing up uninvited,” Brett said, standing.

Mickey put his hands in the pockets of his slate-gray jacket, posture still.  “You read the materials I left?”

“I read them,” Brett said flatly. “And I’m not interested.”

A beat.

Mickey stared at him. “You don’t seem to understand,” he said softly. “This isn’t a negotiation. It’s already done.”

Brett stepped out from behind the desk and approached the man defiantly. He’d dealt with men like Mickey Donovan before. Powerful men. And he’d always walked away unscathed. And this time should be no different.  

“You think you can just walk in here and take over?” Brett said, his voice rising. “I didn’t ask for your money, and I sure as hell didn’t ask for your interference.”

Mickey let out a short breath—half laugh, half warning. “That may be, but we’re not the kind of people you say no to.”  

“I can find other investors—”

“No,” Mickey said sharply. “You can’t. You deal with us or I’ll make sure no one helps you.”

His voice stayed low, even. But it was bursting with danger.

“I’m not some banker from Santa Monica who wants a vanity credit. You brought me in the second you became desperate. You see, that’s our business. Trust me. You’ll be better off with us in your corner.”  

Brett’s heart pounded in his chest, but he stood his ground. “You don’t scare me.”

Mickey studied him for a long moment. Then, slowly, he stepped toward the door. His hand touched the knob.

“Let me help you understand something,” Mickey said without turning. His voice was calm, almost conversational. “I’m sure you’re familiar with that leak at Sunset Studios. The rough cut of Dominion Protocol bypassing their servers onto every network in the free world. Who do you think has the power to pull something like that off? It certainly wasn’t some hacker or a rival studio with a vendetta.”

When he finally turned around, the air seemed to shift. His voice turned colder.

“They brought on a contractor in post-production. Her name was Nina. Quiet. Efficient. Knew exactly what to look for. She walked out with a duplicate drive one Thursday afternoon.”

A pause.

“Sloppy oversight on their part. Should’ve seen her coming.”

Brett’s mouth went dry. He couldn’t move. Could barely form the words.

“It was you?”

Mickey’s mouth curved into the faintest smirk. “Call it a demonstration of what we’re capable of.”

Brett felt the floor tilt beneath him. The reach it must’ve taken to orchestrate something like that was unbelievable.

Mickey studied him with quiet amusement. “You’d be surprised how fragile these studios are when no one’s watching.”

Then he leaned in, just enough for his voice to slip into a whisper. “This is still your operation, Mr. Armstrong. Your name on the door, you ex-fathers-in-law’s on the building. Your calls to make. But we’re here now. You don’t have to like it. You just have to comply.”

He straightened a shirt cuff with meticulous care, stepped back, and gave that same faint, practiced smile. “You’re welcome.”

Then he turned and walked out, the door closing slowly behind him.

Brett remained frozen in place, chest rising and falling, a bitter taste creeping up the back of his throat.