Last time on L.A. Connections…

Natalie landed a test with an agent who demanded new headshots—paid for with Riley’s first Noir Companions payday. Eddie retrieved security footage of Miranda’s birthday party for Kelly, who wanted to track down Riley, thinking he could be the next big thing in Hollywood. Riley’s jealousy flared toward Natalie and Steve’s bond and their rising careers, while Miranda caught Vaughan Novak courting another one of her clients. At M.B.A., Iris’s meeting with Heather nearly imploded thanks to Sadie. And in a chilling twist, Mickey Donovan arrived in Brett’s office claiming to be an investor. When Brett tried to show him the door, Mickey revealed he was behind the Dominion Protocol leak as a show of strength.

* * *

Flashbulbs strobed across the velvet rope as The El Capitan Theatre gleamed beneath the press lights, its marquee blazing high above. Fans packed the barricades, screaming as black SUVs came to a stop and the cast emerged in waves of couture.

Stormy Blackthorne stood just off the red carpet, a faint smile on his lips, dressed in black-on-black Tom Ford. At his side was Jane, their fingers laced tightly together. Behind them, the rest of the family lingered in the background—James and Lara, smiling sweetly to the media; and Miranda and Eddie, effortlessly casual yet glamorous. They spoke in low tones behind the scenes as camera flashes captured every moment

“Stormy! Over here! Just one quick question!” a reporter called out, elbowing past a throng of foreign correspondents and sidling up with an eager grin. “Ricky Simms, Current Weekly. First off, congratulations on the massive turnout tonight.”

Stormy gave a nod, his eyes locked onto the cameras. “Thanks. The team worked hard for this.”

“Of course, of course.” Ricky’s tone was flippant. “But let’s talk about the elephant in the room. Two weeks ago, Dominion Protocol was the victim of one of the worst security breaches in studio history. Millions in leaked footage, speculation about internal sabotage. How does a premiere happen after something like that?”

Stormy’s expression didn’t flicker. “Well, this premiere is special. This isn’t the Dominion Protocol that was leaked online.” 

“It isn’t?” Ricky asked, his tone more that of a late night infomercial host than an entertainment reporter. 

“This is the Dominion Protocol that you couldn’t get online,” Stormy went on. “Deleted scenes, additional runtime, bonus content, and it’s followed up by a live Q&A with the cast. Events just like tonight’s premiere are happening simultaneously in many other cities across the country.”

Ricky leaned in. “Are you saying you’re not concerned about the possibility of low ticket sales when the film opens worldwide next weekend?”

“I’m saying we’re handling it,” Stormy replied, his tone confident.

Ricky stood blinking, half-blinded by the camera flashes. Somewhere in the distance, a fan screamed the name of the lead actor. 

Stormy led Jane and the others down the red carpet toward the theater entrance, cameras still flashing. 

* * *

The TV in the prison rec room flickered with the red carpet feed where half-dozen inmates loitered nearby, only half-watching, but The Beast didn’t move. He sat stone-still, eyes locked on the screen.

Ricky Simms’ voice crackled through the feed. “Stormy Blackthorne and his wife Jane arrive at the premiere of Dominion Protocol alongside members of the Blackthorne family. Among them, James Blackthorne and his wife Lara Devon, Miranda Blackthorne—Hollywood’s leading talent agent—and her husband Eddie Distefano…”

Miranda.

The name made his fingers twitch.

She’d ruined his life. One of the five assholes who put him in here. She’d stolen his freedom and left him to rot. Twenty-five years of hell.   

Now she was on screen, smiling sweetly, waving like she was the Queen of fucking England.

But the Queen was dead.

And soon, Miranda would be too.

* * *

Mornings were usually chaotic for Miranda, and this one was no different. Upstairs, she barked a reminder over the sound of her blow dryer, while Eddie tore through drawers in search of a missing cufflink. The smell of burnt toast drifted from the kitchen, courtesy of Mei Lin’s distracted efforts.

Tiger sat at the breakfast table, untouched cereal going soggy as she slumped in her chair, hoodie pulled over her head. She muttered something under her breath about the futility of gym class as Miranda swept past with a glass of orange juice and two phones balanced in one hand.

“Tiger, for god’s sake, eat something with nutrients,” she said, scanning her calendar on her phone. “And take off the hoodie. They’re already told you it’s not a proper uniform.” 

“I am eating,” Tiger deadpanned while poking her spoon into the grayish milk. “It’s just slowly disintegrating.”

Eddie entered in a half-buttoned shirt and his cufflink still missing, his hair only mostly tamed. Opening the refrigerator, he searched the shelves with a scowl. “Aw man, we’re out of O.J.?” he whined.

“I’ll go to the store,” Mei Lin said, breezing through the kitchen with a half-folded load of laundry tucked under her arm.

“Here, you can have some of mine,” Miranda said and handed him her glass. “It’s okay, Mei Lin. Don’t worry about it.” She groaned and rubbed her temples. “God, we shouldn’t have stayed out so late last night. I feel like death today.”

Tiger glanced up from her bowl of dissolving cereal, her face expressionless. “You look like it too,” she said.

“Thank you,” Miranda deadpanned. “Please remind me why we didn’t send you to boarding school.”

“You couldn’t very well have bailed early on Stormy’s premiere bash,” Eddie told her and downed the juice in a few gulps before handing her the empty glass. “What have you got going on today, babe?”  

“Oh, same ole’,” Miranda said, frowning at the glass as she set it down on the counter. “You know, just summoning the strength to fend off rival talent agencies trying to destroy my empire. Nothing big.”

“Wow, a glass of orange juice would really help, huh?” Tiger muttered, not looking up.

Miranda shot her a glare, then turned back to Eddie. “Hey, did Kelly get with you about that guy she was looking for from my birthday party?”

“Yeah,” Eddie said, tucking a stack of papers into his briefcase. “I gave her the footage. She’s coming by this morning so we can try to ID him.”

“Good,” Miranda said, already moving toward the kitchen’s back door, motioning for Tiger to get up. “If Vaughan Novak keeps poaching my clients, we’re going to need all the fresh blood we can find.” She grabbed Tiger’s backpack off a hook and thrust it at her. “Let’s go. I gotta drop you off and swing by to pick up the girls.”

She paused just long enough to plant a quick kiss on Eddie’s mouth before they all disappeared out the door.  

* * *

When the heat from studio got to be too much, Brett had two ways of dealing—he’d drink, or he’d fuck. And since a sexy young tennis pro had slipped him her number at the Mulholland Tennis Club the day before, he figured the night was already picking a direction.

She came to his house on Ocean Front Walk in Venice the night before and he led her upstairs to his bedroom. Stripping her of her clothes, he stood above her and gazed down at her taut, athletic body. She had killer legs and tits that were so firm and tight that she didn’t even wear a bra. No point. He buried his face between them and flicked his eager tongue over her small pink nipples.

With a fierce grip, the tennis pro locked her legs around him and rolled hard, flipping him onto his back. She climbed on top, grabbed his cock, and pushed him inside her in one deliberate stroke. They both moaned in unison as she began thrusting up and down. 

Brett had no problems with the woman being on top in most cases, but tonight, he didn’t want to relinquish control. He’d had enough of that for one day. Specifically, Mickey Donovan showing up and announcing he suddenly had a stake in the studio, then revealing he had been the one to leak Dominion Protocol. If he could pull that off, what else was he capable of?

Suddenly, Brett turned the tennis pro over, pinning her to the bed and kissing her hard, his frustration over his situation pouring out of his every move. Lifting her legs over his shoulders, he slammed into her until they were both drenched in sweat and gasping for air.

By the time they were finished, it was late. They both drifted off to sleep, exhausted.  The next thing Brett remembered was waking to a soft voice right at his ear.

“Rise and shine,” it whispered.

Still half-asleep, he reached instinctively for the woman beside him, pulling her close as his eyes blinked open. What he saw made him jolt backward like he’d touched a live wire.

“Jesus!” he snapped, scrambling across the bed. “How the hell did you get in here?”

Sadie stood up, completely unfazed, a smug grin on her lips.

“I told your housekeeper I was your massage therapist,” she said breezily. “You do look tense even when you sleep, Brett. There’s a lot of blocked solar plexus energy in this house.”

Groaning, Brett rubbed his eyes. “What are you doing here, Sadie?”  He looked around, only then realizing the tennis pro was gone. “What happened to—”

“Taylor?” Sadie asked. “Oh, I sent her home. Sweet girl. I’m mapping her birth chart later.” 

Brett twisted off the bed without a second thought, stark naked, his dick and balls swinging as he stormed across the room and pulled on a robe. He didn’t see Sadie look at him with an amused grin. 

“Look, I’ve got a lot on my plate today,” he said, already heading for the stairs. “So if you’ll excuse me—”

Sadie was right behind him, her tone calm but calculated. “I wanted a word about Heather and the path she’s putting Iris on. Guest roles? Mid-season filler on network TV? That’s not just a waste of her potential, Brett…it’s a step backwards. I know you see that too.”

“How can that be a step backwards if she hasn’t done anything yet?” Brett asked and made a beeline for the kitchen where there was a fresh pot of coffee waiting.  “And what do you want me to do about it? Our business together is finished, remember?” 

“Well, Heather is your ex-wife and mother of your child,” Sadie said, arms crossed as she stood across from him.  “I’m sure you have some kind of pull with her.”

“Not when it comes to her career,” Brett said flatly. “Whatever Heather has planned for Iris, I’d take it and not look a gift horse in the mouth. She’s doing me a favor by even agreeing to represent your sister. I suggest you take the win and leave it at that.”

Sadie glared at him. “Look at you,” she said, her voice laced with disdain. “Suddenly hands-off when just a few days ago you couldn’t keep them off my sister.”

Brett rolled his eyes.

She tilted her head, eyes narrowing as she watched him squirm. “That’s the thing about you, Brett—you play the doting father, the powerful CEO, the loyal ex… but when it comes down to it, you’re just a man chasing the next piece of ass. When are you going to grow up? Or are you too scared to be alone with yourself?”

Brett let out a slow, controlled breath and walked to the kitchen’s back door, opening it without a word.

“Goodbye, Sadie.”

She gave a casual shrug, strolling past him, then paused in the doorway, her eyes dropping pointedly. “Fine. I’m going. Oh… and your robe’s open.”

Brett looked down, muttered a curse, and yanked it shut, tying it tight as she disappeared into the morning.

* * *

Natalie arrived at her appointment with the photographer twenty minutes early. She’d fussed with her hair and makeup all morning, torturing Riley by asking how she looked at least a dozen times. Finally, he walked her to the door and practically forced her into her car. 

“You’ll be great,” he’d said. “And you look beautiful.”

She didn’t know how, but he always managed to put her at ease. She actually felt confident walking into the studio. 

The office was freezing, but she didn’t care.  She paused, smoothing the front of her blouse as she approached the receptionist. 

“Hi,” she said to the woman behind the desk. “I’m Natalie Weir. I’m here for headshots?”

The receptionist smiled without looking up from her monitor. “Of course. Hal Bedford’s your agent?”

“Well, with any luck,” she said with a smile. She hadn’t even met with him yet. New headshots were the first step. 

“Go ahead and take a seat. Briggs will be out in just a second.”

Natalie nodded and sat on the edge of a pale gray couch, clutching the small bag that held her touch-up makeup and a pair of backup earrings. She glanced at a wall of photos and felt the flicker of doubt she’d managed to ignore since she left the apartment.

What if she didn’t belong among them?

A moment later, a tall man in jeans and a black t-shirt stepped through a side door, camera strap slung across his chest. His dark hair was a little too perfect, his smile warm and welcoming. He spoke with a slight southern drawl.

“Natalie Weir?” he asked.

She stood. “Yes. That’s me.”

“I’m Briggs. Great to meet you.” He offered a firm handshake and motioned toward the studio. “Let’s get you lit and gorgeous.”

Natalie followed him into the softly lit space, where a backdrop waited with lights directed this way and that. As Briggs adjusted his camera, she let out a deep breath, letting the quiet of the studio settle her nerves.

Briggs circled behind the camera, his gaze locked onto her. His breathing had started to turn audibly shallow, but Natalie chalked it up to the effort of moving around.

“Okay, yeah… just like that,” he muttered, almost more to himself than to her. “Tilt your head a little… no, slower… that’s it.”

Natalie shifted, trying to hold a relaxed pose, one hand resting lightly at her hip. She didn’t see the way his tongue darted across his bottom lip, or how his eyes dropped below her collarbone before he brought the camera up again.

“You’ve got… incredible symmetry,” he said, voice husky now. “Seriously.  Like, it’s distracting.”

She gave a nervous laugh. “Well, that’s what they pay you for, right?”

Briggs didn’t answer. He licked his lips again, this time slower, his eyes following her movements as she shifted from one foot to the other.

“You mind just—” he paused, breathing heavier now, “—pulling the neckline open just a little? The collarbone’s giving me everything right now.”

Natalie hesitated, fingers brushing the edge of her shirt. “You sure that’s what the agency wants? I thought these were more… classic?”

“Oh, totally,” he said quickly, eyes locked on her chest, breath rasping through his nose. “This is just…options. Trust me, you’ll thank me later.”

She nodded, unsure, but followed his lead, spreading the shirt slightly wider. Briggs exhaled, a low sound from deep in his throat, and raised the camera again with shaking hands.

“God,” he mumbled, eyes never leaving her, even between frames. “You’re something else, Natalie.”

She shifted again, trying to keep her expression soft, not quite able to place the unease creeping up her spine. 

“Thanks,” she said softly. 

The session went on for far longer than the thirty minutes she’d booked. She lost track of how many pictures Briggs had taken, but he assured her that it was standard and that she’d have a lot more options to choose from.   

“I guess that about does it,” Briggs said, lowering the camera and brushing a hand through his hair. His voice had become steadier, but there was still something underneath. “It’ll take me a few days to get these printed, and then I’ll give you a call. It was great meeting you, Natalie Weir.”

“You too,” she said, offering a polite smile as she stepped forward to shake his hand.

His grip was firm but it lingered a second too long. His thumb pressed gently against the inside of her wrist, and his eyes didn’t leave hers. She gave a soft, awkward laugh and pulled her hand back quickly.

Probably nothing. She was probably just being too sensitive. People from the South are always extra friendly, she reminded herself, grabbing her bag and slinging it over her shoulder.

Still, she was already halfway to the parking lot before she let out a quiet breath.

* * *

Kelly sat across from Eddie’s desk in his office in Beverly Hills, her Louboutin heel bouncing softly from her foot as she watched Eddie navigating footage from Miranda’s birthday party.

“So this is your mystery man?” he asked, pausing the feed. On the monitor, a freeze frame showed a young man in a tuxedo, caught mid-turn on the edge of the terrace, the lights from the Blackthorne mansion casting a soft glow along his jawline. There was something tentative about his stance—like he wasn’t sure if he should be there or not.

“That’s him,” Kelly said, leaning in. “I saw him talking to a casting director from Monarch Pictures. Thought he had something. Any idea who he is?” 

Eddie narrowed his eyes, tapping a few keys. “Facial recognition gave me a match. Pretty quick one, actually. Name’s Riley Dean Weir.”

He brought up a new screen. A headshot appeared. Tousled dark hair, square jaw, mesmerizing green eyes. 

“Did a short guest arc on Empire Crest last year, but nothing since then,” Eddie continued. “Looks like no agent listed.”

Kelly’s eyes didn’t move from the screen. “Jesus, he’s good looking.”

Eddie raised a brow. “You want to cast him or date him?”

“Stormy already tried that joke, remember?” she said wryly.  

Eddie let out a short laugh, surprised but not mocking. “Ok, but that’s the game now? Find your next star in the surveillance footage of Hollywood parties?”

Kelly stood, smoothing her skirt as she approached the screen. “I know what I saw. He wasn’t just there. He was taking it all in. Like someone who knew he didn’t belong… but hoped one day he might.” She turned to Eddie. “Got an address?”

Eddie was already scribbling it down and handing it off to her.  “By the way, I found out who gifted your father that land up by Refugio State Park.”  

Kelly took a folder from him, her brow furrowing as she flipped it open. Inside was a collection of documents: an old deed stamped with a Santa Barbara County seal, a faded photograph of two soldiers squinting into a desert sun, and a letter that had been yellowed with age and creased at the edges.

“Who’s the guy in the picture with him?” she asked.

“Colonel Adrian Roth. He was a high-ranking intel officer in Matthew’s unit during the Gulf War. Colonel Roth was badly wounded during a mission.” His eyes flickered toward Kelly as he went on. “Everyone assumed he was dead—except your dad. Matthew disobeyed a direct order, went back into the kill zone, and dragged him out under fire. He saved his life.”

“So Colonel Roth gave him the land?” Kelly asked.

Eddie nodded. “Roth came from old California ranching money. The coastal stretch near Refugio had been in his family for generations, but he never developed it. Said it reminded him of the world before everything went to hell. Before he died of cancer about ten years ago, he arranged for the deed to be transferred to your dad through a holding trust. ”

Kelly stared down at the deed, her thumb tracing the inked signature. “Sounds like he was a hero.”

And for the first time since the news broke, she smiled. Leave it to her father to save a man’s life, be rewarded with a fortune in real estate, and go on like it was no big deal.  She wondered if he had not been killed in that plane crash if she would have ever found out about the land. 

* * *

The café was situated just off Melrose with high-top wood tables and a herb garden spilling onto the patio. Jane stirred a mint sprig in her sparkling water. Heather, seated across from her, leaned in with a low whisper.

“Siobahn Saxton and Elise Stoner?” she said, setting down her iced tea. “That bastard’s not even being subtle anymore.”

Jane shook her head in disbelief. “First the FlickFix rumors about Siobahn being ‘difficult on set’—”

“Which she’s not,” Heather interjected. “She’s a perfectionist. That’s different.”

“Exactly,” Jane said, nodding. “And now Elise is seen having lunch with him? Miranda said she nearly had a coronary when she saw them together.”

Heather exhaled. “I’ve known Miranda since I was five years old. I’ve seen her livid. I’ve seen her rip the necklace off her stepmother with a smile. But this morning… she looked… beaten.”

“She’s never had two of our top clients targeted like this. And not by some unknown manager. Vaughan Novak knows exactly what he’s doing.”

The server appeared with their salads. Neither of them touched theirs.

Heather lowered her voice again. “Do you think it’s personal?”

Jane met her eyes. “With Vaughan? Always. But this… this feels strategic. Like he’s trying to smoke her out.”

Heather sat back, lips pursed. “Well. He may be playing chess, but he’s about to find out Miranda doesn’t lose. Not without taking someone down with her.”

Jane gave a smile. “Let’s just hope it’s him.” 

She raised her fork, poised to take a bite of her salad, then froze. Her face twisted in sudden repulsion. In an instant, she pushed back from the table and bolted from the patio, a hand clasped over her mouth.

Heather blinked, frowning as she watched her disappear through the glass doors. When Jane returned a few minutes later, she looked pale. 

“You okay?” Heather asked.

Jane pointed at her plate. “I told them no anchovies,” she said, her voice low and shaky. “The smell made me sick to my stomach.”

Heather squinted at the salad. “Okay, yeah, gross, but that bad of a reaction?” She paused, then tilted her head. “Are you sure you’re not—”

It took a beat for Jane to catch the implication. “Pregnant?” she asked, then shook her head quickly. “No. I mean, we haven’t been trying that long.”

“It only takes once,” Heather singsonged. “Maybe you should take a test.”

Jane raised an eyebrow. “I guess maybe.”  

After calling the waiter over to take away the salad, she took a deep cleansing breath.  “So, what’s going on in your personal life?” she asked. She had to change the subject. If she didn’t, she’d start obsessing over the possibility that she could be pregnant, and she refused to get her hopes up again.  

“What personal life?” Heather asked with a chuckle. “Between the agency, parenting a sixteen-year-old genius—”

“Come on, Heather, don’t make excuses. When was the last time you went out on a date?”

Heather paused dramatically.  “How far does your calendar go back?”

Jane laughed. “I still don’t know why you and Brett don’t just get back together. I know you still love him, and I’m pretty sure he still loves you.” 

Her friend was quick to dismiss her theory. “Brett and I tried being together, remember? We were married once, divorced, and got married again when I got out of the hospital. We tried to make it work. It just didn’t.” 

“And why do you think that is?” Jane asked. 

She looked at her and answered point-blank. “Because I don’t trust him,” she said. “Brett isn’t mature enough to handle a monogamous, long-term relationship. We only lasted five years the second time around. I honestly think that’s the shelf life of any relationship he’s ever in.”  

“People can change.”

Heather gave a slow shake of her head. “Maybe. But I’m not waiting around for him to prove it.”

* * *

The pool sparkled beneath the late afternoon sun. Iris floated on her back, sunglasses perched on her nose, the chaos of the city muffled behind the hedges that lined Mrs. Tremond’s property.

Blake was doing laps, slicing through the water with ease. When he reached the edge and paused, Iris couldn’t help but look—his shoulders broad, back sculpted, droplets racing down his skin. That thin mustache of his curled upward as he caught her watching.

“What?” he asked, slightly winded.

“Nothing,” she said, floating closer. “Just wondering if you ever don’t look like you belong in a luxury fragrance ad.”

“Come on,” he said, blushing.

Iris blushed too. Just friends. That’s all it was.

“Wow, I’m just so happy that things went well at your meeting with Heather,” Blake said as he lifted himself onto the tiled pool deck. “You really deserve this break.”

She frowned. “You literally just met me two weeks ago. How do you know?”

“Well, admit it, you do deserve it,” he said.

They both laughed.  

“Thanks,” Iris said. “It almost didn’t go well thanks to Sadie. Imagine a momager straight out of a reality show. I was mortified. She completely embarrassed me.”

“I’m sure Heather was only focused on you.”  

“Do you know her well?” Iris asked.

“Yeah,” Blake told her. “She and my brother, Eddie, were just a year apart in high school. Her brother was actually the best friend that I told you about.”  

Iris grew still in the water. “You mean the one who—”

He nodded. “Yeah, Benji. He died fifteen years ago.”  

She swam to the ledge and got out of the pool.  “God, I keep bringing things up that I shouldn’t. I’m so sorry.”

“It’s okay,” he said with a genuine smile.

Iris decided to change the subject. “What about the other guy you mentioned? The complicated one.”

“Sheldon,” Blake told her. “Yeah, it’s probably always going to be complicated. But he’s a great guy. We were all friends back then.” He paused, reconsidering his words. “Well… maybe not Sheldon and Benji so much, now that I think about it.”

His gaze drifted, a half-smile spreading across his face as he recalled images from the past. “Actually, there was this one night at the Viper Room before it shut down. Benji was pissed about something Sheldon did—can’t even remember what—and he actually brought a gun to the club. We were in the bathroom when it accidentally went off. Nicked me right in the shoulder.”

“Oh no!” Iris gasped, eyes wide. She couldn’t help laughing along, caught up in the way Blake told it like it was just another wild night. “Did it hurt?”

“You have no idea,” Blake said with a dry chuckle. “Thing is, Benji was on probation, so going to the hospital wasn’t really an option. We showed up at a friends’ house who was in med school—barely—and he stitched me up in the kitchen. It got so infected.” He shook his head at the memory, still amused. “God, how stupid were we?”

Iris stared at him, part horrified, part impressed. “Honestly? That sounds like a deleted scene from a Scorsese film.”

“Yeah,” Blake said, stretching his arms along the pool’s edge. “Except no one gets an Oscar for being young and reckless.”

They both got up from the tiled floor. Iris went to get her towel while Blake shook his head to dispel water from his hair.  

“So what’s the next step with M.B.A.?” he asked. 

Iris’s face lit up. “They’re sending me to an audition next week for a guest role on Trauma Room.”

“Hey, that’s great,” Blake said. “That’s a great way to be seen. Simone Bellamy is a legendary television producer. I mean, how long has that show been on the air—like 22 years?”

“Right?” 

Just then, Sadie appeared at the gate, striding in as if she were on a mission.

“Well, well, well—what have we here?” she said, arms folding as she took in the scene. “A little afternoon swim while someone’s supposed to be rehearsing lines for their Trauma Room audition?”

Iris groaned, not even hiding her exasperation. “I was taking a break, Sadie. Blake just stopped by—”

“And decided to bless us all with a pecs-forward performance, I see,” Sadie interrupted, eyeing Blake’s bare chest with theatrical disapproval. “Mrs. Tremond certainly got an eyeful. I hope you cleared it with her before inviting a shirtless man over to her pool.”

Blake offered a polite, restrained smile. “It’s alright. I was just about to head out anyway.”

“You have to?” Iris asked, unable to hide her disappointment.

“Yeah,” he said, grabbing his towel while he slipped into a pair of Dolce slides and shoved a Lakers hat over his head. “Gotta get home to let Betsy out, and then a meeting later.”

“Right. Okay.”

Sadie swooped in before he could leave. “Oh, Iris, honey, I almost forgot. Mommy wants you to call her. Something about putting your audition news in the Edmonton Eagle. You know how she loves bragging about you to all the ladies in her bridge club.”

“Okay,” Iris muttered, waving to Blake as she disappeared inside, already reaching for her phone.

As Blake made for the gate, towel slung over his shoulder, Sadie stepped quickly into his path to block him. 

She folded her arms, her stance all business. “I just want to be crystal clear about something, Blake.”

He stopped, eyebrows raised in mild amusement. “Oh?”

“Iris has a shot right now—a real one. Trauma Room isn’t just another day player gig. It’s network. It’s exposure. It’s exactly the kind of momentum she’s been needing.”

Blake nodded slowly. “I know. I was just telling her I think it’s a great opportunity.”

Sadie’s smile tightened. “Then I’m sure you also know how easily a distraction—any distraction—can derail someone who’s this close to leveling up.”

Blake eyed her suspiciously, but he kept his voice even. “You think I’m a distraction.”

“I think you’re a charming, successful man who has a way of taking up space,” she replied. “And Iris has a history of letting her heart interfere with her head. She’s ruled by Venus. I’m just trying to keep her aligned.”

“She’s not a child, Sadie.”

“No, but she’s still learning how to be ruthless. And until she gets there, I’m going to help her make the right choices. Even if they’re unpopular.”

Blake studied her for a moment, his expression unreadable. “Noted.”

Sadie stepped aside, gesturing toward the gate with a gracious wave of her hand. “Drive safe. Give Betsy a kiss for me.”

He gave a polite nod and walked past her, but as the gate shut behind him, Sadie’s smile faded into a scowl.

* * *

Kelly proceeded to the address for Riley Weir that Eddie had given her—a modest walk-up in Valley Village tucked just off a residential street. The building was older but well-kept, with a wrought-iron gate enclosing a quiet atrium lined with potted plants and mailboxes that hadn’t been upgraded since the ’90s.

There were two entrances on either side, mirroring each other, and it took her a moment to spot the small bronze “7” mounted beside a green door with peeling trim.

She knocked once, then waited, glancing around the courtyard. No sound from inside. Zero signs of life.

She knocked again and took a small step back, scanning the upstairs window. Still nothing.

“Can I help you?” a voice called from behind. 

Kelly turned and saw an elderly man approaching from the other side of the building, keys jangling at his hip and a sweat-stained Dodgers cap pulled down over his forehead.

“I was looking for Riley Weir,” she said, stepping toward him.

“He moved,” the man replied, squinting at her. “I’m the building manager.”

“Oh,” Kelly said, disappointed. “How long ago?”

He scratched at his chin. “Few weeks. Didn’t even give a notice. Still haven’t found new tenants.”

“Did he leave a forwarding address?”

The manager snorted. “Nope. Probably figured I’d send ‘em a bill for the rest of the month’s rent.”

Kelly offered a polite smile. “Well… thanks for your help.”

He gave a shrug, already fishing keys from his pocket.

Kelly walked back out through the gate, her heels clicking softly against the cracked walkway. Before she got in the car, she took a breath and tried to think of another way to find him. 

Well, Riley, what now?

* * *

Riley lay on the couch, shirtless, jeans half-undone, his phone in his hand where it always was these days. He scrolled unenthusiastically through messages on Noir Companions.

You free tonight?
Same hotel. Same rate?
Thinking about you again. Could use your touch.

He shut the app and rubbed his face, wondering how long he could keep doing this.

The front door opened and Natalie stepped in, cheeks flushed, ponytail loose, energy buzzing around her. She looked… different. Brighter.

“Hey,” Riley said, sitting up and setting down his phone.

“Hey,” she smiled, kicking off her shoes. “How was your day?”

“Busy,” he said

She grabbed a drink from the fridge. “The shoot went well. The photographer was a little weird, but he liked me, so I guess I’ll take it.”

Riley raised a brow. “Weird how?”

Natalie shrugged dismissively and left it at that, then sat beside him. “It felt different today. Like maybe something’s finally clicking.”

He nodded, wrapping an arm around her. “That’s all I want, Nat. For something to finally stick.”

She leaned into him, smiling. He put the app messages out of his mind. He wanted to be there for her the way she always was for him. Just held her, quietly hoping her break might become their escape.

* * *

In the red-lit quiet of the darkroom, a single photograph floated in the tray, slowly revealing the shape of Natalie’s face. Delicate features, eyes downcast, lips parted just slightly like she was about to say something and changed her mind. 

Another sheet slid into the chemicals. This one was tighter—her neck exposed, collarbone sharp in the light, her hair falling just out of the frame. She hadn’t even noticed when he took it. But something in the frame felt… private, as if she had let something slip without realizing.

Briggs continued developing the photos from the shoot. He used film, which he often did for subjects he thought were worthwhile. And Natalie Weir definitely was.  

He adjusted a clothespin on the line, straightening the final image, then smiled.

* * *

Miranda decided to drop in on Siobahn’s photoshoot in Malibu—something she usually wouldn’t bother with, but a little hand-holding for her number-one client never hurt. The campaign was for VANTA, the sunglasses line Miranda had recently inked a deal for Siobahn to front. Heather and Jane tagged along.

They stepped onto the sand, their heels sinking slightly before they gave up and kicked them off. Just ahead, the chaos of Siobahn’s shoot unfolded like a circus. A drone floated overhead capturing aerial shots of her as she lounged in a beach chair, her legs slung over one arm, her face half-hidden behind oversized mirrored sunglasses. 

Miranda shielded her eyes as they approached. “She’s good.”

“I don’t hate the glasses,” Heather said, tilting her head. “They’re obnoxious, but they’ll sell.”

“Everything she touches sells,” Jane said. “That’s the problem. It’s making her think she’s untouchable.”

They stopped just behind the production zone, where an assistant with a clipboard glanced at them, registered who they were, and quickly looked away—wise enough not to interrupt. The photographer was pacing, barking something about lighting while Siobahn barely moved.

During a break in the shoot, the pace eased up a bit. The drone descended onto the ground, stylists stepped back, and the photographer went to chew out the lighting tech. 

Siobahn sat on the edge of her beach chair, dabbing her face with a towel, her sunglasses pushed up into her hair.

She looked up as Miranda, Heather, and Jane approached, offering a small smile. “Hello ladies. This is a pleasant surprise.”

Miranda shrugged, folding her arms as she stopped in front of her. “We were nearby. Figured we’d check in and make sure you hadn’t melted into the sand.”

“Not yet,” Siobahn said, taking a sip from a glass of cucumber water. “Though ask me again in twenty minutes.”

“The shots look great, Siobahn,” Heather said. “Really nice work.”

“Sweetie, I just sit and let the crew do all the work,” Siobahn said in her polished British accent, adjusting her cover-up with a shrug. “It’s really all them. I just try not to blink at the wrong time.”

“Don’t sell yourself short, Siobahn,” Jane said and gestured to the crew. “Not many actresses command this kind of attention. You’re a big deal.”

Miranda nodded. “Speaking of big deals—I ran into Zoanne Voss last night and she says the FlickFix deal is nearly there. Just a few final pieces to lock in.”

Siobahn perked up, her eyebrows lifting. “Seriously? I thought we were still in the ‘what if’ stage.”

Miranda shook her head. “Nope. This is happening. It’s just a matter of working out the little details.”

“Nice going, Miranda,” Siobahn said with a gleam in her eyes. “You’ve really come through for me.” 

“Hey, anything for my number one client.” 

A call rang out for talent on set, and Siobahn stood, brushing sand from her legs. “Guess that’s me. Thanks for coming by, ladies.”

Miranda gave her a warm nod. “I’ll be in touch.”

She headed back toward the cameras, and as she stepped back into position, Miranda exchanged a glance with Heather and Jane.

“She seems pleased,” Jane said quietly.

“For now,” Miranda murmured. “Let’s just keep it that way.”

* * *

When his attempt at sullying Siobahn’s reputation to FlickFix didn’t provide the results he was hoping for, Vaughan decided to try another tactic. He had his assistant, Travis, arrange late-afternoon drinks with Zoanna Voss, FlickFix’s VP of Talent.

They met at Bar Lis on the top floor of the Thompson Hotel, sprawling cityscapes visible from every point.

Zoanne arrived five minutes late, dressed in cream silk and oversized sunglasses she didn’t bother to remove. She didn’t offer excuses, just a cool, “Vaughan,” as she slid into the velvet banquette across from him.

He handed her a martini he’d pre-ordered, extra dry, just the way Travis said she liked it. 

“Lovely seeing you last night at the premiere of Dominion Protocol,” he said with a smirk. “Your date was certainly a wide-eyed accessory. Picking them kind of young, aren’t you, Zoanne? That one had to have been younger than Blake.”

“But I suppose it’s perfectly acceptable that you showed up with a twenty-something bimbo?” she asked. “My how the double standards are flowing in this town.”  

He gave a good-natured laugh. After a few more minutes of idle industry chit-chat, he got down to business.  “I understand you’re inking an exclusive deal with Siobahn Saxton,” he said. 

Zoanne looked at him from over the tops of her sunglasses. “That’s not common knowledge yet, but yes, we are. How did you know?” 

Vaughan waved a hand through the air, casually dismissing the thought. “Just industry chatter,” he said. Then, as if something had just occurred to him, his tone shifted to one of mild surprise. “Wait—Miranda Blackthorne put this deal together?”

Zoanne took a sip of her martini, eyes following an actor who brushed her hand in passing. She blew him a kiss, then turned her gaze back to Vaughan. “She did. Why?”

He gave a shrug. “No reason. Just… with everything she’s juggling lately. I heard turning forty hit her harder than she expected. She’s not the same firebrand she used to be. Bit of a shame, really. Seems like she’s letting age become a barrier, just like her mother did.”

Zoanne’s expression cooled. “I’m in my forties,” she said pointedly. “Should I be packing it in too? Just what the hell is your hangup with a woman’s age, anyway? First you comment on my choice of dates and next you’re saying a woman’s life ends at forty.” 

Wrong tactic, Vaughan thought instantly. “No, no. You? You’re the exception, Zoanne. You’ve built your reputation on results. Miranda inherited hers. There’s a difference, and everyone in town knows it.”

He leaned in slightly, lowering his voice. “And listen, when this deal with Siobahn is final it’s gonna be huge. That’s the kind of move people remember. I’d just hate to see it fall apart because Miranda fumbles the execution.”

Zoanne said nothing, only watched him.

Vaughan smiled. “Obviously it’s Siobahn’s decision who represents her. But if you ever feel like nudging her in my direction… I wouldn’t be mad about it. We already have great chemistry.”

“Mm-hmm.” She swirled her martini, eyes steady on his. “Let’s not pretend this is about concern, shall we? You smell blood in the water and you want your cut. Nothing wrong with ambition. Just don’t patronize me, Vaughan. We’ve known each other too long for that.” 

“Fine,” he said with a grin, leaning in again. “How’s this for direct? I want Siobahn as my client.”

Zoanne didn’t flinch. “And what if she doesn’t want the same thing? You prepared to tank the whole deal over that?”

Vaughan shook his head. “I don’t think it’ll come to that. Siobahn knows a smart move when she sees one. And let’s be honest—everyone else, including her current agent? Collateral damage.”

“I’ll think it over.” Zoanne finished her martini and slid her chair back.

Vaughan moved quickly, reeling her in before she could leave. “What if the offer was sweetened?”

She paused, considering. “How?”

He leaned in. “I’ve been talking to Elise Stoner. She’s open to an exclusive with FlickFix… if the right package comes together.”

Zoanne lifted her eyebrows just enough to show interest. “You can actually get Elise?”

He smiled. “Would that help persuade you into pointing Siobahn toward my camp?”

Zoanne rose, tucking her purse under one arm. “I’ll be in touch,” she said. Then, lowering her sunglasses, she gave him a slow wink before turning toward the elevator.

Vaughan leaned back, watching her go, already savoring how neatly the pieces were starting to fall into place.

* * *

Heather stepped off the elevator into the top-floor lobby of Rydell Productions, a matte black leather Prada bag slung over her shoulder. 

Sam looked up from the reception desk and offered a polite smile. “Hey, Heather. He’s in. You can go ahead.”

She gave a nod, holding up a manila folder. “Just dropping this off.”

Sam buzzed the door open and Heather stepped into Brett’s office, the space instantly hitting her with déjà vu. Not just from Brett’s tenure there, but the decades before when her father ran the studio.

“Since when do you have a buzzer for your office door?” Heather asked, pausing just inside and frowning at the soft click that had let her in.

Brett stood from his desk, smoothing his tie as he came around. “Just had it installed. Keeps out the riff-raff. Which doesn’t include you, in case you were wondering.

Heather gave him a half amused look. “Good to know I’ve still got VIP access.”

“For better or worse,” he said, smiling faintly. “Mostly better.”

She handed over the folder. “McCready memo. Miranda wants everything finalized by Monday. Page four’s got new talent language.”

Brett took it, eyes still on her. “I’ll read it later. Right now I’m distracted by the fact that you still remember how to walk in here and knock my socks off.”

She smirked. “Old habits.”

“Old chemistry,” he corrected, almost under his breath.

“Your horns are showing, Brett,” Heather said and made her way to the door. 

“Hold up, I’ll walk out with you,” Brett called after her.

He gathered his laptop, slung his jacket over his shoulder, and followed her into the reception area.

“Sam, I’m gone for the rest of the day,” he said, giving a small wave. “Text if anything comes up.”

Sam nodded, barely looking up from her screen. Heather was already at the elevator, arms loosely crossed, her expression unreadable.

Brett caught up and they both stepped into the elevator where he pressed the button for the lobby. “Going back to the office?” he asked casually.

She glanced at her watch. “No, I’ll probably just head home.”

The elevator began its descent, but only made it three floors before lurching sharply and stopping with a heavy clang. The lights flickered, then silence.

Heather’s hands gripped the railing instinctively. “You’ve got to be kidding me.”

Brett hit the emergency button. Nothing. He pressed it again. The panel stayed silent.

Heather exhaled. “Wow. So this is how I die. In an elevator. With my ex-husband.”

Brett turned to her, equally frustrated. “Well, I didn’t break the damn thing, Heather.”

“Well, you are the one who insisted on walking me out.”

“Right, sorry for being polite,” he shot back. “Next time I’ll let you stomp off in the way our interactions usually end.”

She glared at him. “You’re lucky I didn’t stomp harder the day I left for good.”

“Oh, here we go,” Brett said, pacing a small circle in the elevator. “I knew we couldn’t be stuck in here for two minutes without revisiting 2017.”

“You brought it up!”

“Are you kidding me?” he snapped, pointing at her. “You brought it up.”

Heather crossed her arms. “Oh, that’s mature. You certainly haven’t changed.”

Brett stepped closer. “Some things have. You’re angrier. And somehow hotter. It’s confusing.”

She blinked, thrown off for half a second. “You are such a child.”

“You’re deflecting.”

“I’m deflecting?” she said, stepping toward him now. “This coming from the master of deflection. God, you still know exactly how to piss me off.”

“And you still know exactly how to make me want to kiss you when you’re pissed off.”

Silence.

Then suddenly, without hesitation, he reached for her, and she didn’t stop him. Their mouths met instantly, his hand sliding into her hair, hers gripping the front of his shirt. It was messy, breathless, and familiar.

She broke the kiss just long enough to whisper, “This is such a bad idea.”

“Yep,” he murmured against her lips. “That’s why it feels so good.”

And then they were kissing again, like the years had never passed.

* * *

The house was quiet. Somewhere upstairs, Tiger had vanished with her headphones and hoodie, and the kitchen still held the lingering scent of Thai takeout.

Miranda sat curled into the corner of the sectional, her hair pulled back into a loose bun, makeup gone, and her phone finally set aside. Her eyes were half-closed, a glass of cabernet resting in one hand.

Eddie sat at the other end, her feet propped in his lap, his thumbs working slow, steady circles into her arches.

“I swear,” she murmured, not opening her eyes, “if you stop, I’m withholding sex for the next month.”

“Empty threats,” he said.

She laughed. “Don’t get cocky. I can hire someone else for foot rubs.”

He grinned, kneading deeper. “I guess Kelly hit a roadblock finding that actor you’re looking for,” he said.  “He moved and didn’t leave a forwarding address.”

“Damn,” Miranda replied, sinking deeper into the couch cushion. She paused, swirling the wine in her glass. “But I mean we don’t even know this guy can act. Kelly’s just going off of looks and a vibe. Then again, she hasn’t been wrong yet. She has a good eye for spotting talent. Good thing, too because I’m all about stockpiling clients before the inevitable purge.” 

Eddie leaned back slightly and switched to her other foot. “You’re really worried about this thing with Vaughan Novak, aren’t you?” 

“Ugh, yes, and it’s killing me,” Miranda groaned, tossing her head back against the cushion. “I hate not having things handled. The second I feel like I’m losing control, I spiral.”

Eddie tilted his head, studying her. “You know, I’ve never seen you like this.”

She opened one eye. “Like what? Human?”

“No,” he said, smiling softly. “Like… shaken. Where’s the self-assured, kickass woman I married?”

She sighed. “She’s still here. She’s just on the couch with no makeup, drinking her third glass of cab and seriously considering having Vaughan Novak whacked.”

He chuckled. “There she is.”

Miranda cracked a smile, then grew serious again. “If Siobahn or Elise jump ship, I lose momentum. If I lose momentum, I lose the edge. And Vaughan Novak knows exactly where to jab.”

Eddie kept massaging. “Then jab back harder. You always do.”

Miranda looked at him, vulnerable in a way few people ever got to see. “I just don’t want to lose this.”

“You won’t,” he said. “You built this thing from scratch. One snake in the grass isn’t going to take it down.”

She stared at him a moment longer. “You always know the right thing to say. I owe you, husband.”

“You can start by letting me pick the movie tonight.”

“Don’t push it,” she mumbled, already half-asleep.

* * *

Early morning light spilled through the windows of Stormy and Jane’s house in Beverly Hills. The house was mostly quiet, save for the low hum of the morning news on the kitchen TV and the distant sound of traffic reports murmuring through the speakers.

Jane had gotten up before anyone else, the weight of nervous anticipation pulling her from bed. Upstairs, R.J. was rustling around in his room, muttering to himself as he scrambled to finish a homework assignment before the first bell.

In their bedroom, Jane stood at her dresser, her robe tied loosely at her waist. She stared at the pregnancy test resting on the counter. Two pink lines. 

Her hand flew to her mouth as a disbelieving smile spread across her face. A quiet, breathless laugh escaped her lips.

Moments later, she stepped into the kitchen where Stormy was in grey sweats, pouring coffee, shirtless and sleepy.

“Stormy,” she said, her voice tinged with emotion.

He turned, barely awake. “What’s wrong?”

She held up the test, smiling through tears. “It’s positive. I’m pregnant.”

His eyes widened. The mug hit the counter with a soft clink. “No way.”

She nodded. “Yes. It’s real.”

Stormy let out a stunned laugh, then crossed the room and swept her into his arms. “We’re having a baby,” he whispered.

Jane nodded into his chest, both of them holding on tight as the noise of the world faded around them.

* * *

“…the next generation of Hollywood royalty,” Ricky Simms’ voice echoed from the television. “Stormy Blackthorne and his wife Jane leading the charge at the Dominion Protocol premiere, joined by the family’s inner circle—James Blackthorne and Lara Devon, Miranda Blackthorne and her husband, Eddie Distefano…”

The Beast sat alone in the prison rec room, long after lights-out the night before. The guards didn’t care. Most of them were afraid of him anyway.

He gripped the remote in one hand, a thumb hovering over the pause button. Paparazzi flashes flickered across the screen as the cameras followed the group along the red carpet.

He hit pause.

The screen froze on a perfect moment—Stormy mid-laugh, his hand clapping Eddie’s shoulder in a friendly gesture. The Beast’s eyes narrowed angrily on them.

Stormy Blackthorne. The second.

Eddie Distefano. The third.

They were just as responsible for everything he’d lost as that little bitch Miranda was.

He leaned forward, elbows on his knees, staring at their frozen faces. 

“Soon,” he muttered.

He pressed rewind, slowly dragged the footage back, then froze it again.