Last time on L.A. Connections…

Jane and Stormy celebrated life-changing news as they learned they were expecting, while Kelly’s star-seeking instincts paid off when she finally tracked down Riley. Heather scored Iris a coveted audition for primetime drama Trauma Room, while Vaughan schemed with Zoanne Voss to lure Siobahn away from M.B.A. in exchange for locking in Elise Stoner at FlickFix. Heather told Jane she was over Brett—but when the exes got stuck in an elevator, a fiery argument turned into a forbidden kiss, stirring old passions. Meanwhile, shady financier Mickey Donovan injected capital into Rydell Productions, leaving Brett uneasy and suspecting trouble is only just beginning.

* * *

The Mercedes SUV weaved through morning traffic along Melrose Avenue, sun bouncing off storefront windows and billboards. They were just a few blocks from the M.B.A. offices when Benson Boone’s Mystical Magical came on.

Heather glanced at Kelly in the backseat. “Alright, now that we’re all here, congrats on signing Riley Weir.”

Jane sipped her herbal tea and added, “Seriously. I mean, you spotted him at Miranda’s party and didn’t stop until you tracked him down. I’m impressed.”  

“What can I say?” Kelly said with a hint of immodesty as she shrugged. “I know a good thing when I see one.”

“And you found him just in the nick of time,” Miranda said, glancing through the rearview mirror. “I still can’t believe what he resorted to doing before we found him.”

“Yeah, but a lot of hopefuls in this town fall into the same trap,” Heather said. “It’s actually kind of heartbreaking.”

Miranda’s tone sharpened. “Well, as far as we’re concerned, Noir Companions never happened. From this moment on, we know nothing about that part of Riley’s past. Period.”

Kelly didn’t look up from her phone. “I’m finalizing a chemistry read for him on Friday with Silverdale Telepictures. It’s a small part on an established show, but opposite the lead.”

“And the FlickFix pitch?” Miranda asked without missing a beat.

Kelly nodded. “Already in motion. It’s a feature length movie—very dark, lots of underground hacker vibes. He’s green, but his screen test is haunting. I really think there’s something there. I don’t know what Monarch Pictures was thinking when they passed on him.”

Heather smiled. “Good instincts, Kel.”

Jane gave a cautious nod. “I like him. Just hope casting directors see more than pecs and abs.”

“They will,” Kelly said firmly. “Because I’ll make sure they do.”

Miranda passed Wilcox, the office tower coming into view in the distance. “You get one shot with a new face, so make it count.”

As they pulled up to the mirrored facade of The Miranda Blackthorne Agency, the conversation ceased for a few minutes. Miranda stepped out first, all business, her heels tapping against the concrete as she made her way up to the giant double doors. The others fell into step behind her. By the time they stepped off the elevator, the conversation had kicked back in.

“What’s the latest on Iris Knox?” Miranda asked, striding toward her office.

“She’s got her Trauma Room audition today,” Heather replied, close behind. “And you were right about the sister. Total chaos. She’s already micromanaging wardrobe and rewriting lines that aren’t quote—sound with the universe—unquote.”

Miranda flipped through the stack of mail waiting on her desk, barely looking up. “Keep an eye on her. Family acting as managers? Always a ticking time bomb.”

Heather dropped her tote onto the nearest chair. Then, without warning, she turned to Jane and said—loud enough for everyone to hear:

“So? Did you take the test?”

Jane blinked. “Heather—”

Kelly straightened. “Wait… what test?”

Miranda froze mid-envelope-tear. “What are we talking about?”

Jane’s mouth parted, unsure whether to backpedal or just go with it. She glanced at Kelly, then let out a soft breath. “I was going to wait… but yeah. I took it.”

Miranda narrowed her eyes. “Took what?”

Jane smiled, a little shaky but glowing. “A pregnancy test. It was positive.”

Kelly’s jaw dropped. “What?! Since when?”

“Oh my god,” Miranda said, eyes wide. “You’re serious?”

Jane laughed, tears starting to gather at the corners of her eyes. “Very.”

Miranda rounded the desk. “Okay, this is huge. Why didn’t you say anything? The entire way here this morning we’ve been talking about client stuff and all the while you’ve been sitting on this.  I can’t believe I’m going to be an aunt again!”

“I guess… I needed a moment to wrap my head around it first. It still doesn’t seem real.”

Kelly crossed the room in two steps and pulled her into a hug. “You’re going to be such a cool mom.”

Miranda smiled, genuinely moved. “I’m so happy for you guys. How did Stormy take it?”

“He was so happy.”  

“I bet he was,” Heather said softly and placed a hand on her arm. 

And just like that, the morning shifted—from business as usual to something much bigger.

* * *

The morning haze had burned off by the back nine, leaving the Palos Verdes golf course bright and calm. Seagulls cried overhead, circling above the cliffs where the coastline stretched wide and endless. 

Brett adjusted his stance on the eleventh tee, forcing his shoulders to stay loose. He took the shot with maybe a little too much power, but it landed straight.

“Not bad,” said Spencer Hale, VP of Development at Rydell Productions, watching from a few feet back. He leaned on his driver, half-impressed. “You always swing better when something’s on your mind.”

Brett offered a vague smile. “Don’t read too much into it.”

Spencer opened his mouth to respond, but the sudden sound of tires on grass pulled both their attention away.

A matte black golf cart veered off the main path, rolling straight toward them across the fairway. At the wheel was a man in a light blue polo and dark sunglasses. Mickey Donovan.

Brett clenched his jaw.

Two other men rode with him. They were silent, broad, and clearly not here for golf. Security? Muscle? It didn’t matter. They didn’t look friendly.

Spencer squinted. “Friends of yours?”

“Not exactly,” Brett muttered, eyes still on the approaching cart. “Go ahead. I’ll catch up in a few minutes.”

Spencer hesitated, clearly unsure, but slung his driver over his shoulder and squinted toward the sunlit fairway. “Yeah… sure,” he said, climbing into their cart and rolling off down the course.

The black golf cart rolled to a stop a few yards away. Mickey climbed out first, the other two men falling in behind him.

“Brett,” he said, grinning lazily. “Didn’t expect to see you out here. Bit far from your usual turf, isn’t it? Thought this place might be a little… conservative for your taste.”

Brett squinted into the sun, raising a hand to shield his eyes as they fixed on Mickey.

“Oh, that’s right,” Mickey continued, as if casually remembering. “Spencer’s kids are in town from Boca. Staying at the resort with their grandparents.”

The implication was clear. Mickey wasn’t just dropping details. He was letting Brett know that he knew everything about Rydell Productions and everyone who worked there.

Mickey went on, his tone almost wistful. “A father’s got to spend time with his kids when he can, right? Me? I barely see my son these days. He’s in his twenties now—whole life ahead of him. Keeps his distance though.”

Brett folded his arms. “What do you want, Mickey? You following me?”

“Following you?” Mickey chuckled, shaking his head. “No, what would give you that idea? I’m just here for a round of golf. Same as you.”

Brett didn’t move as Mickey turned and pulled a club from the bag strapped to the back of the cart. He walked slowly to the tee box at the eleventh hole and dropped a ball.

Brett watched him, uneasy. “Yeah? So who are these guys—golfing buddies?”

Mickey glanced over his shoulder. “This is Bruno and Dennis,” he said, nodding at the men behind him. “My crew.”

Bruno gave Brett a quick nod while Dennis didn’t bother looking at him at all. Telltale bulges beneath their jackets led Brett to believe they were armed. 

“You always bring your bodyguards golfing with you?” he asked, leaning on his driver.

Mickey laughed as he lined up his shot. “You know, I half expected you’d be happier to see me. Rydell’s a hell of a lot more solvent than it was before I infused it with capital. You’re not worse off, are you? I’d say you’re in a better position than before I came on board.”

Brett didn’t flinch. “That remains to be seen, doesn’t it?”

Mickey grinned, adjusted his stance, and took the swing. The ball flew through the air, landing just shy of the green.

“Well, progress is being made on The Procedural from what I understand,” Mickey said, turning back toward Brett. “And that awards-season buzz? It’s going to keep rolling without compromising the picture. And who do you have to thank for that?”

Brett took a step closer, lowering his voice just enough that it wouldn’t carry over the wind. “You went through a lot of trouble leaking Dominion Protocol and making sure it couldn’t be connected back to you. Almost as if you’ve been planning this financial takeover of Rydell Productions since before we started having financial troubles. Why?”

Mickey didn’t answer right away. He slid his club back into the bag, dusted his hands off on his pants, and turned calmly.

“Careful, Mr. Armstrong,” he said, his voice low. “You start pulling at threads like that, pretty soon the whole fabric comes undone. And you might not like what’s underneath.”

Brett didn’t flinch, but inside he was panicked.

Mickey stepped past Brett with a nod to his associates, who fell in line behind him without a word. Mickey climbed back into the cart, pausing only long enough to glance over his shoulder.

“You’ve got a good thing going,” he said evenly. “I’d hate to see it drift off course.”

Then the cart rolled off, leaving Brett alone at the tee with nothing but the sound of distant waves and the sudden awareness that he was already in too deep.

* * *

The midday sun filtered through the windows of Blake’s office at FlickFix where he was mid-call, pacing near the glass wall, his voice laced with frustration.

“No, I said page two needs the rewrite, not page three,” Blake snapped into his air pods. “Tell the screenwriter to check the email chain again—”

Just then, the office door creaked open and Blake craned his neck.

Sheldon stood in the doorway holding a brown paper bag in one hand and a drink carrier balanced in the other. He wore a loose cream linen shirt, half-buttoned and rolled at the sleeves, paired with cropped charcoal trousers and scuffed suede desert boots. 

Blake grinned. “I’ll call you back,” he muttered, disconnecting the call before the person on the other end could respond.

Sheldon stepped inside, letting the door swing closed behind him. “I figured you skipped lunch again,” he said, lifting the bag. “So I fixed that.”

Blake crossed his arms. “That makes twice this week you’ve stopped by with food. You still know the way to my heart.”  

Sheldon pretended to be caught in thought. “I’m vaguely familiar,” he said with a smirk, placing the food on the small round table near the window. “After all, I didn’t spend the better part of ten years in and out of relationships with you not to know when—”

“What’s going on, Sheldon?” Blake interrupted, moving closer.

Sheldon turned and shrugged. “Bringing you lunch. No mystery there.”

“No, I mean with us. The surprise lunch drop-ins, the blowjobs, the flowers—” He gestured to an elaborate arrangement on a table by the seating area. “Don’t get me wrong, I love it, but if our history together has taught me anything, gestures like these always mean the other shoe is about to drop.”

Sheldon let out a quiet sigh. “Are you ever going to stop punishing me for the past? You told me no more games. I took that seriously.” 

Blake clenched his teeth. “You also said you weren’t going to leave. And then you ran off to New York like I didn’t matter.” 

“I didn’t run off,” Sheldon said, his voice firm. “I got the chance to produce my own play off Broadway. It was my dream come true. What was I supposed to do—turn it down? Pretend it didn’t matter just to stay safe with you?”

Blake scoffed, turning halfway toward the window. “No, of course not,” he said, his eyes stinging with tears. “But my heart still got broke, and I don’t think I can go through that again.”

Staring into his eyes, Sheldon pulled him close, brushing his lips against his. “The last thing I ever want to do is hurt you. You know that I love you. Give me the chance to show you.  It can be like it was last year…before New York. Remember?”

Eyes closed, Blake let out a slow breath, caught in the way Sheldon’s mouth brushed along his jaw, then grazing the sensitive spot on his neck just beneath his ear. A shiver ran through him.

“That night on the lookout at Point Dume?” Sheldon murmured, teasing. “No one was watching.”

A grin spread across Blake’s face. He felt his cock twitch, then instantly grow hard, throbbing and pressing against the thin fabric of his slacks.

“You’re trouble,” Blake growled, knotting his fingers into Sheldon’s hair and pulling him into a hungry kiss. 

“What about lunch?” Sheldon asked.

“Forget lunch,” Blake whispered, already tugging at his zipper.

But before things could go any further, the office door creaked open.

Zoanne’s head appeared around the corner, unbothered. “Conference room. Five minutes.”

Blake froze. In a blink, he grabbed the nearest file folder from his desk and used it to hide his arousal.

“Thanks,” he managed, his voice cracking.

Zoanne disappeared without comment, the door clicking shut behind her. They both burst into laughter.

“To be continued,” Sheldon said, smoothing down Blake’s collar with a wink.

* * *

The door slammed open forcefully, the words TRAUMA ROOM emblazoned across it in bold black letters. Iris stormed out of the audition room like she couldn’t wait to get out of there.

They were deep inside the ABC offices in Burbank where everything was sterile and corporate. It seemed to infuriate Iris even more. Her heels clicked hard against the polished hallway floor, eyes locked straight ahead like she was trying to outrun the embarrassment boiling in her chest.

Across the waiting area, Sadie jumped up from the vinyl bench, clutching her oversized slouchy bag. “How’d it go?” she called, already hurrying after her sister.

“Disaster,” Iris barked, not even slowing. “Complete apocalyptic disaster.”

Sadie trotted to catch up. “Wait, what happened?”

Outside, Iris shielded her eyes from the bright afternoon sun as she strode across the lot toward their car.

“They gave me sides I didn’t prep for,” she said, unlocking the car without breaking stride. “Totally different scene. The patient breakdown. I had maybe ten seconds to skim it.”

“Well, I’m sure you handled it like a pro,” Sadie said.

“I fumbled the monologue. Got stuck on that line about her brother flatlining, and the casting director just… stared at me. No reaction.”

Sadie leaned against the car, undeterred. “Or maybe she was impressed and trying not to show it. You always assume the worst.”

“This wasn’t just the worst,” Iris muttered. “This was like watching my own career implode in real time.”

Sadie tilted her head, studying her. “You’re being dramatic, honey bunny.”  She opened the passenger door and slid in, waiting as Iris stood there a second longer, staring out at the hills hazy in the distance.

“I wanted this one,” she said quietly. “Like, really wanted it.”

“I know,” Sadie said gently from inside the car. “But maybe this wasn’t the one that’s meant to hit. Maybe it’s the one that leads to the one that does.”

Iris sighed, pulled open the driver’s side door and climbed in. “You always know how to spin it,” she said.

Sadie shrugged. “I am your manager.”

* * *

“Congratulations!”

“We’re so happy for you both!”

“I’m one proud grandfather.”

Stormy barely heard the individual voices as they blended into a wave of happiness and excitement over their news. He kept Jane’s hand in his the entire time, knotting his fingers through hers as they moved from the dining room to the living room at the Blackthorne mansion. 

James and Alex were already deep into a story about something ridiculous that had happened in a birthing class when Alex was pregnant with Stormy. He wasn’t sure if it was true or just for effect, but he didn’t care. It made Jane laugh, and that was all that mattered. Lara and Jordan each offered their congratulations with that composed grace they’d mastered as step mother and step father, respectively, but there was genuine affection in their eyes. Even Jordan, who used to barely make eye contact with him, pulled him into a brief, awkward hug.

From across the room, Stormy spotted Miranda and Eddie standing off to the side, watching it all unfold as they canoodled happily. Miranda gave him a nod and a smile while Eddie winked and mouthed about time. Nearby, Tiger was slouched in a chair with her nose buried in her tablet.

“How do you feel about having a little brother or sister, R.J.?” James asked his grandson.

“Ask him when it actually happens,” Tiger called from across the room. 

As soon as she’d said it, the room grew quiet. 

“Tiger!” Miranda said, her voice scolding. 

Jane awkwardly pulled away from Stormy and began fidgeting with a bottle of club soda at the bar. Miranda made an attempt to go to her to console her, but Stormy stopped her with a shake of his head, prompting Eddie to pull her back.

“I’m excited,” R.J. finally said. “I kinda hope it’s a boy. It’d be nice to have a brother.”

“I have two brothers and they’re inseparable,” Lara chimed in. She had a gift for breaking awkward silences, a skill learned from five years of navigating Blackthorne drama.

“Jane, please let me take you shopping for maternity wear,” Alex chimed in warmly, linking her arm through hers and guiding her toward the seating area. “There’s this little boutique in Brentwood you’ll love. No muumuus, I promise.”

Stormy watched them go, trying not to let his nerves show. There was no reason to believe Jane couldn’t carry to term. No reason to doubt her strength, or their chance. It wasn’t like last time. And yet, he had to keep reminding her of that. And sometimes, reminding himself.

“Looks like you smoothed over any concerns about that Dominion Protocol leak,” Jordan said, appearing at his side with a drink in hand. “Reviews from last week’s premiere are strong. Opening weekend’s tracking to be huge. Nicely handled.”

“I knew he’d pull through,” James added, stepping up and giving Stormy a firm pat on the back. “Wasn’t worried for a second.”

You weren’t, huh? Stormy wanted to say.  

Jordan raised an eyebrow. “Still, it’s good timing. Success takes the edge off a lot of conversations, especially with the board.”

Stormy nodded, but his attention drifted back to Jane, now laughing with Alex on the sofa. 

“Looks like you’ve got more than one success story on your hands tonight,” James said, following his gaze.

Stormy smiled faintly. “Yeah.”

* * *

The remains of dinner lingered on the table—half-empty wine glasses, a few bites of roasted salmon, lemon rinds on the edge of a salad bowl. A soft breeze drifted in through the open sliding doors, carrying the scent of sagebrush from the canyon below.

Heather leaned back in her chair, cradling her wine between her fingers. Across from her, her mother dabbed the corner of her mouth with a linen napkin, then folded it precisely and set it beside her plate. 

“You’ve become quite the cook,” Suzanne said. “I wish I could take some of the credit for that.”

Heather gave a quick smile. “True. You were never the homemaker type.”

Suzanne twisted off her chair and walked through the opening into the living room, taking in her surroundings with a deep, cleansing breath. “I love what you’ve done with the house,” she said. “I think Lola would have approved.”  

Again, Heather smiled. The house, situated below the Hollywood sign in Beachwood Canyon, had belonged to her late grandmother, Lola Lamont. Lola was the widow of Jonas Lamont, the prolific film producer who started Lamont 3, which later became Sunset Studios. After a long battle with emphysema, she passed away at the Actors Retirement Village.

“I like that the house stayed in the family,” Heather told her, following her into the next room, wine glass in hand. 

“Oh, I do too,” Suzanne agreed. 

Suzanne Rogers still carried the kind of ethereal beauty that made people stop and look—a glow that hadn’t dimmed, even in her early sixties. Once a successful star in film and television, she reinvented herself as a self-help guru after a harrowing stint with a spiritual cult in Death Valley, an ordeal she referenced often but never fully explained. Her history with Heather’s father, Jordan, was just as tangled: they had married twice, and both endings were disasters—the first causing Heather great emotional turmoil.  

“Violet should be home any minute now,” Heather said as she followed her into the living room. “She had drama club, then grabbed pizza with a few of the kids.”

“She’s so gifted,” Suzanne said, smiling brightly as she picked up a framed picture of her granddaughter. “Even as a baby—those eyes! So expressive. I always said she was destined for the stage.”

Heather gave a small shrug. “I’m not sure she sees it that way. I think it’s more of a social thing than a serious pursuit. She’s really smart. Nose always in a book.”

Suzanne moved through the room gracefully, her fingertips drifting across picture frames, vases, the edge of a bookshelf—pausing briefly, then moving on as if memorizing everything. After a stretch of quiet, she spoke without looking at her. “How’s Brett?”

Heather opened her mouth to give the standard He’s fine—but the words wouldn’t come. Her thoughts went back to the other day at Rydell Productions in the elevator when it got stuck between floors. They had no idea how long they would be trapped, and their emotions were at their peak… 

One Week Ago

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.”

Their bodies pressed hard against the cool mirrored wall, breath fogging the glass. Brett’s hands roamed under her blouse. Heather’s back arched as she pulled him closer, fingers fumbling with the buttons of his shirt like she was racing against time.

“This is insane,” she whispered again, lips grazing his. But her hands were already slipping beneath his waistband, her breath shallow. 

Her blouse hung off one shoulder, Brett’s belt hit the floor with a metallic thud. She bit his lip which drew a sound from deep in his throat, and he responded by lifting her, her legs wrapping instinctively around his waist. The wall was cold against her back. 

Their rhythm turned primal as he entered her, a sharp gasp escaping her lips. Pleasure surged through her in quick, pulsing waves, building with each breathless thrust. Their movements were desperate and urgent.

When it was over, they collapsed in a tangled heap against the wall, skin flushed, breathing hard. 

Heather stared at the ceiling, chest rising and falling. “This never happened,” she said, voice hoarse.

Brett chuckled, eyes still closed. “Sure. Just like it never happened the last time.”

Today

Heather blinked away the memory, trying to put the thought out of her mind as she gave a simple answer. “He’s good.”

But the question lingered. Her mother didn’t push, but the implication wasn’t lost on Heather. Why ask about him now? After everything.

There was a time their relationship as mother and daughter was severely fractured as a result of their affair. It took years to forgive her. Longer to even be able to be in the same room as her. But she’d forgiven Brett all too quickly, which she feared was the result of their second marriage failing. She had still been resentful. That resentment, although slowly, had diminished over time.

The moment was saved when the front door creaked open and Violet stepped inside, the night air trailing in behind her.

“Hi, honey,” Heather said, softening. She glanced toward the sofa. “Look who’s here.”

“Hi, Grandma,” Violet said, walking across the room and offering Suzanne a gentle side hug.

“Hi, sweetheart,” Suzanne beamed, taking her in with pride. “I hear you were at drama club tonight. What’s the show? You know I started my career in the theater.”

“Almost, Maine,” Violet replied, setting her tote bag down by the chair.

Suzanne lit up. “Oh, I love that one. All those little love stories. Are you playing Ginette?”

Violet gave a small, proud nod, brushing her hair behind her ear. She was the spitting image of Heather—long golden hair, striking green eyes, and that same shy demeanor.

“Well,” Suzanne said, squeezing her hand, “if I’m back in town when it runs, I’d love to see it.”

Heather watched them from across the room. She never imagined they’d find their way to this kind of peace, not after everything. And yet here they were. Despite the scars, the silence, the years—they still needed each other.  And somehow, that was enough.

* * *

The next morning, Brett hit the gym before heading into the office, but the workout did nothing to burn off the tension. His coffee sat untouched on the desk, growing cold. Glancing through his email, his jaw clenched with each subject line.

The door cracked open as Sam peeked in, holding a cluttered notepad and a stack of pink message slips. “Got some messages for you.”

He waved her in.

“Okay, first press from Variety called twice. They’re sniffing around the tax credits for Night Harvest. I told them you’re out until after lunch.”

“Good.”

“Legal wants a signature on the new waivers for The Violent Hour cast. And—” she hesitated, flipping through the messages—“Gretchen called from Business Affairs. She said she needs clarification on Mickey Donovan’s override authority.”

Brett looked up. “Override authority?”

“Yeah, and—oh. Here.”  She handed him a sheet of printer paper. “Email from Production. It’s a staffing update for The Violent Hour.”

He unfolded it. At the top in bold type was STAFF CHANGE: WRITING DEPARTMENT – EFFECTIVE IMMEDIATELY.  Under it, the original screenwriter’s name was crossed out and a new name was typed in all caps: SALVATORE GENTILE. Under that: CONTRACT SUBMITTED BY: M. DONOVAN

Brett’s face drained. “Who the hell is Salvatore Gentile?” he said, his voice low.

Sam blinked. “No idea. He’s not WGA. The email came from some personal AOL account. Weird, right?”

Brett was already standing, paper clenched in his fist.  “Mickey did this without even looping me in?”

Sam shrugged helplessly. “Gretchen said he claimed executive override under his ‘emergency stakeholder clause’?”

“There’s no such clause,” Brett said, already halfway to the door.

“Do you want me to—?” Sam called after him.

“Clear the rest of my day,” Brett barked, not turning around. “And find out who the hell this Gentile guy is. Background, credits, criminal records. I want it all.”

Sam stood alone for a moment, blinking down at the pink slips, then muttered, “Definitely not just a stakeholder.”

* * *

When the call came from Blake confirming the deal was finalized, Miranda stood frozen in her office, the phone still pressed to her ear. For a long moment, she didn’t exhale. The contract was done. Siobahn’s future was sealed.

She finally released a breath she felt like she’d been holding for weeks, maybe longer. Without missing a beat, she dialed Siobahn.

“Can you meet me at the FlickFix offices?” she asked, voice steady.

Siobahn hesitated only slightly. “Is this about—?”

Miranda cut in, her tone determined. “It’s time.”

An hour later, they stepped out of the elevator together onto the top floor. Miranda was relieved she’d chosen her power outfit that morning—an ivory blazer over a silk champagne blouse with wide-leg black trousers and Louboutin heels. She glanced at her panther cuff bracelet, the emerald studded eyes catching the light as if winking back at her.

Zoanne was already seated at the head of the conference table, legs crossed, tablet in hand. Blake was standing by the espresso bar wearing a tailored charcoal suit and a faint, satisfied grin.

“You two look like a Vanity Fair cover,” he said, turning toward them.

“Let’s hope the deal reads that good,” Miranda replied with a smirk.

Zoanne rose and extended a hand to Siobahn. “It’s official,” she said. “Three limited series over the next five years. All prestige dramas, all built around you.”

Siobahn played it cool, smiling. “I get input on writers and directors?”

Zoanne nodded. “Writers, directors, production designers—FlickFix wants your fingerprint on every frame. You’ll be our creative anchor.”

“And the production company?” Miranda asked, voice calm but bubbling with excitement beneath.

Blake stepped forward. “Fully funded. First-look deal included. ‘Her Turn Productions’ will be your mark on the industry, Siobahn. Spotlighting women-centered stories, supporting female talent at every level.”

Miranda laughed for the first time in days and clasped Siobahn’s hand. “We did it.”

“You did it, Miranda,” Siobahn said.  “Thank you.”

“We’re betting on brilliance,” Zoanne said with a warm but measured grin. “Just don’t make us wait too long for the first slate.”

Miranda leaned back, the view of the hills behind her. “This is going to rattle a few people.”

* * *

Sheldon rode the elevator to the top floor of Titan Artist’s Group. When the doors opened, he strode toward his father’s office. After a quick knock, he pushed the door open and found his father to be gone but his assistant arranging scripts in a pile on his desk. 

“Hi, Sheldon,” said Travis, the handsome gym rat in his mid-thirties who’d landed the job six months ago, edging out a more qualified candidate. Sheldon had heard all about the scandal from a mutual acquaintance in New York. Still, he had to admit: the guy was cute—definite Sexiest Man Alive vibes—with neatly parted, gel-slicked hair, perfect stubble, tell-tale bulge in his tight pants.

“Is my dad around?” Sheldon asked.  

“No, he had a meeting in Century City,” Travis told him, coming around from behind the desk.  “I don’t expect him back for a couple of hours. Did you need something?” 

Sheldon looked around absently. “No, nothing that can’t wait, I guess.” 

Travis pushed his glasses up his nose—those stupid, slutty little glasses that somehow made him even more appealing—and said, “You want anything? Coffee? Sparkling water?”

“I’m good,” Sheldon told him, his eyes lingering on him for a few seconds too long. 

“How’s the new play coming?”

Sheldon was surprised he knew about it—then, with a faint smile, realized his father must actually talk about him. It was the opposite of what he’d always believed—that he only existed when standing directly in front of the man.

“It’s coming along,” he replied enigmatically.

“Can’t wait to see it,” Travis said, then pivoted, his gaze taking Sheldon in like a drink of water on a hot day.  “Man, I haven’t seen you since that Labor Day party. We should hang sometime.”

Sheldon didn’t need clarification; the look on Travis’s face spelled it out clearly. “Actually, I’m seeing someone. Blake Distefano.”

Travis didn’t flinch. He winked, his voice lowering flirtatiously. “That could be fun too.”

Momentarily disarmed, Sheldon let out a short laugh and glanced around for an exit. “Right. Well, I should get going. Tell my dad I’ll call him later.”

Travis followed him to the door. “Sure. Hey, speaking of Blake. How’s that big FlickFix deal with Siobahn Saxton going? I heard it’s a monster.”

“I think they’re wrapping it up today,” Sheldon replied. “And you’re right, from what Blake says, it’s huge. Gonna make her and her agent a killing.”

Travis leaned against the doorframe, folding his arms. “Good. Tell him I said congrats. And if you two ever get bored—” he raised an eyebrow, “—you know where to find me.”

Sheldon didn’t respond this time. He just nodded once before turning and walking away, feeling Travis’s gaze linger like heat on the back of his neck.

* * *

Iris sat cross-legged on the couch in a vintage Kiss tee and yoga pants, absently flipping through a stack of magazines. Sadie lounged nearby in a rattan chair, one eye on her crystals charging by the window, the other on her sister.

When Iris’s phone rang, she grabbed it without looking. “Heather,” she said, sitting up straighter. “Hey.”

On the other end, Heather’s voice was triumphant. “You got it.”

Iris froze. “Wait—what?”

“You got the part, Iris,” Heather said. “Trauma Room. And they liked you so much they’re expanding it to two episodes. You shoot next week.”

There was a moment of stunned silence, and then Iris leapt to her feet. “Oh my god. Oh my god! Are you serious?”

“Dead serious,” Heather laughed. “They said your audition was electric. The director signed off this morning. You’re about to be scrubbed in, Dr. Madison.”

Iris covered her mouth with one hand, eyes wide. “Heather… thank you. Thank you so much. You fought for me.”

“You earned it,” Heather said simply. “Now go celebrate.”

Iris ended the call and stood there for half a second, blinking—and then turned to Sadie with a wide-eyed smile. “I got it.”

Sadie shot to her feet, arms already raised. “You got it?!”

“I got it!”

They both screamed, jumping up and down barefoot on the rug like they were kids again. Sadie threw her arms around Iris, spinning her in a messy hug. Laughter bounced off the walls.

“I knew it!” Sadie cried. “I knew it! I knew you were being too hard on yourself after that audition! You never give yourself a break. I’ve told you all along that the universe has your back, sister dear.”

Iris pulled back, breathless, beaming. “We’re in. We’re actually in. I can’t wait to call Mommy and tell her the news.”

Sadie placed her hands on Iris’s cheeks. “This is it. This is your moment. And we’re gonna make sure the whole damn world sees it.”

They collapsed onto the couch in a tangle of joy, laughter still echoing through the small poolhouse.

* * *

The elevator doors opened to reveal a wall of windows overlooking the marina where sailboats bobbed lazily in their slips. Brett strode out of the elevator with determination, his footsteps tapping on the marble floor.

At the end of the corridor, he saw the two men who had accompanied Mickey to the golf course the day before. He proceeded anyway, though quickly remembered they had been armed that day, and probably were today. 

As he drew near, Dennis raised a hand, blocking Brett’s path. “The boss is busy.”

“I don’t care. I need to see him.”

Bruno made a move, but Brett continued forward with enough force and intent that both men hesitated. After a brief shuffle, Brett shoved the doors open and entered the office where Mickey sat behind a mahogany desk.

“Who the hell do you think you are?” Brett demanded.

“Good day to you too, Mr. Armstrong.”

Brett ignored the pleasantries, his fists clenched at his sides. “You fired my screenwriter on The Violent Hour without even telling me. Just yanked him off and shoved in one of your flunkies. Again, who the hell do you think you are?”

Mickey finally looked up with an amused smile.  “I think I’m the guy who’s keeping Rydell Productions from collapsing, and saving you the wrath of your ex-father-in-law.  You needed money. I gave it to you. Now I need something back. That’s how deals work, Brett. Give and take.”

“You said you’d be silent equity.”

“I said I’d be silent,” Mickey said, rising slowly, “until I had something to say.”

Brett shook his head angrily. “You didn’t even consult me—”

“I don’t need to consult you,” Mickey interrupted as he stepped around the desk. “I own forty percent of Rydell’s operating cash flow. If I want to swap a screenwriter, I don’t have to ask your permission.”

Brett stared at him, breathing hard. “You crossed a line.”

“No,” Mickey said softly. “You crossed it. Back in 2017. Remember?”

Brett blinked, dreading where the conversation was going.

Mickey kept his tone even and conversational. “That NDA Jordan Rydell buried for you? I dug up the only copy.  Thinking of having it framed on my wall.” He grinned. “Leave it to Brett Armstrong to have his own Me-Too scandal. That was some serious hush money. You remember her name, don’t you?”

Brett’s voice was shaky. “That has nothing to do with this.”

“It has everything to do with this,” Mickey said. “Because right now, the only thing keeping that little detail out of Variety is me. And the only thing I want in return is my guy on your payroll and a fake invoice. It’s not like I’m asking you to bury a body. I’m asking you to pay Carrick Bay Consulting twenty-five grand a week and let my guy rewrite three scenes. Seems like a bargain.”

“Carrick Bay Consulting? What is that?” 

“Let’s say it’s a….subsidiary.”

Brett looked away, jaw clenched, rage boiling just under the surface, but helpless.  “A front company,” he said with a shake of his head. “If this is just about money laundering, why does this Salvatore need to write anything? Why not leave your guy’s name on the title page and let the script stand as is?”

Mickey chuckled softly.  “Because I’ve been around the block, Brett. If I’m billing you twenty-five grand a week for creative consulting, then my guy better have notes, drafts, file versions, meetings, Zooms, all of it.  Paper trails matter. What I’m telling you is: let the man rewrite his three scenes. Let him waste everyone’s time with notes no one reads. Let the actors grumble about new dialogue.  And you… you keep your head down and act like none of this ever happened.”

Mickey moved back to his desk, picked up his espresso, and raised it in a mock toast. “To your continued success, Mr. Armstrong.”

Brett stood frozen, his head throbbing in frustration. But there was nothing he could do. He had no leverage to push back with.

* * *

The setting sun spilled through the open sliding doors of Blake’s Ocean Avenue living room.  Waves rolled in gently beyond the deck as he stood near the window, phone pressed to his ear, his lips curled into a smile.

“Iris, that’s amazing. Seriously, I’m so happy for you.”

Her voice crackled through the line—excited, breathless, like she hadn’t sat down since she got the call from Heather.

“I mean it,” Blake said. “You’ve worked for this. You deserve it.”

He crossed to the kitchen, grabbing a bottle of sparkling water from the fridge. “We’ll celebrate later, okay?”

He ended the call just as the front door opened and Sheldon stepped in, keys jangling, sun-kissed and a little windblown. His gym bag hit the floor. He looked at Blake with a smile that was equal parts affection and hesitation.

Blake met him halfway, wrapping an arm around his waist. They kissed—slow, familiar. “Iris got the part,” he said.

“That’s huge,” Sheldon replied. “We should celebrate. I’d like to meet this girl. She sounds cool.” 

“She’s super cool,” Blake said. “What’d you do today?”

“Did some writing. Went to the gym. Went to my dad’s office to check in but he wasn’t there. Talked to Travis a bit.” 

“Travis,” Blake said with a chuckle. He’d met him once or twice. He knew the type: polished, annoyingly good looking, flirtatious in a way that felt both casual and calculated. Gay, but not necessarily out. Not closeted either, but just hovering in that space where everything was implied and never actually confirmed.

Sheldon chuckled. “Actually, he brought something up.” A beat. “He said we should… like… have a threesome.”

Silence stretched between them.

Blake pulled back. “What?”

Sheldon watched him carefully. “I’m not saying we should. I just wanted to be honest. He was flirting. Said he thought it’d be fun. I told him I was seeing someone. I told him I was with you.”

Blake’s jaw clenched. “Right. So you were just talking and he happened to mention that he wanted to have sex with you? Yeah, perfectly normal.”

“No,” Sheldon said quickly. “It wasn’t like that. I just thought I should tell you about it before it turned into some weird unspoken thing.”

Blake stepped away, rubbing the back of his neck. His mood had shifted sharply. “I don’t want to share you, Sheldon.”

“I wasn’t asking you to—”

“But you brought it up.”

Sheldon opened his mouth, then closed it.

Blake turned toward the window, trying to ignore the sharp knot forming in his stomach. “Yesterday you said you loved me and that you wanted to make this work. Said no more games. Today you’re suggesting we have a threesome. Well to me, that’s playing games. And I don’t want to do it. I won’t. This is exactly where we went wrong last time, and the time before…”

“Blake—” 

“I think you should go,” Blake said, purposely avoiding looking him in the eyes. 

Sheldon nodded, grabbed his gym bag and left through the front door.  Blake stayed where he was, unmoving. After a moment, he reached up and pinched the bridge of his nose, willing the sting in his eyes to go away. Then he shook his head in quiet disbelief, despair washing over him.

* * *

Miranda stood at the foot of Tiger’s bed, arms crossed, her expression one of fury. “Ok, now that I have a second to breathe, what was that crap last night at your grandfather’s house?” 

Tiger, curled up in a pile of velvet throw pillows, removed her Airpods and rolled her eyes. “What crap would that be?”

“You know damn well. That remark about your Uncle Stormy and Aunt Jane’s baby—do you even realize how hurtful that was?”

“I was just saying what everyone else was probably thinking,” Tiger said.

Miranda exhaled angrily. “Let me tell you something, you little—”

Before she could finish, Mei Lin appeared in the doorway, hands clasped. “Apologies, Ms. Blackthorne,” she said gently. “You have a visitor downstairs. Ms. Saxton.”

Miranda blinked, the edge softening from her face. “Did she say what it’s about?”

“No. Just that it’s important.”

Miranda gave a final look to Tiger. “We aren’t done here,” she said, then turned and exited the room, her heels clicking briskly against the floor as she descended the staircase.  

When she reached the foyer, Siobahn was standing admiring an oil painting of Miranda that hung high above, her expression one that told Miranda this wasn’t a social call.

“Siobahn, if you think we have enough leverage to squeeze anything else into your FlickFix contract,” Miranda said dryly, “you might be overestimating my negotiating skills.”

“No,” Siobahn replied, a hint of a smile on her lips. “I got everything I wanted, but I needed to tell you something. In person.”

Miranda’s posture shifted. “What’s going on?”

“I just had a meeting with Zoanne,” Siobahn said. “She told me—off the record, of course—that I should start thinking about switching representation. That what you’re doing for me might not be sustainable long-term.”

Miranda’s face went cold.

“She’s playing both sides, Miranda,” Siobahn continued. “And not for her own amusement. Vaughan’s behind it. I don’t know what he’s promising her, but it’s clear she’s helping him make his move.”

Miranda folded her arms. Naturally. She’d been too confident after their success earlier that day. The shoe was about to drop. 

“And what did you say?” she asked.  

Siobahn leveled her gaze at her. “I’m not going anywhere,” she said. “You’ve shown up. You’ve fought for me when it counted. That matters.”

Miranda gave her a quiet nod, grateful but focused.

“I just thought you should know,” Siobahn added. “Watch your back. He’s not done yet.”

Miranda’s eyes narrowed slightly, a fire starting to flicker beneath her calm. “Neither am I.”