Last time on L.A. Connections…

Jane shared the news that she and Stormy are expecting, while Brett uncovered that Mickey was laundering money through Rydell Productions. Mickey dropped another bombshell—he’s holding the NDA from Brett’s buried “Me Too” scandal, leaving Brett powerless to fight back. Over at Vaughan’s camp, his assistant Travis stirred chaos by suggesting a threesome with Sheldon and Blake; when Sheldon told Blake, Blake overreacted and threw him out. Iris thought she tanked her Trauma Room audition until Heather delivered the good news—she got the part—sending Iris soaring. Heather privately relived her steamy elevator encounter with Brett. Meanwhile, Miranda sealed Siobahn’s deal with FlickFix, solidifying her as a client, but celebration turned to concern when Siobahn revealed that Vaughan tried using Zoanne to lure her away from M.B.A.

* * *

Brett slept fitfully all night.  He’d tossed and turned for hours, sheets tangled around his legs, every creak of the house creating paranoia. His mind refused to turn off. Mickey’s voice echoed in the dark, replaying the blackmail like a looping tape: “You remember her name, don’t you?”

When he did sleep, it came with relentless dreams where cameras flashed in his face and news headlines plastered his name beside hers on every page. By the time dawn finally broke, he stepped out onto the balcony jutting off his bedroom.  He gazed out at the ocean where a haze hung over the water, dark and foreboding. 

It wasn’t as if he did anything to intentionally hurt her. They had a flirtatious relationship. He and Heather were newly divorced, Abby was single, and they enjoyed the back and forth. At least he thought she did. But then came the letter—a detailed complaint about inappropriate sexual behavior in the workplace. Jordan buried it, paid her off, and it went away quietly. But it could have gone a lot differently. 

After throwing on a pair of gym shorts and heading downstairs, he brewed a cup of coffee on his Jura and sat down at the kitchen island with his laptop in front of him. There, he did something he should have done the first day Mickey barged into his office.  

Opening a Google search page, he typed out a few phrases that he hoped would yield some results.  

“Mickey Donovan Los Angeles” 

“Michael Donovan L.A.”

“Carrick Bay Consulting LLC WHOIS”

Nothing useful came up. The man was a ghost. He clicked through dozens of articles, press releases and real estate filings. Most were either sanitized fluff or deeply vague. Until he found it…

“Modern Tycoon: Power Players 2025”. A recent cover story from Stratus West, a trendy lifestyle magazine for tech bros and financial advisors. The article was meant to paint Mickey as a mysterious, old-school investor with a “hands-on approach” and “underground credibility.” Brett skimmed past the staged photos of Mickey in dark suits and sunglasses. Then he saw it.

“Unlike many of L.A.’s elite who favor Beverly Hills fortresses or Malibu compounds, Donovan prefers the water. His primary residence is a restored 1970s superyacht, docked in a private slip in Marina del Rey. ‘I like to keep things fluid,’ Donovan says. ‘The city changes. I move with it.’”

Brett sat back in the stool. A yacht. Of course he lived on a goddamn yacht—probably a few feet from his office at the marina. The kind of rich, paranoid move only a man with something to hide would pull.

He reread the paragraph twice. There were no photos of the boat, no mention of its name. But now he had a location.

He clicked open a new tab and started searching: Marina del Rey private slips. Luxury yacht registry. Marina Del Rey + Donovan.

Somewhere in those docks was the one place Mickey wasn’t expecting anyone to look, and on it could be that NDA.

* * *

As soon as the sun came up, Miranda took Sunset to Holmby Hills and pulled her black SUV up to the foot of Zoanne Voss’s long, manicured driveway. A wrought-iron gate stood between her and the house, a weathered-looking speaker box mounted to a leaning metal pole. She pressed the call button.

A garbled screech of static came from the box, followed by a series of electronic hiccups. Finally, a voice came through, so distorted it was almost unintelligible. “…nnah…here…who—?”

Miranda leaned out her window. “Zoanne! It’s Miranda!”

More static. “Manda? Wha—no—buzz buzz—not…”

“I said it’s Miranda! Open the gate!”

“…ate? Who…chicken crate?”

Miranda sighed through gritted teeth. “Just let me in!”

She was about to roll up the window and call her on her cell when the iron gate began to creak open, slow and uneven.

She guided the SUV up the winding driveway.  Halfway there, two dobermans came charging from the side yard. They barked ferociously, keeping pace beside the SUV like a police escort. 

At the top of the hill, Zoanne’s Spanish-style estate came into full view. Zoanne stood in the doorway dressed in a silk pantsuit with one hand clutching a phone.

Miranda stepped out, her heels clicking across the stone pavers. “I was just about to give up,” she called to her.

Zoanne arched an eyebrow. “And yet here you are.”

Miranda met her gaze without blinking, the dogs continuing to circle the yard. “Because we need to talk. Now.”

“It’s not even eight.”

Miranda stepped past her into the foyer. “Then we’ll make this quick.”

Once inside, Miranda turned, her hands planted firmly on her hips.

“Well, don’t keep me in suspense,” Zoanne said, folding her arms. “And if this is about Siobahn’s contract, let me save you the trouble—it’s not getting any sweeter. That deal is her golden ticket.”

“It is about Siobhan,” Miranda replied, her gaze unwavering. “But not the contract. I know you approached her and tried to convince her to leave my agency. After I negotiated that so-called golden ticket. So I’ll ask once: Why?”

Zoanne blinked, her composure still icy. “She’s one of the biggest stars around today, and she’s only going to get bigger. Vaughan offered me something I couldn’t say no to.”

“And what would that be? My head on a platter?”

“Jesus, you’re so full of yourself, Miranda. Not everything is about you.”  

Miranda sighed.  “Fine, then what?”

“Elise Stoner,” Zoanne said plainly.

Miranda gave a small laugh. “Elise Stoner?” she said. “Vaughan said he could get you Elise Stoner? There is no way she would do a FlickFix series. It’s completely off brand for her. She’s all about prestige films—something that’s going to get her noticed by the academy.”

“We have a very attractive project in mind for her,” Zoanne said. “And Vaughan swears if anyone can get her to say yes, it’s him.”

Miranda’s eyes darkened. “So instead of coming to me—Elise’s actual agent—you’d rather align yourself with him? Because god knows the men in this town need more help monopolizing the industry.”

Zoanne didn’t answer.

“What happened to sisterhood?” Miranda pressed. “To women supporting women? You were all in agreement when it came to Siobahn’s contract. But when it really counts, you side with the man trying to dismantle everything I’ve built? Tell me, was all that talk just for show?”

“If sisterhood and women helping each other reach greatness is what matters to Siobahn, great. If it matters to you, also great. But don’t stand there and paint me as some villain because it doesn’t happen to matter to me.”

Miranda looked at her in disappointment.

“I do what’s right for me—for my life, my goals,” Zoanne continued. “That’s not betrayal. That’s survival. And if that doesn’t fit into your perfect idea of what a woman should be, that’s your problem. Not mine. So don’t take it out on me just because I’m not playing by your rules.”

“All I care about is how we treat each other when there’s nothing to gain,” Miranda told her.  “You’re not wrong for doing what’s right for you. But don’t pretend it didn’t come at someone else’s expense. And don’t act surprised when people stop trusting you because of it.”

“Count yourself lucky for one thing, Miranda,” Zoanne said. “Siobahn and Elise were supposed to be a package deal. Siobah didn’t bite. She’s staying with you. Is losing one client really the end of the world?”

Miranda took a step back toward the door. One hand on the handle, she turned back with a shake of her head.  “You said you were into survival. Well,  Zoanne, this town doesn’t need more survivors. It needs people willing to do right even when it’s inconvenient. I thought you were one of them. I guess I was wrong.”

With that, she turned and walked out, the Dobermans trailing her, forever loyal. Whatever that meant. 

* * *

Riley stood at the mirror over the bathroom sink, smoothing product through his hair, his new blazer—off the rack but a perfect fit—hanging on the back of a chair. Kelly had called the commercial the bridge to better things. A placeholder, but the kind of thing that got you exposure.

Natalie sat on the edge of the bed, sipping coffee while watching him with a gleeful smile. “You look really good,” she said.

Riley smirked at her in the mirror. “Yeah? Good enough to sell probiotic soda to middle America?”

“Absolutely,” she said with a smile. 

Steve shuffled in from the living room—shirtless and in boxers, a blanket wrapped around his shoulders like a cape. He scratched the back of his head and yawned as he passed through the hallway.

“The man’s making it happen,” he said, nodding toward Riley. “Commercial today. TV pilot tomorrow. Oscar next year.”

Riley laughed under his breath. “Let’s not get ahead of ourselves. It’s a twenty-second spot.”

“Still counts,” Steve said, reaching for the coffee pot. “You’re doing it, man.”

Natalie stood and adjusted the collar of Riley’s shirt as he slipped it on, brushing her fingers down the fabric. “I’m proud of you,” she said softly.

Riley met her eyes and pressed his lips against hers.

Steve took a long sip of coffee.  “Hey,” he said casually, “Friday night’s gonna be short-staffed. Think you can pick up a shift at the club?”

Riley didn’t look up from adjusting his collar. “Yeah, probably not, man. Kelly wants me to go to some charity gala.  Save the Coastline or something.”

“You didn’t tell me about that,” Natalie said, a hint of disappointment in her voice. “Do I get to go with you?  I’m interested in saving the coastline.”

Riley winced.  “Oooh, sorry, hon, I think the guest list is locked. You probably wouldn’t have fun anyway.  Kelly said it’s not really about saving anything. It’s about being photographed at table five with the casting guy at Paramount.”  

He didn’t notice Natalie look away, dejected, or Steve’s quick interceptance.

“Don’t worry, Nat,” Steve said. “If it’s a slow night, I’ll come home early and we’ll do something.”

“Yeah,” Riley said, a little too easily. “Plus, not like I’m gonna be working that dead-end job forever.”

Steve froze for a beat, then gave a smile. “Right,” he said. “Forgot you were too good for the rest of us now.”

Riley turned, hands raised halfway in defense. “That’s not what I meant.”

“Sure it isn’t.”

Natalie shifted uncomfortably, quietly folding Steve’s blanket.

Riley tried again. “Come on, Steve. I’ve been at this for years. I’m finally getting a break.”

Steve nodded, tapping his fingers against the mug. “Yeah. I guess my big break was getting that shift supervisor job. Guess that makes me the punchline.”

“Steve—”

“It’s fine, man,” Steve said, already walking away. “I’ll figure it out.”

The silence that followed was uncomfortable. Riley glanced at Natalie, who avoided his eyes and busied herself with the coffee maker. He slipped on his blazer, suddenly less sure of how it fit. 

* * *

The morning sun spilled across the patio at Hugo’s in West Hollywood as Jane stirred oat milk into her coffee. She gazed across the table at Amelia Strong, who sat with her hands folded tightly in her lap, as if unsure what to do with them.

Amelia was twenty-two, with delicate features and skin so luminous it didn’t need lighting. She wasn’t famous yet, but Jane had plans. The kind that required discipline, patience, and just the right kind of exposure.

“So,” Jane began, flipping through the mental calendar she always carried in her head, “we’ve got a few things to consider. The swimwear shoot with Lucas Briggs next week—actually I think he just goes by Briggs, and he’s asked specifically for new faces. There’s also a Go-See for that skincare brand—La Lueur—they want someone ‘European-looking’.”

Amelia gave a nervous smile. “I don’t know if I’m European-looking.”

Jane waved it off. “You’re young and beautiful. That’s the only currency that matters.”

The girl nodded, still uncertain, as she reached for her cold brew. The sleeve of her denim jacket pulled back slightly and revealed several thin, red cuts on her forearm. They weren’t deep, but unmistakable.

Jane’s voice softened. “Amelia.”

The girl froze. “What?”

Jane set her cup down. “Your arm.”

Amelia glanced down, then quickly tugged the sleeve down again. “Oh—yeah. Stupid old razor. I nicked myself in the shower yesterday.”

Jane nodded, sipping her coffee. “You really should toss those things after a few uses.”

Amelia gave a quiet laugh, relieved. “Yeah. I will.”

Jane moved on, already cataloging names and dates in her head again. But before she could circle back to the La Lueur casting, a shadow slid over their table.

“Morning,” came a voice from above.

Jane looked up and smiled when she saw Stormy standing there. He slid his sunglasses up onto his head and smiled as he leaned down to kiss her on the cheek.

“Hi,” she said, surprised. “What are you doing here?”

“Meeting a director,” he said. “I got us a table inside, but I saw you from the street and figured I’d say hello.” He looked past her, noticing Amelia for the first time. “Hope I’m not interrupting.”

“Not at all,” Jane said, shifting in her chair. “This is Amelia Strong—she’s a model. Amelia, —my husband, Stormy.”

Amelia gave a quick smile. “Hi.”

“Hi,” Stormy said, slipping his hands into his pockets. “You look familiar. Were you at that Photek launch at the W last month?”

Amelia’s cheeks flushed. “I… no, I wish.”

Jane stepped in quickly. “She’s new, but not for long. We’ve got a few strong things lined up.”

Stormy nodded, his gaze lingering on Jane. “I’ve gotta run. I’ll see you tonight.”

“Okay.”

He leaned in and kissed her again. “I love you,” he said quietly, then placed a hand on her belly. “You too, little one.”  

After he’d gone, Amelia looked at Jane with wide eyes. “You’re pregnant? I couldn’t even tell.” 

Jane nodded happily. “It’s very early,” she said.  “But we’re really happy.”   

“Congratulations,” Amelia said with a soft smile.   

“Thanks,” Jane said.  

“Is it… scary? Knowing everything’s about to change?”

Jane glanced down, resting her hand briefly over her stomach. “A little. But mostly it just makes everything feel more real. More grounded.”

Amelia nodded slowly, a faraway look in her eyes.

Jane tilted her head. “You okay?”

Amelia looked up, startled. “Yeah. Just… I don’t know. You seem so sure of things. Like you’ve got it all figured out.”

Jane smiled gently. “Trust me, no one does. You just learn to steer the wheel without seeing the whole road.”

A moment of quiet followed, and then Jane reached across the table and tapped the folder she’d brought. “Now. Let’s talk about Briggs and how you’re going to make him fall in love with that bone structure of yours.”

* * *

The ocean breeze rustled the palms as Iris stepped up to the front door and knocked—twice, then again, more firmly. After a long silence, it finally opened.

Blake stood in sweatpants and a loose tank top, hair tousled, eyes tired like he’d just woken up. “Iris?” he said, rubbing his eyes.

She crossed her arms, not smiling. “Why haven’t you been returning my texts? You said we were going to go out and celebrate me nailing my audition. What happened?”

He leaned against the doorframe with a sigh. “I’m sorry. I’ve just been in a crap mood. Sheldon and I are off again. And this time I think it’s for real.”

Her expression softened. “Blake, I’m sorry.”

He shrugged, looking past her at the beach like he didn’t want to talk about it. “It’s fine. Happens every six months like daylight savings.”

Iris hesitated, then gave a gentle nudge. “Come out with me tonight. Just drinks. Get your mind off it.”

He looked at her for a beat, then he nodded and gave her a slight smile. “Yeah,” he said quietly. “Okay.”

* * *

Brett stood by the window, a Starbucks cup in hand, staring blankly at the traffic crawling along Wilshire. Behind him, Eddie tapped at the keyboard, pausing every few strokes to glance up at his dual monitors.

“Donovan,” Brett repeated. “D-O-N-O—”

“I know who he is,” Eddie said flatly, not looking up. “What I don’t know is how you got tangled up with him.”

“I just need to find him.”

“Uh-huh.” Eddie kept typing. “You think he’s living on a boat?”

“A yacht. Can you find out where he docks it?”

“I’ll try.” Eddie’s fingers moved fast, pulling up slip registries and utility logs. One screen filled with satellite imagery of Marina del Rey; the other, a list of slip assignments.

“Anything?” Brett asked.

Eddie shook his head. “Nothing under Mickey Donovan.” He leaned in. “Could it be listed under a different name?”

Brett took a step closer. “Try Carrick Bay Consulting.”

Eddie scrolled, paused, then tapped the screen. “There. Slip 407. Registered to Carrick Bay Consulting.” He zoomed in on the satellite image—a sleek white yacht, easily 130 feet, docked at the far edge of the marina. “That’s your guy.”

Brett stared at the screen, silent.

“You want me to do anything else?” Eddie asked.

“Yeah,” Brett said. “Suppose I wanted to know when he’s not there. Any way to figure that out?”

Eddie narrowed his eyes. “What exactly are you planning?”

“Just answer the question.”

Eddie leaned back in his chair, letting out a slow breath. “Plenty of ways. I could tail him, but I don’t love that idea knowing his reputation.”  He thought for a beat. “I do know a guy who works nights at the marina. Logs arrivals, departures, fuel use.”

“Can you trust him?”

Eddie studied Brett’s face which was desperate and determined. “Yeah,” he said. “I can trust him.”

“I appreciate the help, Eddie,” he said, patting him on the shoulder before turning and walking out.

It was a longshot, but he had to get on that boat and find that NDA. It was the only way out of the mess he’d gotten himself into.

* * *

Heather had just returned from a breakfast meeting and was flipping through call sheets when the elevator of the Miranda Blackthorne Agency opened. Sadie floated in, all smiles, the scent of patchouli trailing behind her.  An armful of crystal bracelets jingled as she walked, and a small quartz pendulum hung from a string around her neck.

“Heather,” she sing-songed, removing her sunglasses. “The Universe told me today was a good day for synchronicity.”

Heather glanced up from her desk. “Sadie. What a surprise.”

Sadie dropped into the chair across from her, crossing her legs with a flourish and placing a rose quartz crystal on the edge of Heather’s desk. “For clarity,” she said, tapping it gently. “There’s a lot of chatter in your aura today.”

Heather offered an amused smile. “I’ll take that under advisement.”

Sadie beamed. “So! Iris’s first network credit. Amazing, right? Mercury may be retrograde, but we are ascending.”

“She’s off to a strong start,” Heather replied. “She nailed that Trauma Room audition.”

Sadie leaned forward, her bracelets softly clinking. “Which brings me to her next project. I read in The Hollywood Reporter that your step-mother is doing a new film—Glass Gardens. Her big comeback. I want Iris for the supporting role—the daughter.”

Heather raised an eyebrow. “That character’s in her mid-thirties. Divorced, three kids, out of rehab.”

“But that’s just surface stuff,” Sadie waved it off. “I mean, if you really feel the part, does age even matter? Iris and I did a card pull this morning and got The Moon and The Chariot. That’s divine alignment for emotional range and forward motion. She’s ready.”

Heather’s tone stayed professional. “It’s not about whether she can pull off the role.  I have every confidence in Iris. It’s about making the right move. A role like that, miscast, can stall her momentum.”

Sadie tilted her head. “Or evolve it.”

Heather shook her head gently. “She needs to stay visible and believable. Right now, that means young, dynamic roles.”

Sadie blinked, then gave a toothy grin. “Well. Maybe I’ll just reach out to casting myself. No pressure—just opening the channel. The Universe works in mysterious ways.”

Heather’s voice was calm but firm. “If it doesn’t come through me, it doesn’t come through the agency. We need to stay on the same page, Sadie.”

Sadie stood, smoothing her caftan with a dramatic sigh. “I hear you. I do. I just think the industry doesn’t always see Iris for what she really is. She’s not some CW ingénue. She’s an old soul.”

She reached into her bag and pulled out a small pouch. “I’m leaving you some grounding herbs. Put them under your pillow. Might help with the resistance.”

“Thanks,” Heather said dryly. “I’ll let you know if I feel a shift.”

Sadie smiled brightly. “Toodles,” she said, then swept back to the elevator.

Heather stared at the pouch on her desk, then opened a drawer and dropped it inside.

* * *

Stormy had just about given up on his meeting with the director as he sat, drumming his fingers on the table at Hugo’s. He glanced at his Rolex and sighed. Over half an hour late. Not a good first impression.  He motioned to the waitress for his check when a shadow fell over him.  

“Hello Stormy,” said a voice from above. 

Looking up, Stormy’s gaze landed on the last person he expected to see. “Keaton.”

“Been a while,” Keaton said and eased into the chair across from him.  

Stormy glanced around in confusion. “Yeah, I wasn’t sure you were still in town.”

“I’ve been keeping busy,” Keaton replied.  “Work mostly.”  

Keaton Hartley was forty-six, tall and slightly awkward, with the charm of someone who never outgrew his indie-band phase. His glasses were a little too thick, like Rivers Cuomo if Rivers had sprouted seven inches and started directing offbeat indie films. His clothes were always somewhat rumpled, his posture not quite confident, but his eyes were sharp and focused.

“Anything I would have heard of?” Stormy asked. 

Keaton shook his head slowly. “Doubt it.”   

Stormy started to back away. “Listen, I’m actually meeting someone, so if you don’t mind—”

“It’s me,” Keaton said with a quirky smile.

Stormy frowned, confused. “No, I’m meeting a director. Roland Glass—some up-and-comer…”  He trailed off, then blinked, realizing. “Roland Glass?” A dry chuckle escaped him. “Jesus. That’s not even subtle.”

“Sorry, I didn’t think you’d agree to meet if you knew it was me,” Keaton confessed. 

Shrugging, Stormy gave a slight wave to someone passing by, then turned back to Keaton. “Probably a safe assumption. But since you’re already here, what’s this about?”

“A project I think you’ll want to be in on,” Keaton said, eyes lighting up. 

Stormy gave a skeptical laugh. “We’ve been down this road before.”

“You mean the Angel Assassin reboot?” Keaton grinned. “Come on, that was forever ago.”

“It was five years ago,” Stormy snapped. “So basically not long enough for me to forget what a disaster it turned into. We had meetings, rewrites, a whole promo strategy—and where did it end up?  A shitty bare-bones DVD release I saw at a gas station off the 5. Not even Blu-ray. A DVD, Keaton.”

Keaton held up both hands. “I’ll own that. But this is different.”

Stormy arched his eyebrows. “They always are.”

Keaton leaned in slightly. “It’s about Nathan.”

Stormy sat motionless.

“Your uncle. Nathan Blackthorne.”

“Yes, I’m familiar with him,” Stormy told him, then ran a hand over his face.  “Christ, you and your fucking obsession with Nathan. What gives?”

“I just think he has an incredible story,” Keaton said. “And I think we should be the ones to tell it. The Kansas farm boy who came to Hollywood, became Jonas Lamont’s golden child, then turned director. The self-imposed Paris exile, the press scandals, his illegitimate daughter’s murder, the way he died a hero—he lived like five different lives in one.”

“You’re skipping the part where he was a pedophile,” Stormy shot back. “Hell, why stop there? Maybe next we do a miniseries about Jeffrey Epstein.”

Keaton exhaled. “I’m not suggesting we glorify him. I’m saying we tell the truth. The whole thing. The rise, the fall, the pseudo-redemption. Doesn’t make the story less compelling.”

Stormy looked away for a beat, his mind racing. 

“Just because it’s messy doesn’t mean it’s not worth telling,” Keaton added softly.

Stormy turned back to him. “Who would write it?”

Keaton swooped into a canvas messenger bag and produced a thick script—worn at the corners, rubber-banded together, the title page faintly smudged from too much handling. He set it on the table between them. The cover read simply: AMERICAN STAR.

“You wrote this?” Stormy asked.

“I did,” Keaton said, then gave a self-deprecating shrug. “I mean, I’m not a writer, but I think it’s a solid draft. Could definitely use a professional to clean it up.” 

Stormy eyeballed him steadily.  “And you’d direct, I assume?” 

“Yes.”

His gaze fixated on the script, Stormy shook his head slowly.  “I don’t know…”

“Just read it,” Keaton said.  “That’s all I ask.  If you still decide you’re not interested, I’ll drop it.”

With a sigh of resignation, Stormy brought the script closer.  “Okay. I’ll read it.  But I’m not promising anything.”  

“Deal,” Keaton said, shifting in his seat. “So, how’s Kelly?”

Stormy’s eyes narrowed. “I was wondering when that would come up. She’s fine. Better since she kicked you to the curb.”  He stood, gripping the script at his side. “Mom hasn’t mentioned you lately.  No longer vying for the spot as her favorite son?”

Keaton rose, crossing his messenger bag over his shoulder and met his gaze with a smirk. “Still trying. Just been busy with that.” He nodded toward the script in Stormy’s hand.

Stormy looked down at it again. “Yeah. I’ll let you know.”

“Do that.”

They made their way outside and stepped into the afternoon sun. Stormy pulled his valet ticket from his pocket while Keaton did the same. Neither said anything as they handed the slips to the young driver, who nodded and jogged off toward the curb.

“Tell Kelly I said hi,” Keaton offered casually.

Stormy didn’t look at him. “Right.”

Their cars pulled up moments later—Stormy’s sleek black coupe, Keaton’s scuffed-up hybrid, then they went their separate ways.

* * *

Riley punched in the gate code and waited for the buzzer to release. The gate opened a second later and he proceeded along the pool deck, blazer slung over his shoulder, shoes tapping quietly against the pavement.

When he reached the apartment, he detected the scene of garlic and butter and heard laughter from the kitchen. Natalie was dressed in one of his oversized faded t-shirts, stirring something on the stove. Steve was beside her, holding a colander and grinning like he lived there—which, technically, he did. Their heads leaned close as they laughed at something Riley hadn’t been around to hear. He announced his presence by clearing his throat.  

“Hey! You’re back!” Natalie said. “How’d it go?”

“Fine,” he said, setting his bag down by the door. “Long. Weird.”

Steve grabbed a dish towel and wiped his hands. “They make you say anything embarrassing? ‘Digestive freedom in every can,’ or some crap like that?”

Riley forced a smile. “Something close.”

Natalie opened a cabinet and pulled out a third plate. “We made pasta. Sit down, I’ll get you some.”

“I’m not that hungry,” he said, shrugging off his jacket. 

Steve leaned against the counter, eyes darting toward Riley, then away.

“You looked good this morning,” Natalie said, placing a fork at his spot on the table. “Sharp. Like a real star.”

Riley managed a quiet “Thanks,” but his gaze lingered on the two wine glasses already half-full on the table. One for her. One for Steve.

“Hey, tell Riley about the idea we had,” Steve said. 

“What idea?” Riley asked, though not sure if he wanted to know.   

“Well,” Natalie began, her voice rising with excitement, “since you’re official with the Miranda Blackthorne Agency now… maybe you could mention me? Just… put in a word.”

Riley blinked. “What do you mean?”

Natalie gave a small shrug. “I mean… I’ve got my reel, my new headshots. I’ve been at this as long as you have, Ry. I just haven’t had the right door open yet.  I thought it was gonna be Hal Bedford, but he isn’t the only agent in town.”

He shifted uncomfortably. “I don’t know if that’s a good idea.”

“Why not?”

“Because,” he said quickly. “I don’t want to take advantage. It’s new for me too. I don’t want to look like I’m asking for favors.”

Natalie’s excitement dimmed immediately. “It’s not a favor,” she said. “It’s a foot in the door. That’s what this town runs on. Besides, I’m not just some flunkie—I’m your wife.” 

“I just think it’s too soon.”

“Right,” she said, stepping away from the stove. “Wouldn’t want to risk anything now that you’ve got something going.”

From the couch, Steve turned down the volume on the TV.  “You serious, man?” he said, not looking at Riley. “You’ve got a shot and she’s sitting right here, just asking for help. And you’re worried about how you’ll look?”

Riley exhaled deeply. “It’s not that simple.”

Steve glanced over his shoulder now, eyes narrowing. “It is, actually. You help the people who believed in you before anybody else did.”

Natalie said nothing. She just wiped her hands on the towel, then let it drop to the counter.

Riley looked between them—Natalie with her arms crossed, Steve still watching him from the couch, eyes narrowing disapprovingly.  He grabbed his keys from the bowl near the door.  “Look, I’m supposed to meet with a trainer tomorrow so I should lay off the carbs anyway,” he muttered. “I’m just gonna go for a drive.”

When the door closed behind him, Natalie stood there for a moment, staring at the pasta on the stove.  

Steve watched her from the couch.  “You okay?”

She forced herself to smile. “Yeah. I’m just… not hungry anymore.”  She started into the bedroom to change.  “I think I’m gonna go out for a drink.”

Steve sat up a little straighter.  “You want company?”

“Yeah,” she called from the bedroom. “Sure.”

* * *

The evening wind shifted, sending sheer curtains billowing inward through the open patio doors of Brett’s Venice home. Sadie stepped inside, the hem of her flowing caftan trailing behind her.  In one hand she held a smudge stick—twisting smoke spiraling from it as she waved it through the air, circling the doorway as she whispered something under her breath.

“For clarity, for truth, and to drive out all unwanted energy,” she murmured.

She passed through the doorway, pausing just long enough to glance up at the soaring ceiling. “This place is toxic,” she muttered. “No wonder he can’t make a decent decision.”

Her crystal-studded satchel hung at her hip, clinking softly as she moved through the space. She waved the smudge stick toward the bar cart, then the oversized sectional couch, then finally toward the open staircase leading to the second floor.  

She was mid-incantation—“Cleanse this space of ego and falsehoods…”—when the sound of heavy footsteps interrupted her.

Brett appeared at the top of the stairs, toweling off his damp hair, a white bath towel slung over one shoulder. His chest, still glistening from the shower, caught the moonlight pouring through the skylight.

Sadie glanced up and froze for a half-second longer than she intended to. She pretended not to notice the way the towel around his waist dipped just low enough on his hips to test her willpower.

“Seriously?” Brett asked, descending the steps two at a time. “Are you smudging my house?”

“Someone had to,” Sadie replied. “You live in a vortex of unresolved tension and bad decisions, Brett.”

He reached the bottom of the stairs and rolled his eyes, walking past her toward the kitchen. He yanked open the fridge and pulled out a bottle of water, then took a long drink.

“What are you doing here, Sadie?” he asked, leaning against the counter.

“I needed to speak with you,” she said. “And you weren’t answering your phone.”

“So you broke into my house?”

“The door was open,” she corrected, glancing back at the fluttering patio curtains. “Which, by the way, is a massive energetic invitation whether you realize it or not.”

He exhaled, shaking his head. “Of course it is.”

Sadie’s gaze flicked down his chest for the briefest of moments—just long enough to curse herself internally. He was still smug, still arrogant, still everything she loathed.

She steadied herself. “I won’t take up much of your time. But this is important. It’s about Iris. I’m really worried about the direction Heather is taking her.”  

Brett frowned. “I thought she landed that guest role on Trauma Room.”

“She did.” 

“So what’s the problem?” he asked, his forehead creasing with frustration. “After twenty-two years, twelve million people are still watching that show every week. Your sister’s going to be fine.” 

Sadie shook her head, stepping closer, the smudge stick still trailing a wisp of smoke. “Fine isn’t good enough. Iris isn’t some day player. She’s meant for more, and Heather doesn’t see that.”

Brett rubbed the back of his neck, annoyed. “Heather knows what she’s doing. She builds careers. She doesn’t chant affirmations into crystals and hope for the best.”

Sadie’s eyes narrowed. “Energy matters. You know it does. Iris needs someone who believes in her.”

He studied her for a moment, then gave a short laugh. “You’re exhausting.”

Sadie tilted her head, a faint, knowing smile forming on her lips. “Ah. I get it now,” she said smoothly. “You’ve still got a thing for Heather, don’t you?”

Brett let out a sharp breath, shaking his head in annoyance. “Cut it out, Sadie.”

But then his expression shifted. A flicker of recognition lit his eyes.  “Sadie,” he said again, slower this time. “Sadie. That’s it.”

She blinked. “What’s it? Are you having a stroke or something?”

“No,” he said.  “But I need your help with something.”

“You need my help?” she asked, pointing to herself with surprise.  

Brett nodded, placing an arm around her and steering her toward the living room. “Yes. Because you’re the only person I know with zero concept of boundaries. That makes you very qualified.”

“I’m flattered. And mildly offended,” she muttered. “What exactly am I signing up for?”

Brett flashed a grin. “Let’s just say the universe is giving you a chance to balance your karma. We’re breaking into a yacht.”

* * *

Blake and Iris sat tucked into a corner booth at Rack & Tap, a casual, rowdy West Hollywood bar known for its burgers and plethora of pool tables—a far cry from the swanky martini lounges and dim hotel bars where Blake usually found himself making Hollywood deals.

A pair of pint glasses and a half-eaten plate of truffle fries sat between them. From across the room, a group of guys erupted in cheers as the eight ball sank, the cue ball spinning to a stop. Over the jukebox, the opening notes of The Killers’ Uncle Johnny cut through the chatter.

“I’m sorry about you and Sheldon,” Iris said quietly, almost as if speaking too loud might make the wound sting worse.

Blake gave a faint smile, absently tracing the rim of his glass with his finger.  “Hey, none of that tonight. We’re here to celebrate your success, remember?” He lifted his glass toward her in a toast. “You landed the role. That’s the headline tonight.”

She rolled her eyes but clinked his glass anyway. “I still feel bad.”

“Don’t,” he said, leaning back with a shrug. “Relationships end, but careers need nights like this.”

A grin spread across her face. “Then let’s make sure mine really takes off.”

Blake smirked and signaled the bartender for another round. The guy behind the bar gave a knowing nod and grabbed two fresh pint glasses from the overhead rack.

“That’s the spirit,” Blake said, settling back just as another cue ball cracked in the distance.

The bartender slid the new pints onto the table, foam spilling slightly over the rim. Blake pushed one toward her, then leaned back, watching as she wrapped her fingers around the glass. His eyes lingered on her for a beat too long—just long enough for her to notice.

For a moment, the noise of the bar seemed to drop away—the jukebox, the clink of glasses, the rowdy shouts from the pool tables.

He broke the moment with a faint smirk, lifting his glass again. “To your big break,” he said.

They drank, and the noise of Rack & Tap rushed back in—until a shadow fell across the booth.

“Hi Blake.”

He looked up, startled to see Sheldon standing there in a Tom Ford t-shirt and trousers that looked far too expensive for the place.

Blake tensed. “What are you doing here?”

“Saw your car outside,” Sheldon said, then offered a polite smile to Iris.  “Hi. Sheldon Novak.”

“Iris Knox,” she replied, glancing between them and reading the tension.

“Ah, the Iris Knox I’ve heard so much about. Good to finally meet you. Blake’s said some nice things about you.” 

Iris’s gaze fell onto an uncomfortable Blake.  

“This isn’t exactly your kind of bar, Sheldon,” Blake said

Sheldon’s mouth curved faintly. “You don’t know everything about me.” He paused, then gestured with his head toward the back of the room. “Can we talk?”

Blake hesitated. No—that’s what he wanted to say. I’m sick of this. But what came out instead, as he set his glass down, was a short, “Fine,” then a “be right back” as he glanced at Iris.  

They left the booth, weaving past a group of pool players to a quieter corner away from the jukebox.

Blake folded his arms, his jaw set. “If you’ve got something to say, just say it.”

Sheldon took a breath, eyes searching Blake’s. “I’m sorry about the other night. I never meant for you to get the wrong idea about Travis.”

Blake let out a short, incredulous laugh. “The wrong idea? He hit on you and then you told me about it.” 

“Would you rather I hadn’t told you about it?” Sheldon said with a grin.

Blake nodded casually to a couple he knew as they passed. “No. Look, I’m not jealous. You know that’s not how I am. I just want to know what this is between us.”  He accentuated the remark by gesturing between them.  

“I meant what I said—that I love you. I’ve never stopped.”

Blake’s posture changed, the rigidness giving way to something else. “Sheldon—”

Before he could finish, Sheldon stepped closer. He cupped the back of Blake’s neck, pulling him in, and kissed him—slow and sensual.

* * *

Natalie and Steve walked inside the Rack & Tap and slid onto a pair of stools at the far end of the bar. She shrugged off her jacket and scanned the room as she settled into place.

“You wanna play pool?” Steve asked, nodding toward the tables.

“Maybe later,” she said, noncommittal.

They ordered beers, and from the old jukebox in the corner came the jagged guitar riff of The Killers’ Uncle Johnny. Natalie’s gaze drifted toward the back corner of the room where two guys were kissing, half-hidden in the shadows. She registered it without reaction and turned back to the bar.

Steve took a sip from his beer. “I don’t know what’s gotten into Riley lately,” he said, shaking his head. “Feels like success is going straight to his head.”

Natalie didn’t answer right away. She just wrapped her hands around her glass, staring into the foam, as if waiting to see if it would settle. “When we first moved out here, we were in sync,” she said, her voice distant. “Same dream, same drive—we pushed each other. Now…” She shook her head slightly. “Now it feels like he’s only chasing his own spotlight.”

She traced the rim of her glass with one finger, still staring into the foam, when a hand landed a little too hard on her shoulder. She glanced up as Briggs slid onto the empty stool beside her.

“Hey, look who it is,” he said, giving her shoulder a quick squeeze before settling in. “You know, I’m still waiting for that text letting me know your car made it home after that breakdown.”

Natalie offered a faint, distracted smile. “Yeah… sorry about that.” She glanced toward Steve. “Oh—Briggs, this is Steve. Steve’s a friend of ours, staying with us for a while. Briggs was the photographer for my headshots… and he’s the one who helped me out when my car broke down the other day.”

Briggs gave Steve a polite nod before turning back to Natalie. “You know, those shots were some of the best work I’ve had in a while. You’re a natural in front of the camera, Natalie. Swear to god—just one of those people the lens loves. We should do another set sometime, maybe get a little more creative.”

Natalie shifted in her seat, her smile tightening. “Thanks.”

“Seriously, with the right push, you could have a list of gigs under your belt, a new portfolio… the whole deal,” Briggs went on. “I’ve seen people with half your presence get signed in a week.”

Steve finally set his beer down, turning to face him. “Hey, we were having a private conversation,” he said evenly. “Why don’t you back off?”

Briggs glanced at him, still smiling but with a hint of irritation in his eyes. “Alright, man, no problem. Just giving a compliment.”

He slid off the stool, but not before sending Natalie one last look that lingered a little too long.

* * *

Blake didn’t move at first, his hands still rigid at his sides. Then, for a moment, he let himself lean into the kiss, until the noise of the bar came rushing back, and he broke away, breathing hard.

Just then, Blake’s gaze landed on a familiar figure entering the bar, several people quickly greeting him with high fives and hand shakes. Travis.

“Well, would you look at that,” Blake said, his voice tinged with disbelief as he nodded toward the scene. “I suppose you’re going to tell me this wasn’t planned.”

Sheldon’s eyes traveled to Travis, then back to Blake. “It wasn’t,” he said quickly.

“Uh-huh.” Blake’s tone was ladened with disbelief. “And I’m supposed to buy that it’s pure coincidence you both end up here out of all the bars in L.A.? What’d you do? Call him when you saw my car out front? And what exactly was the plan—convince me to agree to your little three-way fantasy?”

Before Sheldon could respond, Travis spotted them and grinned. “Well, well,” he said, making his way over to the corner. “Didn’t expect to see you boys here. Date night?”

“Hey, Travis,” Blake replied, his eyes darting sideways to catch the tension in Sheldon’s jaw. “Been a while.” 

When Sheldon remained tight-lipped, Travis glanced between them, his grin spreading. “Am I interrupting something?”

“Not at all,” Blake said, stepping closer to Travis. “In fact—” He reached out, resting a hand lightly on Travis’s hip, and before either man could respond, Blake leaned in and kissed him, slow and purposefully. 

When he finally pulled back, Travis looked pleasantly surprised, a slow grin creeping over his face. Sheldon, on the other hand, stood frozen, his expression balancing between hurt and fury.

Blake met his gaze without flinching. “Isn’t this what you wanted?” he asked, his voice daring. He backed toward his and Iris’s booth. “Come on. I’ll take Iris home and meet you guys at your place.” 

Sheldon shook his head, frustration flashing in his eyes. “Blake, stop—”

But Blake was already sliding back into the booth beside Iris, his pulse still pounding. He didn’t know if he was proving a point, punishing Sheldon, or just burning something down for the sake of watching it burn. Either way, he had no idea what the night would bring. 

* * *

Miranda sat curled into a cushioned chair in the sunken lounge area of her and Eddie’s sprawling back patio, the gas fire pit flickering in front of them. Heather and Kelly shared the loveseat across from them, while Stormy and Jane claimed the double chaise.

“Here’s the good news,” Miranda said, swirling her wine. “Siobahn’s staying put. She turned Vaughan down flat.”

“That’s something to celebrate,” Heather said, lifting her glass in salute. “One poaching attempt averted.”

Kelly arched an eyebrow. “What about Elise Stoner? From the sound of it, we may not be so lucky where she’s concerned.”

“Not if I can help it,” Miranda replied. “Her contract’s not up for another three months, and she’s still taking our calls. So until she stops, I’m not calling anything a done deal.”

Just beyond the patio, the pool reflected the moonlight. A warm Santa Ana breeze stirred up the scent of gardenia and fresh cut grass. 

“Vaughan’s circling everyone with a pulse,” Stormy muttered. “If he starts going after retirees and talk show hosts, we’ll know he’s desperate.”

Miranda stretched, Eddie’s hand resting gently on her leg. “I just want to have one day where I don’t have to do damage control because of that man.” 

“Here’s something that will take your mind off of it,” Heather said, setting her glass down with a sigh. “Guess who dropped by the agency again today. No call, no appointment. Just a pocket full of crystals and what I can only assume was natural deodorant.”

Miranda groaned. “Let me guess—Sadie.”

“Bingo,” Heather replied. “She had some sign from the universe that Iris should star alongside Alex in Glass Gardens.” 

“Oh… yeah,” Stormy said with a loud chuckle. “If there’s one thing my mother loves is being upstaged by a younger actress.”

Kelly stifled a laugh. “Hey, look what happened with me. You try to share a screen with Alex, you wind up fired from your first job.”

Laughter broke out and then Stormy shifted in his seat. “Speaking of mom, I saw Keaton today.”

Miranda’s posture shifted slightly. “Where?”

Kelly’s eyes quickly darted to Stormy after hearing Keaton’s name. 

“Hugo’s,” he answered, then looked at Jane. “That was the director I was meeting—only he didn’t tell me it was him until he showed up.”

“Some kind of ambush or what?” Eddie asked while cracking a grin. 

“He pitched me an idea—a biopic about Uncle Nathan.”

“Wow,” Kelly said with surprise.

Stormy nodded. “He wrote it himself and wants to direct. He wants us to produce. I told him I’d at least read it.”

Miranda exhaled slowly, her eyes drifting toward the distant skyline. “That’s a dangerous line to walk.”

“I know.”

“But you are thinking about it,” Eddie said.

Stormy looked at each of them, then gave a slight nod. “Yeah. I guess I am.” He paused, thinking back to Keaton’s pitch. “He described it as the rise, fall, and retribution of a film legend or something like that.”

“Interesting,” Heather said thoughtfully. 

“You’ll make the right decision,” Eddie said and raised a glass to him.

Heather turned toward Kelly. “Speaking of legacies—what about that oceanfront land your father left you? Any plans for it yet?”

Kelly shook her head, the firelight catching in her hair. “No. For now, I’m just happy knowing my father was a hero. That’s enough.”

Stormy gave a low whistle. “Still, you realize you’re technically a millionaire twenty times over now, right?”

Kelly smiled faintly. “Guess that makes me rich in more ways than one.”

After a minute of silence, Miranda sat forward and set her glass on the table in the center of the pit.

“Alright,” she said. “Enough talk about Vaughan and Keaton and all those depressing topics. I want to have a party.”

Stormy arched an eyebrow. “That bash Dad and Lara threw you for your birthday wasn’t sufficient or what?”

Miranda smirked. “Not a party for me—for the agency.  Something big.  We’ll have it here. We have a lot to celebrate—Siobahn staying put, the addition of Iris and Riley.  It’ll be our way of telling everyone we’re not just surviving—we’re thriving.”

Heather leaned back with a smile. “A public announcement of resilience. I like it.”

Eddie gave her a sideways glance. “By ‘big,’ you mean…?”

“I mean huge,” Miranda said, her eyes sparking. “Full guest list, press coverage, music, food, the works. Let Vaughan try to poach clients after they’ve seen the best night in Hollywood happen right here.”

Kelly raised her glass. “I’ll drink to that.”

Jane lifted her sparkling water. “Me too—vicariously.”

Eddie grinned. “As long as you’re not making me work the bar again, I’m in.”

“Trust me,” Miranda said, her smile sly. “It’s going to be an event to remember.”

“When are you thinking?” Heather asked.

Miranda was already scrolling through the calendar on her phone. “We’ll need a few weeks to plan. I hate rushing these things.” She paused, tapping the screen. “And it has to be before Christmas, so… December eighteenth. That work for everyone?”

The group nodded, voices overlapping in agreement. Miranda quickly created an event on the date, typing in a simple Agency Party! before locking her phone with a click and leaning back with a pleased smile.

* * *

In the dim light of his prison cell, The Beast sat hunched on his narrow cot, a stack of tattered magazines spread across his lap. His calloused fingers worked with surprising precision, carefully tearing the paper in steady movements. They wouldn’t let him even have a pair of safety scissors, so he had to improvise.

One by one, glossy images fell onto the thin wool blanket—Miranda, smiling at some red-carpet event. Stormy, mid-laugh in an interview spread. Eddie, caught in a candid shot on a Bel Air patio.

He set them in a neat row beside him, his gaze lingering on each face. Twenty-five years, and he could still hear their voices on the witness stand—smug, certain, sealing his fate with every word.

Five people had testified at the trial.  Soon, they would all pay. 

His fingers moved again, carefully tearing out another photo—a waifish woman in a fitted black dress, photographed at a charity gala. 

Heather Rydell. 

He placed her carefully alongside the others, the lineup nearly complete. Then his eyes shifted to the wall, to the battered calendar where a single date was circled in thick, angry red ink.

December 18th.

At last. His release day was almost here.