Last time on L.A. Connections:

After Blake, Sheldon, and Travis slept together, Sheldon told Blake he wanted to be monogamous—without admitting he’d already hooked up with Travis before. Kelly confided to Heather that she still wasn’t over Keaton, while Heather revealed she wasn’t over Brett, though neither planned to act on their feelings. Miranda grew upset when Eddie refused to explain why their old classmate, Courtney DeLoache, hired him. Steve voiced his distrust of Briggs, and later, as he secretly watched Riley and Natalie making love, with Briggs lurked outside their window watching too. Meanwhile, Sadie helped Brett break into Mickey’s yacht in search of the NDA tied to Brett’s MeToo scandal, but they came up empty and had to flee when spotted. Later, Sadie misread Brett’s behavior and tried to kiss him, only to be gently rejected—leaving her humiliated as she ran off into the night.

* * *

Amelia Strong stood out against the water—twenty-two, dark hair in a simple knot, a mesh dress plastered to her skin from the spray. Between takes, she wrapped her arms around herself, shoulders dotted with goosebumps. When the camera turned on her, her expression turned sultry and her posture went straight, her eyes sharp and confident. But as soon as Briggs lowered the lens, the confidence dropped with it. She went quiet and still, unsure of herself in a way the camera never captured.

“You’re doing beautifully,” Jane Blackthorne called as she stepping forward, her Prada sandals sinking into the sand with a crunch. 

Amelia nodded, swallowing hard. She lifted her chin; the wind pushed a strand of hair across her cheek.

Briggs—camera strap hanging loose—raised his Canon again. “Yes. Tilt your head—good. That’s it.”

Click. Click-click. The shutter sounded like applause.

After a few more frames, Briggs strode back toward the monitors. “Five minutes. Warm up and don’t touch that hair, Amelia, I’m begging.

Crew scattered for water bottles, coffee and herbal tea; boom-mounted reflectors flapped in the wind. Jane drifted toward Briggs, sliding off her sunglasses to watch the playback.

“She’s raw,” Briggs murmured. “In a great way. Once she trusts herself—”

“She will,” Jane said with confidence.

Across the set, Amelia stood near the dunes with Seth Orr, her boyfriend. Twenty-six, dark hair in a ragged buzz, tattoos crawling up his forearms. Amelia’s face was pinched with worry. She shook her head, saying something too soft to catch. Seth’s jaw clenched. The argument escalated in gestures—him stepping closer, her retreating a half-step into sand and stumbling slightly.

Jane observed, cautiously at first, then began walking slowly toward the pair. The look on Amelia’s face instinctively drew her closer.

Then Seth’s hand snapped forward—not a slap, but a shove, fingers digging into Amelia’s bicep, jerking her close. A flash of pain shot across Amelia’s face before she masked it with practiced expertise. 

Suddenly, Jane leapt into action. Sand kicked behind her as she strode across the set, her voice cutting through wind and surf. “Hey!”

Assistants froze mid-sip and turned to gawk. Seth dropped Amelia’s arm, turning, his expression sliding into a slick smirk.

“Step back,” she said in controlled anger. “Now.”

Amelia blinked, chest shaking, trying to speak. 

Seth scoffed. “We’re just talking. Stay out of it.”

Jane stepped between them. “You put hands on my client again, we’ll have a different conversation. One involving the police.”

Seth’s lip curled. “You think—”

Behind Jane, Briggs approached to signal back-up. Cameras angled, phones half-lifted from curious crew. Seth’s belligerent stance eased amidst the spotlight.

“This is a closed set,” Jane told him, all business. “Please leave. I need to talk to my client.”

For a heartbeat, the beach was silent except for the roar of the waves and the whistle of the winds. Then Seth barked a laugh and turned on his heel, stalking toward the parking lot, sand spraying under his boots. Amelia stood trembling, hand rubbing the reddening mark on her arm.

Jane softened instantly, turning to her, her voice calming. “Hey. Look at me.”

When she did, whatever brave facade she’d tried to hold onto began to crumble. Jane wrapped an arm around her shoulders. When the stylist came back with a robe and a portable heater, Jane guided Amelia a few steps away from the chaos.

Amelia pulled the robe around herself, her breath shaky. “He didn’t mean it,” she said before Jane even asked. “Seth’s just… under a lot of pressure with work right now.”

“That’s not an excuse,” Jane said.

Amelia kept going, her voice soft but sincere. “He gets wound up. He’s trying to hold things together. And sometimes he… he doesn’t know how to deal with it.” Her eyes lifted, pleading to be understood. “That’s the first time he’s ever touched me like that. I swear. He’s never done that before.”

“Are you sure you’re okay?” Jane wanted to push harder but didn’t want to risk scaring her from opening up further.

“I just…” Amelia’s voice thinned. “I love him. And he’s not a bad guy.”

Jane nodded slowly, reluctant but wanting to stay respectful. After all, she didn’t know Amelia that well, and she didn’t know Seth at all. “Okay. I hear you. But listen to me—if he ever does that again, you call me. Immediately. No excuses.”

Amelia nodded, clutching the robe tighter. A PA waved them over to reset. She took one last grounding breath before stepping toward her mark.

“You okay, sweetheart?” Briggs asked as he lifted his camera.  

She nodded, smiling as if a switch had been turned on signaling her to forget her personal life and focus on the job at hand. 

* * *

Brett Armstrong double-parked on La Cienega, scanning the storefront for the valet who was supposed to be there. Nothing but a stack of orange cones, a wrinkled sign, and the vague sound of espresso machines from inside Café Lune.

He leaned on the horn once, then sighed, threw the car into drive, and peeled off down a side street.

He was technically early for the meeting—a catch-up with an agent from Austin whose client wanted to direct. The upside of showing up ten minutes early was that you had ten minutes to kill. The downside was that you had ten minutes to think, and he had a plethora to think about.

Mickey Donovan was tightening the screws. His threat to leak that long-buried MeToo allegation involving Abby, the former PA at Rydell, was starting to feel less like a bluff and more like a countdown.

He hadn’t spoken to Heather since their elevator hook-up. He wasn’t sure what to say, or whether saying anything would make any difference. It wasn’t the first time they’d slipped into old habits since the divorce, but this time felt… different. Maybe colder. Maybe just careless. Either way, it felt vaguely dickish not to acknowledge it.

And then there was Sadie. She’d kissed him, cried, and ran off. He couldn’t tell if she was angry or humiliated—or both—but she was gone either way, and he didn’t have the bandwidth to deal with it.

He found a sliver of a parking spot on a residential stretch just off Melrose, squeezing the Mercedes between a battered Prius and a landscaping truck, and climbed out. He buttoned his blazer, did a quick mirror check in the car window, and tried to reset.

Then he saw her. Across the street near a storefront art gallery stood a woman. She held a coffee cup, looking into the gallery window like it had called her name. Something about her stopped him completely.

She wore tailored ivory trousers and a wrap sweater that fell off one shoulder. Her blond hair was twisted up off her shoulders, and a pair of oversized sunglasses dangled in her hand. 

Brett went still. She was probably the most mesmerizing woman he’d ever laid eyes on. 

She turned her head slightly and their eyes met for a heartbeat. Then a delivery van cut through his line of sight. By the time it passed, she was gone.

He stepped forward instinctively, scanning the sidewalk, the gallery entrance, the street behind her. But there was nothing. No open door, no waiting car.

His phone buzzed in his pocket—Sam, probably, or someone from legal. For a moment, all he could do was stare at the spot where she’d been. And then, with a sigh, he turned and walked toward the restaurant.

* * *

The sun beat down on the glossy row of imported SUVs and leased luxury sedans, each one waiting for its moment to be pulled up to the porte-cochere. Steve leaned against the valet podium, tugging at the collar of his polo shirt. 

Riley Weir tossed a key fob into the drawer and wiped his forehead with the back of his hand. “Tell me again why rich people can’t park their own cars.”

Steve smirked. “Because they’re rich,” he said, glancing at a shift schedule laid out on the podium. “Hey, did you forget to clock in today?”  

Riley shrugged. “I think so,” he said, then checked his phone. “Hey, I gotta cut out early. Got an audition over at Silverdale Telepictures.”

Steve blinked. “Seriously? It’s Friday.”

“I know. But it’s kinda important.”

Steve let out a dry laugh and shook his head. “Of course it is.”

Riley glanced at him, catching the edge in his voice. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

Steve shrugged. “Just saying—must be nice, running off to chase your big dreams while I’m out here hustling a double.”

Riley crossed his arms. “You’re the one who wanted the shift manager spot. Not my fault Aaron called out today.”

“Look, I know this new world Kelly’s opened up for you is important, but so is this. It may not be glamorous and flashy, but it’s your job. If you don’t want to work here anymore, then quit.”

“I didn’t say I don’t want to work here anymore,” Riley told him. “Until I start getting regular acting work, I need this job. It’s just an hour early—not the end of the world.”

“Fine,” Steve said, making a notation on the schedule. 

There was a pause. Riley studied him for a second, then said carefully, “This… isn’t about the shift, is it?”

Steve didn’t answer.

“I’ve noticed how close you and Natalie have gotten,” Riley added. “I hope I can trust you to be discreet about… the app.”

Steve’s jaw tightened. “You’re worried I’m going to tell Natalie that you were fucking other women for money?”

Riley shrugged.  “I mean… yeah.”

He waited a bit too long to answer, causing Riley’s heart to stop for a beat or two.  “I won’t,” he said. “Christ, I didn’t know me and Natalie hanging out would get to you so bad. I mean, we’re home together a lot. Makes sense we’d be friendly.”

“Well, thing is, it’s our home,” Riley reminded him. “You sublet it to us. I mean, you’re just staying there temporarily.”

“Yeah, of course,” Steve said dismissively. 

“Okay,” Riley said.  “So… when was the last time you talked to Jeanie?”

Steve blinked. “We texted the other day.”

“That right?” Riley asked, skeptical.

“She’s just… still pissed off at me is all.”

Riley let the silence hang between them before picking up another fob. “Whatever you say.”

Before Steve could respond, a Bentley rolled up and the older couple inside barely glanced at them before handing over the keys.

“Duty calls,” Riley muttered, walking toward the car.

Steve didn’t move. He just watched him go, his arms crossed and jaw clenched.

* * *

Natalie met Briggs at a trendy juice bar that offered concoctions that didn’t exactly appeal to her. She sipped her ginger-kale elixir, trying not to make a face.

Across from her, Briggs leaned back with his own drink—something dark and herbal. “This place is great, right?” he said, flashing his easy grin. “I come here to reset after a shoot. Keeps the creative engine primed.”

Natalie smiled politely. “Yeah. It’s nice. So… I’ve been putting together a reel with the footage from my short and some of the student films. I thought maybe if you knew anyone looking to cast—”

Briggs waved a hand. “We’ll get to that. Don’t worry, I’ve got a couple friends who owe me favors. But I want to get a sense of who you are. You know—underneath. That’s the kind of stuff the camera picks up, anyway.”

Natalie nodded slowly. “Right. I mean, I’m from Minnesota originally. I moved out here with Riley—my husband—right after college.”

Briggs sipped, then smiled. “And is Riley supportive? With the acting?”

“Yeah,” she said. “And he’s doing really well, actually. Signed with an agent recently.”

“Huh,” Briggs said, stirring his drink lazily with a bamboo straw. “And that friend of yours… the guy staying with you. Steve, right? What’s his story?”

Natalie blinked. “Steve? He’s just staying with us for a bit. Things with his girlfriend got rocky.”

“Right, right,” Briggs said, eyes narrowing slightly in what passed for curiosity. “I just remember him being… protective that night at the bar. Didn’t seem to like me saying hello.”

Natalie let out a soft laugh. “Oh, Steve’s harmless.”

Briggs nodded slowly, then leaned in slightly, voice softening. “Can I ask you something?”

“Sure,” she said, cautiously.

He kept his eyes on her. “Is Riley… good to you?”

Natalie blinked. “What?”

“Sorry,” he said, pulling back with a sheepish grin. “That came out weird. I just mean—guys in this town… they get a taste of success and suddenly the ego hits max volume. I’ve seen it a hundred times.”

Natalie stirred her drink, not answering right away. “It’s just been… a lot lately. He’s busy with auditions, commercials, networking stuff . We’re trying to stay connected.”

Briggs nodded solemnly, then smiled again. “Well, I see you. And I think there’s room for more than one star in a relationship.”

She looked up, half-flattered, half-unsure.

He tapped the side of his drink. “Anyway, like I said—I’ve got contacts. Casting directors. Shoots coming up. One or two might be perfect for you.”

Natalie relaxed, letting the shift back to business settle her nerves. “That would be amazing.”

Briggs smiled again but his eyes lingered just a little too long.

* * *

The soundstage doors parted and Iris Knox stepped into the light like she’d been summoned. The air smelled faintly of sawdust, metal, and coffee. All around her sounded crew calls, dolly tracks, someone adjusting lights on a huge rig overhead. It was all exactly as she’d imagined.

Behind her, Sadie Knox drifted in like fog over water—flowy ivory pants, gauzy wrap jacket in a moonstone hue, and an armful of stacked bracelets that clicked softly when she moved. She paused in the doorway, closed her eyes, and breathed in deep.

“Do you feel that?” Sadie whispered, palm to her heart. “Big creative frequency. My solar plexus is vibrating.”

Iris grinned without turning. “That might be the two Cafe Americanos you had this morning.”

Sadie ignored her and pulled a tiny bottle of flower essence from her bag. She misted the air in front of them. “This is for clarity and channeling truth under pressure. I doused it with pink quartz water under last month’s Aries moon.”

A PA with a headset and clipboard intercepted them. “Dressing room’s this way,” she said, already walking. “We’re jumping to scene seventeen. Hair and makeup’s in rotation.”

Iris stepped inside and stopped cold. There, perched on the vanity were three stunning bouquets. Blue irises and white peonies wrapped in silk navy ribbon. Orange tulips in a bold ceramic vase. And finally, a smaller vase filled with sage, lavender, and a single protea.  Eagerly, she reached for the cards.

From Blake: Break a leg! I believe in you.  Then from Heather: You’ve earned this! Love, Heather. Finally, from Sadie: Protected. Radiant. Magnetic. Let them feel your frequency.

Sadie was already lighting a single palo santo stick by the mirror.

“Sadie,” Iris hissed.  “You can’t light that stuff in here.”

“I’m only clearing stagnant energy,” Sadie said, waving the fragrant smoke in a loose figure eight. “This room needs to hold your transformation.”

Before Iris could argue, a knock came and the dressing room door opened. The Executive Producer stepped in, balancing a thick folder of script sides and a stainless steel water bottle. 

“Iris, great, you’re here,” she said. “We’re starting with item seventeen—trauma bay intern breakdown. Your makeup artist’s on her way. Script’s updated—there’s additional dialog at the end of your scene.”

She handed over the folder, then turned to Sadie. “Sorry, no managers on set. Union restriction.”

Sadie blinked at her slowly. “I’m not just her manager,” she said calmly. “I’m her sister and her intuitive strategist.”

“Still not allowed,” she said and left without waiting for a reply.

A beat of silence. Iris turned, clutching the script. “You okay?”

Sadie exhaled slowly through her nose, like she was blowing out candles on an altar. “I’m divine,” she said. “Besides, I have an errand to run—one that will surely manifest your next major role.”

Iris stared. “What is it?”

Sadie winked, slipping her sunglasses back on. “Don’t worry, honey bunny. Your big sister’s got this.”

And with a soft jingle of bracelets and sandal soles, she was gone.

* * *

Courtney arrived at the café ten minutes early dressed in a tailored navy dress, her hair smooth and her posture perfect. The only tell that anything was wrong was the faint tightness around her eyes as though she had been crying. 

“He didn’t just leave,” she told Eddie quietly. “He liquidated everything first. Savings, investments, joint assets, even the art. Pieces my father gave us.”

“Wow, I’m so sorry, Courtney,” Eddie Distefano said from across the table. “I hope you have a good divorce attorney.”

“That would mean finding one who wasn’t in his pocket,” she replied dryly, then made an exasperated face. “God, why did I have to marry an entertainment lawyer?” 

Courtney DeLoache was the forty-two-year-old daughter of Xander DeLoache, the renowned film director. After a seven-year-marriage to Clark Nash, who represented anybody from actors, to agents, to athletes, she came home two weeks ago to find everything he owned gone and a Dear John letter stuck to the refrigerator.

“Anyway, that’s why I need you, Eddie,” she said, her voice tinged with desperation. “I need you to find out where he hid the money. Without that, I’ll be destitute.”

“I’m sure your father would help you,” Eddie said. 

Courtney took a sip of water. “Ugh, not if his new husband has anything to say about it. The guy spends money like Liberace, but I ask for one tiny convertible, and he starts in on what a spoiled brat I am. What’s worse is my father goes along with it.” 

Eddie did his best to concentrate on his client, but the woman seated at the next table trussed up in a trench coat, scarf around her head, and large sunglasses kept drawing his attention away. Every time Courtney raised her voice, the woman’s head tilted ever so slightly in their direction.

When Eddie mentioned “divorce attorney,” a spoon clattered into the woman’s teacup. She froze, then reached for a napkin, pretending to dab her mouth while angling her ear even closer.

Courtney sighed dramatically. “I mean, he had the nerve to leave me? I was the best thing that ever happened to that—”

A sudden scrape cut her off. The woman at the next table leaned too far, her chair legs caught on the tile, and she toppled backward with a crash, legs in the air, scarf askew. The entire café fell silent.

“Oh my god,” Courtney whispered. “Is she all right?”

Eddie quickly rose and offered a hand. “You okay, miss?”

The woman scrambled up, waving off his hand. “I’m fine,” she said briskly. Her scarf had slipped halfway off, revealing a cascade of familiar chestnut hair. She yanked it back into place, snatched her oversized purse, and muttered, “Just lost my balance.”

She started for the exit, but Eddie caught her by the arm and tugged the scarf free. “Miranda,” he said, exasperated. “What in god’s name are you doing?”

Miranda Blackthorne sighed, shoulders stiff beneath the trench coat. Then she turned, removed her sunglasses, and gasped in feigned surprise. “Eddie? I didn’t see you there. What a coincidence.”

Courtney slapped her hands to her sides. “You’ve got to be kidding me. Miranda? What is that insane getup?”

Eddie couldn’t help but grin. “Guess your disguise could use some work.”

“It wasn’t a disguise,” Miranda huffed, pushing the glasses into her hair. “I was trying to have a quiet cup of tea.”

“You were eavesdropping,” Eddie said flatly.

“I was people-watching,” Miranda corrected. “There’s a difference.”

Courtney leaned forward, voice dripping with mock sympathy. “Wow. Still so threatened by me you have to spy on your own husband?”

Miranda’s smile turned cool. “Please. I am not threatened by you. But since I’ve conveniently stumbled into this little reunion—what exactly are you hiring my husband to do?”

Eddie pinched the bridge of his nose. “Here we go,” he muttered. “Miranda, I told you last night that it’s confidential.”

“No, it’s fine,” Courtney said quickly. “It’s only a matter of time before the tabloids find out anyway.” She faced Miranda, shoulders squaring. “Clark left me, okay? Does that make you happy? He took everything. Everything I own is basically on my body right now.”

Miranda’s expression softened, though her jaw stayed clenched.

“I suppose you’re going to say I deserve it,” Courtney went on. “For making your life hell in high school. Well, you made mine just as bad, you know.”

For a long beat, Miranda said nothing, then quietly and unexpectedly her lips parted. “I’m sorry,” she said. “No one deserves this. I hope Eddie finds him.”

She slipped her sunglasses back on, turned, and walked out of the café without another word.

Eddie watched her go, torn between disbelief and admiration. Miranda Blackthorne, queen of the last word, had just let her old rival have it by not saying another thing.

* * *

When Brett got back to his office that afternoon, he parked in the underground garage and paused behind the wheel for a moment. His mind kept drifting back toward the woman standing outside the gallery on Melrose. She’d vanished into thin air, but her image lingered, permanently etched into his brain. She was extraordinary. And in the fleeing second that their eyes had met, he’d felt like he was looking into the eyes of his soulmate.  

The passenger door opening brought him back to reality, and in a flash, he was suddenly aware that someone had gotten into the car.

“Are you out of your fucking mind?” 

Brett froze. He turned slowly. Mickey Donovan sat beside him, crisp in a tailored navy sport coat and blackout Porsche shades. His tone was calm, but the anger in his eyes when he removed his sunglasses could burn through glass.

“What are you talking about?” Brett asked, his voice shaky.

Mickey stared out of the windshield as if calming himself. “The NDA. You really think I’d leave something that valuable in a drawer? On a boat?” He gave a short, humorless laugh. “And Sadie Knox? That overweight crystal-toting sidekick of yours? What was the plan—sage the security cameras?”

Brett’s heart dropped. Mickey knew. Of course he did. He even found out who Sadie was. He forced a half-smirk, trying to play it off.  “Listen, Mickey—.”

“Here’s what’s happening now,” Mickey interrupted. “You’re going to take care of my people. You’ll hire who I say—thugs, cousins, whoever—and tuck them into the payroll nice and quiet. You’ll greenlight the projects I send you. Doesn’t matter if they make sense or not. They exist to move money. That’s it.”

Brett stiffened. “Now you want me to produce fake movies just so you can clean dirty money through the books?”

Mickey smiled, like Brett had just said something charming. “Don’t be dramatic. This kind of thing happened in movie studios all the time back in the golden age of Hollywood.”

“And who does that make you? Bugsy Siegel?” Brett said. “Look, I can’t do this. I won’t.”

Mickey rolled his eyes and said flatly: “You’ve got a daughter, don’t you? Violet.” He paused for dramatic effect. “Beautiful kid, and so soft-spoken. Drama class and swim meets at that posh private school of hers but still makes time to make it on the Honor Roll.” 

Brett’s blood turned to ice. “What did you just say?”

Mickey didn’t blink. “You want to play stupid, be my guest. But don’t pretend you didn’t know the stakes.”

Brett snapped. “You don’t say her name.” His voice broke completely. “You don’t ever—”

He lunged across the center console, grabbing Mickey by the collar and slamming him back against the door with a guttural sound that was closer to a sob than a shout. “I swear to god—”

Mickey didn’t fight him. His eyes stayed locked on Brett’s face like he was observing an emotional experiment. Like he’d seen it all before. “Are you finished?” he asked quietly.

Suddenly, Brett’s door was yanked open, followed by the unmistakable click of a gun being cocked. He froze. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw a figure standing just outside the car—one of Mickey’s bodyguards, Bruno or Dennis—they were both the same. Big, silent, and steady. The muzzle of the gun hovered inches from Brett’s skull.  He loosened his grip and collapsed back into the seat, chest heaving.

Mickey adjusted his collar like he was straightening it after a massage. “That’s the last outburst I’m going to tolerate.”

Brett stared out the windshield, his jaw clenched and his lips trembling.

Mickey continued, his voice calm but threatening: “Push me again, and I won’t settle for a leak from a rival studio. I’ll have to pick a more meaningful target.”

Brett’s vision blurred. His heart was thudding so hard it felt like it might rupture. “What does that mean?” he asked, his voice nearly a whisper.

Mickey opened the passenger door. “You know exactly what it means. Maybe your new-agey friend Sadie Knox? I honestly doubt anyone would miss her.” 

And then he was gone, the door shutting quietly behind him. The bodyguard followed, silent as a shadow.

Brett sat in the stillness, shoulders trembling, hands clenched in his lap.

* * *

Sadie had read in yesterday’s L.A. Times that Alex Reynolds was scheduled to make an appearance at the Green Screen Initiative’s Annual Luncheon, held this year in the Crystal Ballroom at the Beverly Hills Hotel. The event was invitation-only, high-dollar, and “lightly attended by real artists,” as the columnist put it.

That was all Sadie needed.

By the time she pulled into the palm-lined driveway of the Beverly Hills Hotel, the luncheon was well underway.  A clipboard-wielding attendant was checking names outside the ballroom entrance where a few remaining nametags were laid across a long velvet-covered table. Sadie didn’t hesitate.

She strolled up and snagged one of the nametags. Claire Tanden, Rainscreen Media. 

It sounded plausible. And best of all, unclaimed.  She clipped it to the lapel of her sheer kimono jacket just as the volunteer looked up.

“You’re Claire?”

Sadie gave a smile. “For now, yes.”

The woman blinked, uncertain, but before she could press further, Sadie was already inside.

The ballroom sparkled with green silk table runners, recycled glass centerpieces, and waitstaff in uniform gliding between tables. A harpist played something atmospheric near a branded moss wall reading IMAGINE. CREATE. REGENERATE.

Sadie made a slow pass around the room, her eyes searching, then another pass. When she was just about to give up, she spotted her—by the far window—Alex Reynolds. She wore a tailored ecru suit and minimal jewelry, her auburn hair swept into a loose chignon, looking both entirely approachable and totally untouchable. She was deep in conversation with two women from a documentary grant committee.

Sadie waited for her moment, then approached with a glass of cucumber-infused water and a warm, open smile.

“Alex,” she said gently. “Claire Tanden. I just wanted to thank you for what you said last fall at Solstice—you spoke about emotional carbon footprints in storytelling. That stayed with me.”  She’d come prepared. 

Alex turned. She blinked once, maybe trying to place her, but said, “Wow, that was a niche panel.”

Sadie laughed softly. “Sometimes the best things are,” she said, then launched into her practiced pitch, “I’m actually working as a creative frequency consultant these days—helping talent attune to the emotional register of their roles. It’s fringe, I know, but it’s been transformative.”

Alex tilted her head, amused. “For actors?”

“Exactly. And I wouldn’t be saying this if I didn’t feel something resonant.” Sadie lowered her voice, finding a note of sincerity beneath the performance. “I’m working with a young woman—an actress—who isn’t just right for Glass Gardens, she’s already living it. Her name’s Iris Knox. And I think she belongs in this film with you, basking in the glow of your—”

“Okay,” Alex cut in, her voice calm but matter of fact. “Stop.”

Sadie blinked, startled. “But I was just—”

Alex stepped closer, her eyes narrowing on her.  “I know exactly what you were doing. Approaching the celebrity in her natural habitat with what I’m guessing is something you Googled about a blip of an appearance I made at an industry panel a year ago that my husband was scheduled to attend—but couldn’t—so I went in his place. And I’m guessing you’re not Claire Tanden from Rainscreen Media, and that’s someone else’s name tag you pulled off a table.”

Sadie opened her mouth to speak, but Alex held up a hand.

“You think I haven’t done this same thing before?” she said, voice low and clear. “Crashing parties, sliding past security, pretending to be someone’s niece or acting coach or emergency dialect consultant. I once posed as a French assistant director to corner Rock Hudson in a stairwell.”

Sadie shifted uncomfortably, trying to keep her smile intact, but Alex kept going.

“And you know what?” she said, taking a sip of her drink. “It didn’t work then either. Because desperation and ambition are two very different things.”

The chatter and background noise of the luncheon buzzed on around them, but Sadie suddenly felt outside of it.

“I don’t mind the hustle,” Alex added. “I respect hustle. But don’t insult me by thinking I wouldn’t recognize the game. Besides, the part of the sister has already been cast, so whoever you’re here on behalf of will just have to put in the work to get where she wants to be. Nice try, though.”

After Alex walked away, Sadie stood alone, conversations suddenly muted around her. For once she had no airy recovery, no mystical phrase, no way to spin the moment back into her control. She felt like someone caught playing dress-up in a crowd that had stopped buying the act.

* * *

Riley pushed through the front gate of the apartment complex, his sneakers tapping on the concrete as he crossed the pool deck. A few tenants lounged on striped chairs beneath a sagging umbrella, but he barely noticed. He opened the door to the apartment, his face lit with excitement that he couldn’t wait to share.

Natalie looked up from the couch where she was scrolling on her phone, legs tucked beneath her. She sat up straight the moment she saw his expression.  “Well?” she asked, rising. “How’d it go?”

Riley dropped his keys into the dish by the door and grinned.  “I got it.”

Natalie blinked. “Wait—what?”

“I booked the part,” he said, crossing the room toward her. “The TV movie. It’s just a supporting role. It was the last part they had to cast. Shooting already starts next month.”

She let out a squeal of surprise and threw her arms around his neck. “Riley, oh my god—that’s amazing!”

He laughed into her shoulder, holding her close. For a moment it was just them, the way it used to be. No agencies, no couch-surfing friends, no tension simmering just under the surface.

When they pulled apart, Natalie was beaming. “I’m so proud of you. This is exactly what you’ve been working toward.”

“Thanks,” he said. “Oh, and more good news. Kelly wants us to go to an M.B.A. party on the 18th. It’s kind of a big deal. Said it’s time people started seeing my face around—our faces, actually.”

Her eyes lit up again. “Wait—you’re taking me?”

“Of course,” he said. “You’re my wife—my Plus One. Who knows, maybe someone finally notices what a big star you could be.”

She reached for his hand and squeezed it. “That means everything to me, Ry.”

For a minute, it felt like things were back on track.

Then—“Hey,” Natalie said, keeping her tone light, “just make sure you keep next Friday clear, okay? For Steve’s birthday.”

Riley’s smile dimmed slightly. “Yeah… I don’t know. There might be a table read. Kelly’s putting things together fast.”

Natalie tilted her head. “It’s one night. And he’s your friend who’s going through a hard time.”

“I get that,” he said, walking toward the fridge. “But let’s be honest—Steve’s not exactly my biggest fan these days.”

She leaned against the arm of the couch. “Maybe because you’ve been kind of unavailable. For all of us.”

He paused mid-reach, then grabbed a water bottle and twisted the cap. “It’s just a busy time.”

“I know,” she said quietly. “But Riley, you’re not doing this alone. At least, you weren’t supposed to be.”

He looked at her, water bottle in hand, unsure what to say. His phone buzzed on the counter.  Kelly again. He didn’t check it right away.

Natalie watched him in silence, her earlier glow fading just a little.

* * *

When she got home from the set late that afternoon, Iris found a melancholy Sadie moping around the poolhouse claiming she needed an astrological reset. Iris took that to mean she wanted to be alone, so she called Blake who told her to come over for a casual hang. 

When she got to his giant house on Ocean Avenue, Sheldon Novak was over and they were getting high. She passed, knowing that if Sadie found out she’d never hear the end of it. 

A record played something low and slow, a little dusty, probably one of Blake’s vintage finds. Nina Simone, maybe. Or early Joni Mitchell.

Iris sat cross-legged on the massive sectional, her makeup smudged and undone, hair pulled back into a loose twist with a pencil. Sheldon lounged across from her, one sock off, one still on, a joint balanced delicately between his fingers.

Blake Distefano emerged from the kitchen with three glasses of wine juggled in his hands.

“To the one and only Iris Knox for her first big role,” Sheldon said, lifting his glass as Blake handed it off.

Iris grinned, cheeks flushed from more than the wine. “It still doesn’t feel real.”

They clinked, the glass a soft chime under the buzz of the speakers.

“I mean, I walked into holding and there were, like, actual actors just sitting there doing crosswords in full trauma makeup,” Iris said, laughing. “One of them was missing an ear. I thought it was real.”

Blake took a drag of the joint. “What scene did they start with?”

“The trauma bay meltdown. Intern has a panic attack mid-suture, vomits into a tray, and I have to take over and calmly tell the trauma surgeon what to do.” She leaned back. “It was exhilarating.”

“I’m so happy for you,” Blake said and reached over and stroked her leg. It went on for a while though he barely seemed to notice he was doing it. 

“Oh, and I met Simone Bellamy,” Iris added casually, like it hadn’t sent a lightning bolt through her spine. “She just… appeared on set. Completely intimidating. But then she smiled at me and said, ‘You held frame. We noticed.’”

“She said that?” Sheldon leaned forward. “That’s major. She’s got a six-sense for leads.”

Iris let the words settle, echoing in her mind again. We noticed.

Blake refilled Iris’s glass, then topped off Sheldon’s without asking. The record flipped softly in the background—something jazzy and obscure.  “You’re not the only one who deserves a toast tonight,” he said, nudging Sheldon’s knee with his own.

Sheldon raised an eyebrow. “Don’t.”

Blake ignored him. “Sheldon finished his play.”

Iris’s head snapped toward him. “That’s great!  When?”

Sheldon shrugged. “The other night. Or morning—I was pretty much in the zone for like forty-eight hours straight.”

“Why didn’t you lead with that?” she said, sitting forward. “Can I read it?”

“Eventually. It’s still rough.”

Blake was quick to interject: “Don’t let him fool you, Iris. It’s brilliant.” 

Iris exhaled a quiet laugh, letting her head fall back against the couch. Suddenly, she jerked forward again. “Wait—so does this mean you’re going back to New York to produce it?”

Sheldon’s eyes darted toward Blake. “No, actually I’m hoping to get this one made into a movie. Here in L.A.”

“I’m sure studios will be lining up for the rights to it,” Iris said with a genuine smile.

“Let’s hope,” Sheldon said, then stretched out with a groan and swung his legs up, propping his feet lazily on Blake’s lap. His bare heel nudged at Blake’s thigh, then slid down, teasing without much subtlety. Blake didn’t react at first.

Then Sheldon grinned as he felt Blake respond. A twitch, a throb, the unmistakable shift beneath his toes. Blake’s hand drifted casually to Sheldon’s shin, circling it with his fingers like it was just part of the rhythm of the music. His other hand remained absently on Iris’s leg. 

Iris sipped her wine and focused on the glow still radiating from her first day on set, but movement in the corner of her eye caught her attention.

Blake leaned forward and kissed Sheldon. It was slow and familiar—the way it always was when they were buzzed and high and not overthinking it. Shirts shifted as they leaned into each other, and Iris caught a glimpse of skin—the soft slope of Blake’s lower back, the taut line of Sheldon’s defined abs as his T-shirt hiked up. The telltale bulge in Blake’s sweatpants sent her heart beating fast, even more so when Sheldon’s hand disappeared beneath his waistband.

She looked away mainly because it felt like she’d stumbled across something unfiltered. There was a brief moment of discomfort. A quiet realization that she would never be kissed like that by Blake.

She took another sip of wine, glanced down at Blake’s hand still resting lightly on her leg, and decided to cut through the moment with humor. “Wow,” she said, deadpan. “When you said ‘come over and hang,’ I didn’t realize you meant ‘come watch us grope each other.’”

Blake pulled back, blinking, then burst into a high-pitched giggle. “Sorry,” he said, slumping against the cushions. “I am so high.”

“Um, you think?” Iris laughed, the tension breaking like a bubble.

Sheldon joined in, snorting through a laugh. “Didn’t mean to leave you out, Iris,” he said between cackles. He made a big show of crawling across the cushions toward her and pretending to pull her into a dramatic kiss.

She shoved him away playfully as the laughter continued. Eventually, they all regained their composure and decided on watching a movie. It was well into the opening credits when Iris realized one of Blake’s hands was still resting on her leg.

* * *

After his run-in with Mickey in the parking garage, Brett immediately changed course. He wouldn’t get in Mickey’s way. He’d let him run the studio into the ground if he had to. The alternative wasn’t worth his daughter’s safety. Or anyone else’s.

“I’m glad you’ve come to your senses,” Mickey had told him. 

Still, Brett felt the need to at least warn Sadie. He was the one who’d pulled her into his mess. She deserved to know the truth. When he arrived, the door to the pool house was closed, curtains drawn. The windchimes jingled melodically from the eaves.

He knocked once. Then again. Inside, he heard movement.

“Sadie?” he called. “It’s Brett.”

No answer.

“I know you’re home.”

A long pause, then finally: “Go away. I don’t want to talk to you.” Her voice was muffled, but unmistakable, still laced with wounded pride.

“Look, I have to tell you something,” he began, his fingers brushing his jaw. “It’s about Mickey.  He knows.”

A beat. “Knows what?” 

“About us being on his yacht.”

Inside, Sadie leaned against the door, shaking her head indifferently. “I don’t care.” 

“He knows your name, Sadie. I don’t know how, but he knows everything.”

No reply.

“Look, I just need you to be careful. If you see anything weird, if someone follows you, if you get any calls—anything—don’t ignore it. Lock the doors. Stay off the radar for a while.”

“Don’t worry about me, Brett… I’m not your problem.”

He closed his eyes for a moment. “I don’t think he’ll do anything. I’ve already told him I’ll go along with whatever he says. And if I have to, I’ll leak the story about the NDA myself if that’s the only way to get him off my back. I don’t want to, but—”

From behind the door, nothing. Not a sound.

“I’m sorry,” he added.

Still silence.

Finally, he backed away, heart pounding. The windchimes whispered above him again. He lingered at the gate for one last second, hoping she might come out and say something. Anything. She didn’t, so he left without looking back.

Inside, Sadie wiped a tear from her eye as she stepped away from the door. 

* * *

The next morning, light filtered through the kitchen windows, catching the steam rising from Eddie’s coffee mug. Miranda moved briskly around the island, gathering her things—laptop bag, sunglasses, lipstick she’d forgotten to put on upstairs—while Eddie leaned against the counter in a half-buttoned shirt, watching her with a mixture of amusement and exasperation.

She finally paused long enough to meet his eyes. “Are you ever going to stop being mad at me?”

Eddie sipped his coffee, making her wait a beat. Then he sighed, a smile tugging at his mouth despite himself. “I already have!” he insisted. “You’re impossible to stay mad at.”

Miranda’s shoulders softened. “Good,” she murmured, reaching past him for her keys. “Because you know I was only curious. I wasn’t jealous or anything.”

“Sure,” he teased. “And for the record… Courtney’s situation is a mess. Finding the money her husband hid? It’s going to take a long time.”

Miranda sighed. “God. Poor Courtney. I honestly wouldn’t wish this on my worst enemy—who ironically was Courtney before Vaughan Novak took the title.”

Eddie grinned. “Look at the growth.” 

“I didn’t say I wasn’t allowed to evolve,” Miranda sniffed. But her voice had softened. “She must be terrified.”

“She is,” Eddie confirmed. “She’s trying to keep it together, but… yeah. It’s bad.”

Miranda nodded slowly, her expression shifting from pity to resolve. “Well. I have to go—big day at the agency. More party details to go over, meeting at FlickFix with Blake for Siobahn’s first project, plus we’re interviewing receptionists. I don’t know how we got along without one for this long. Oh, don’t forget lunch with Lara for her ten-year AA thingy. Polo Lounge. One o’clock. Did you invite Blake?”

“Yeah, he’s bringing Sheldon,” Eddie said and followed her to the door. “Hey, I’ve got an idea: You need a receptionist, Courtney needs money—hire her as your receptionist. It’s the perfect solution.” 

Miranda froze mid-stride, turning slowly. “I’m sorry—what?”

Eddie blinked at her, innocent. “I’m just saying, she’s gonna need a job. She needs steady income until we track down her husband. It’s a win-win for everybody.”

Miranda stared at him, jaw dropping. “Are you out of your fucking mind?”

* * *

Natalie ended the call and set her phone on the counter before turning to Riley who stood blending a protein shake. 

“That was Briggs,” she said, brushing a strand of hair behind her ear. 

Riley stiffened. “Yeah? What did he want?”

“He has a producer he wants me to meet,” Natalie said, turning fully toward him. There was excitement in her eyes, tentative but real. “He thinks I’d be perfect for a project the guy is developing.”

Riley turned away from the blender.. “Okay… and where exactly does he want you to meet this producer?”

“At his hotel. The producer’s in town for the week.”

Riley’s brows shot up. “A hotel? Nat, come on—”

“What?” she snapped.

“I don’t like you meeting up with guys like Briggs,” he said, trying to keep his voice even. “Christ, Steve told me straight up he doesn’t trust the guy”

Across the room, Steve paused mid-step, a takeout menu in his hand. “He is kind of a creep, Nat.” 

Natalie crossed her arms. “What is it with you guys and Briggs, anyway?”

Riley opened his mouth, closed it, then tried again. “Nat, I’m not saying don’t meet him. I’m saying be smart about it. Briggs is—”

“Say it,” she fired back. “Say what you really think.”

Riley exhaled. “I think he wants something in exchange for helping you.”

The hurt flashed across her face before she masked it with anger. “You only object because it’s about me,” she said coldly. “If this were your meeting, you’d already be in the car.”

“That’s not true,” Riley said.

Natalie shook her head, grabbing her purse from the counter. “You can chase every opportunity in this town, but the second I try? Suddenly there are rules.”

She walked past him, pausing only when she noticed Steve standing near the hallway. He didn’t say a word.

Riley watched her go, the door closing behind her with a thud.

* * *

Amelia arrived at the Miranda Blackthorne Agency just after ten, slipping through the glass doors with her eyes red-rimmed beneath hastily applied mascara. The lobby was quiet so the echo of the door closing made Miranda look up from the front desk where she’d been scrolling through messages.

“Amelia?” Miranda blinked, surprised. “What are you doing here?”

Before the girl could answer, Jane appeared from the hallway, immediately sensing something on the young girl’s face.  Exchanging glances with Miranda, she placed a steadying hand on Amelia’s back and guided her toward the conference room. Miranda followed, closing the door gently behind them.

Amelia stood near the end of the table, wringing her hands. “I—I’m sorry for just showing up. I didn’t know where else to go.”

Jane pulled out a chair for her. “You don’t have to apologize.”

Amelia sank into it, her breath unsteady. “Seth and I… we got into an argument this morning. A really bad one.”

Miranda’s eyes sharpened. “Did he hit you?”

Amelia shook her head quickly. “No. No, he’s never done that. He would never.”

Jane sat beside her, her voice quiet but firm. “Physical isn’t the only kind of harm, Amelia. You’re shaking.”

“He just—he yells,” Amelia whispered. “He says things that… that stay with me. I can’t get them out of my head.”

Jane reached for her hand, only for Amelia to flinch slightly. The sleeve of Amelia’s sweater rode up an inch, revealing the thin, angry red lines on her forearm.

Jane’s heart clenched. “These aren’t from a razor, are they?”

Amelia froze. Her lower lip trembled. “I—I did it,” she whispered. “I just get so upset when he’s like this that I don’t know what else to do. I just… I need something to stop the noise.”

Jane slid her chair closer and wrapped Amelia in her arms. “You’re not alone,” she said softly. “And we’re going to help you. But you have to let us.”

Amelia nodded into her shoulder, tears falling freely now, her whole body trembling.

* * *

The lobby was sleek and quiet, perfumed with designer cologne and muted jazz. Natalie stepped inside wearing a fitted jacket over her sundress, glancing once at her reflection in the glossy black wall as she scanned the room.

Briggs appeared near the concierge desk, waving her over with a smile that seemed just a bit too pleased.

“Hey, you made it,” he said, leaning in for a quick hug. “Looking great, by the way.”

“Thanks,” Natalie said, pulling back. “Is Mr. Kershaw here already?”

“Yeah, he’s just upstairs,” Briggs said, motioning toward the elevators. “Figured we’d meet in his suite. He’s not one for lobby chatter—super private guy.”

Natalie hesitated. “He couldn’t come down?”

Briggs chuckled, brushing it off. “Well, when I say private, I mean he’s a little obsessive compulsive about not being recognized in public. He’s that big.” 

Still unsure, she followed him toward the elevators.

Moments later, they stepped out on the twelfth floor, the carpet thick underfoot, the lighting dim and moody. Briggs walked a few paces ahead, swiping a keycard at the end of the hall.

“Here we are,” he said with a grin.

Natalie paused just inside the door, glancing around. “Where is he?”

Briggs closed the door behind them. “He had to step out for a minute,” he said casually. “Told me to get you settled.”

Natalie turned slowly. “Settled?”

He was closer now. Too close. “You know, I’ve seen a lot of talent come and go. You’ve got more than just a look. You’ve got presence. Chemistry. Don’t waste it second-guessing things.”

She pulled her arm back. “Where’s Mr. Kershaw, Briggs?”

Briggs smiled, but there was something empty behind it now. “He’s not coming, Nat.”

Immediately, Natalie flew into a panic, darting around him and reaching for the handle—her fingers just brushing the metal—when Briggs’s hand clamped around her wrist.

“Hey. Slow down,” he said, his voice suddenly stripped of charm. “You’re overreacting.”

“Let me go,” Natalie snapped, trying to pull free.

He yanked her back—not hard enough to knock her over, but enough to send her stumbling off-balance. She collided with the edge of the bed, catching herself on her hands. He moved toward her, pulling her up and throwing her onto the bed. 

“You have no idea how lucky you are,” he said, voice tightening. “Most actresses would kill for this kind of break.”

Then he was on top of her, pinning her to the bed as he forced his lips onto hers. She struggled beneath his frame, screaming as loud as she could. Briggs slapped her hard across the face, fighting her as she did everything she could to overcome his strength. In the struggle, he ripped her blouse with one hand while the other left red marks on her arm.  

Terrified, Natalie grabbed the nearest thing she could—a glass from the nightstand—and sent it crashing against his skull.  

Momentarily stunned, blood ebbing down the side of his face, Briggs collapsed beside her. Natalie scrambled off the bed and raced to the door. She pulled at the handle and the door opened a few inches, the privacy latch catching it with a loud clang. Behind her, Briggs slowly rose to his feet, visibly unsteady.

Desperate, she disengaged the privacy latch, yanked the door open and stumbled into the hallway, her legs trembling as she ran.

Behind her, Briggs made it to the doorway, breathing hard, jaw clenched, watching her go with a look that promised he wasn’t finished.

Natalie approached the elevator just as it opened, the wide-eyed elderly couple inside immediately sensing something was wrong. When the doors closed, Natalie sunk to the floor and sobbed, part terrified and part hating herself for not listening to Steve and Riley to begin with. 

* * *

Brett parked a little farther down the street this time, as if that might change the outcome. The same bakery with the zinc counter, the same oversized gallery windows catching the light. It was stupid, probably. But he hadn’t been able to stop thinking about her. The woman with the wrap, the twisted blonde hair, the way she looked at him like it was destiny. 

He stood in front of the gallery again, pretending to check his phone. Watching. Waiting.

Fifteen minutes passed. A couple walked out with shopping bags. A kid on a scooter almost clipped his ankle. The window’s reflection stared back at him.

He was about to turn back to the car when he saw her.  She was across the street, standing still as if she’d been waiting too.

He moved after her, cutting through traffic without checking the lights. A limousine nearly hit him head-on but he expertly pivoted out of harm’s way.  The woman slipped between two gallery walls, past a florist, toward a side alley tucked behind a raw juice place.

By the time he rounded the corner, she was gone. No door open, no gate swinging shut. Just a quiet alley painted with fading murals and the far-off clang of a service truck.

Brett stood there, breathing hard, scanning every inch. It was like she’d vanished into smoke.

He leaned against the stucco wall and closed his eyes. For a moment, he forgot Mickey. Forgot Sadie. Forgot even Violet. He didn’t even know who she was.

But he was sure now—he was going to find her. Even if it didn’t make any sense.