Last time on L.A. Connections…

Jane’s client, Amelia, went to Jane for help when her boyfriend became verbally abusive. Riley celebrated landing a role in a Silverdale Telepictures TV movie. Despite Riley and Steve’s warnings, Natalie met Briggs at a hotel and narrowly escaped his attempted assault by fighting her way out. Iris began her first day on the set of Trauma Room, while Sadie crashed a nearby industry luncheon, trying—and failing—to manipulate Alex Reynolds into pitching Iris a role. Elsewhere, Mickey confronted Brett with knowledge of the yacht break-in and Sadie’s involvement, prompting Brett to try to warn her, though she rebuffed him in lingering humiliation. Miranda secretly observed Eddie’s meeting with Courtney, learning Courtney had been abandoned and financially ruined by her husband; Eddie proposed hiring her as M.B.A.’s receptionist. Brett found himself captivated by a mysterious woman he spotted on the street.

* * *

The table at the Polo Lounge had eight place settings and was covered in white cloth, with half-empty glasses of iced tea and sparkling water catching the light of the early afternoon sun. Lara Devon sat at the center, her ten-year AA chip resting beside her plate as a tiny, hard-earned medal. James wrapped an arm loosely around the back of her chair, smiling at the way she engaged easily with their family and friends.

“Let me,” Miranda said from across the table as she reached for the chip, studying it with admiration. “Wow, ten years,” she said. “We’re so proud of you, Lara.”  

Lara blushed and smiled sweetly. “Thank you, Miranda. I appreciate that.”

Eddie, leaning back in his chair between Miranda and Blake, raised his iced tea. “Ten years sober, including five years as a Blackthorne? That’s the real miracle.”

Lara laughed; James rolled his eyes. Blake, sitting next to Eddie, laughed out loud. “I’m not even in the family and I’m thinking of going to meetings,” he said.

Eddie flashed his brother a look. “We have our own issues in our family, in case you’ve forgotten.”

“Yeah, well, we Blackthornes are an acquired taste,” Stormy admitted, then turned to Jane beside him and gave a wry grin. “Like expensive whiskey. Or poison.”

“Stormy—” Jane began as if cautioning them to tread carefully. “That’s not funny.” 

“We’re only kidding,” Blake said with a wink as he placed an arm around Sheldon.

Lara was quick to come to their defense. “It’s okay, Jane. I can take some good-natured teasing. Trust me, after ten years sober and five years as part of this family, I’ve got pretty thick skin. But I wouldn’t trade that time for anything.”

James looked at her adoringly and kissed her. “I’m glad to hear it.” 

Eddie clinked his fork gently against his glass. “Alright, alright, back to what I was about to say. To Lara.” He raised his glass and everyone followed his lead.

“To Lara,” echoed around the table. Other patrons watched them with affection, drawn to the buoyant, celebratory energy that seemed to brighten the whole dining room.

Jane squeezed Stormy’s hand and smiled as James turned toward her. “How are you feeling, Jane? I know the first trimester can be rough.”

“So far so good,” Jane said, brushing a strand of hair behind her ear. “A little tired, a little hungry all the time—but no morning sickness yet. Knock on wood.”

Sheldon was half-listening to the chatter around the table while his eyes kept drifting toward the woman of the hour. “I’m glad I finally got a chance to meet you, Lara. I’m sure you get sick of hearing this, but I’m a huge Malibu High fan. I’ve seen every episode.”

Lara smiled graciously. “Thank you, and I never get tired of hearing that, trust me.”

Stormy snorted. “Sheldon, what were you?—Like 2 when the show premiered?”

He shrugged. “I binged it a while back… for research.” 

“Research,” Blake echoed, poking him. “And by research he means a full blown 90’s nostalgia-spiral.”

“Hey, it holds up,” Sheldon insisted. “Except maybe the hairstyles. And the theme song.”

“Oh, the theme song was terrible,” Lara said with a chuckle. “Sheldon, I hear you’re a writer. What are you working on?” 

“I actually just finished a screenplay.”

“Oh, what’s it about?” Lara wanted to know, then quickly added, “Sorry. If I’m being too nosy, just tell me.” 

He shook his head. “A young queer woman at a toxic, boys club ad agency wakes up in an alternate L.A. where gender roles are totally reversed. Men get talked over, women run everything, the whole city’s flipped. So she teams up with this sweet queer guy—basically her in reverse—to expose how messed up the system is. They start a little revolution together. It’s funny, but, like… has something to say.”

“That’s actually brilliant,” Lara said. “That’s exactly the kind of story I want to produce with my new production company. Smart, sharp, feminist, queer, a little magical realism.”

“Wait, your new production company?” Stormy blinked at her, stunned. “Since when is that a thing?”

“Yeah,” Miranda added, eyebrows raised. “This is the first I’m hearing about it.”

Lara and James shared a quick, giddy look before she spoke, her smile widening. “It’s not official yet, which is why I haven’t told anyone. But it’s something I’ve been thinking about nonstop.” She turned to Miranda. “Honestly, the FlickFix deal you pulled off for Siobahn Saxton? That was what put it into high-gear. It made me realize I want to create space for stories like that.”

“Really?” Miranda asked.

“Really,” Lara said. “I want to focus on women’s stories. Queer stories. Perspectives that don’t get championed enough.”

Eddie lifted a brow, leaning back. “A production company, huh? Not worried you’ll be stepping on the Blackthorne empire?”

Lara laughed, shaking her head as she shot Stormy a playful glance. “Please. Nothing on the scale of Sunset Studios. I’m talking about small, low budget productions, but with a big impact. Actually…” She gestured toward Sheldon. “More in the vein of your screenplay.”

Sheldon’s eyes went huge. “Wow. That’s—uh—that’s incredibly flattering. Thank you.” He glanced at Blake as if to confirm he hadn’t hallucinated it.

“And I’d really love to talk more about it if you’re interested,” Lara added.

“Interested? Of course,” Sheldon said.

Miranda popped a grape into her mouth and said, “Sounds to me like someone might be in the market for an agent. I may know a decent one.”

The table erupted in laughter.

Jane leaned her elbows on the table. “But James, you literally just retired from the business. Doesn’t this drag you right back into it?”

James shook his head. “Nope. Lara wants to do this all on her own,” he said, then looked at her. “Of course she knows I’ll always be here to help if she needs me.”

Lara beamed at him, and the rest of the table melted just a little bit.

* * *

Steve was alone on the couch, half-watching a rerun of some cooking competition show and half-dozing, when the front door burst open so violently it slammed against the stopper. He jerked upright.

Natalie stumbled inside, breathless, her sundress ripped, her face streaked with tears and her hair disheveled like she’d run a mile in a storm. Her hands shook as she pushed the door closed behind her, then pressed her back to it as if expecting someone to follow.

Steve shot to his feet. “Natalie? Jesus—what happened?”

She looked up, wide-eyed, her chest heaving. For a moment she couldn’t speak. She moved forward a few steps, then stopped, gripping the back of a chair as her knees threatened to give out.

“Where’s Riley?” she gasped.

“At a thing with Kelly,” Steve said, stepping closer but cautiously. “Nat, talk to me. What’s wrong? What happened?”

Natalie shook her head, tears spilling over again. “I—I need him. I have to tell him. Oh my god, Steve—”  She cut herself off, hugging her arms around her body.

Steve took her gently by the shoulders, not touching her until she nodded permission. “Hey,” he said softly, guiding her toward the couch. “Sit down. You’re safe here. No one’s gonna hurt you. Just tell me slowly. What happened?”

Natalie collapsed into the cushion, hands covering her face. After a long moment, she lowered them enough to speak. “It was Briggs,” she whispered. “He lied. There was no producer. I— I shouldn’t have gone, Steve. I should’ve listened—” She broke off again, sobbing into her hands.

Steve swallowed hard, anger building behind his eyes. He crouched beside her, keeping his voice steady. “It’s okay. It’s okay. You’re home now. Just breathe, alright? Tell me what Briggs did.”

She pressed both palms to her temples as if trying to block out the memory. “He told me the producer was upstairs,” she whispered. “He said it was just a quick meeting.” She swallowed hard. “I trusted him.”

Steve’s jaw was clenched, but he stayed quiet.

“When we got into the room, it was empty,” she went on. “And when I asked where the producer was, everything just… changed.” 

Steve’s eyes darkened. “Nat…” he said gently. “What did he do?”

“He pushed me,” she whispered. “Onto the bed.”

Steve closed his eyes for a moment, forcing himself to stay calm. “Did he hurt you?”

She nodded, tears spilling again. “He hit me. And then he—he grabbed my face, and he—”  She covered her mouth, shoulders shaking. “He kissed me, and he tried to…”

“You don’t have to say it,” he murmured. “I get it.”

“I picked up a glass from the nightstand,” she whispered. “I hit him with it and I ran…”

Steve tightened his arm around. her “You’re safe now.”

Natalie shook her head. “No. He’s not done. I saw the look on his face when I left. He’s not finished.”

Steve drew in a breath, trying to leash the fury shaking through him. “Yes he is,” he said. “What hotel and room number?”

Natalie stared at him, realization dawning. “No. No, Steve—no, you can’t.”

“I just want to talk to him,” he said, though the intensity in his eyes made it clear talking wasn’t the only thing on his mind. 

“Hotel Palomar,” she said reluctantly. “Room 1206.”

Steve nodded once and headed for the door.

Natalie took a step forward, reaching for his arm. “Steve… please don’t make this worse.”

He turned and stepped out into the afternoon sun, the door closing behind him with a thud. Natalie stood there for a moment, listening to the silence. Then she sank slowly onto the couch, curled up, and waited for someone—anyone—to come back.

* * *

In Brett’s office at Rydell Productions, he sat at his desk, palms flat against the surface, his neck burning with heat as Mickey hovered just above him.  

“The Fourth Ledger?” Brett read from the tab of a manila folder.  “What’s this?” 

“A film Rydell is going to produce,” Mickey answered.

Brett glanced at the folder again, then back up. “We don’t even have a script.”

“We don’t need a script,” Mickey said calmly. “We need pre-production costs, location scouts, unit photography.”

Brett swallowed hard. “How much?”

“Two million to start. More coming.” He said it like he was reading from a grocery list. “You’ll get a wire this week. Build the shell, pretend to shoot in Mexico. We’ll push the real money through by March.”

Brett leaned back. “Where’s it coming from?”

Mickey raised an eyebrow, amused. “You really want to know?”

“I need to know what I’m complicit in.”

Mickey leaned forward slightly, his voice dropping. “You’re complicit in survival. You’re keeping your family and your friends safe. The money’s coming from people who move things that don’t have barcodes. You follow?”

Brett looked away. “Drugs.”

“Call it medicine if it helps you sleep.” Mickey smiled faintly, no humor behind it. “The point is, it’s real money and it needs a safe home. That’s all you need to know.”

Brett stared at the folder, his jaw clenched. “I suppose I don’t have a choice, do I?”

“You always have a choice,” Mickey replied as he buttoned his sport coat and brushed an invisible speck from the lapel. “Just remember what the cost is for not cooperating.” 

He walked toward the door just as it buzzed open from the other side. Jordan walked in, his eyes shifting between Brett and Mickey. 

“I’m sorry,” Jordan said slowly, “am I interrupting something?”

Mickey stopped inches from him, offering a polite nod of his head. “Not at all,” he drawled. “We were just wrapping up.”

“I don’t believe we’ve met,” Jordan said and extended his hand. “Jordan Rydell.” 

Brett felt his pulse thud in his throat.

“No need to introduce yourself, Mr. Rydell,” Mickey said with a chortle and a shake of his head. “Your reputation precedes you.” 

Jordan smiled modestly. “Thank you. And you are—?”

Brett quickly went to intercept the conversation.  “Uh—this is… Jim… Stansel.” He forced a thin smile, running a hand nervously through his hair. “He’s a… consultant.”

Jordan’s eyebrows lifted. “Consultant for what?”

Brett opened his mouth. “Transportation.”

“Logistics,” Mickey said, smoothly, at the exact same time.

Jordan’s eyes narrowed ever so slightly. “Well, which is it?”

Brett coughed. “It’s—well, technically transportation, but a big part of that is logistics, right?” He gave a nervous little laugh, waving his hand like that settled it. “Movement of resources, scheduling. You know, nuts and bolts stuff.”

Mickey said nothing, just offered a smile as he adjusted the cuff of his shirt. 

Jordan looked between them, unconvinced. “Funny, I thought our logistics were handled in-house.”

“They are,” Brett said quickly, then caught himself. “This is more external. A specialized… project. Early-phase with an international angle.”

Jordan hesitated a moment longer, then gave a small shrug. “Oh, okay,” he said mildly, though his eyes still shifted between them. “No problem. I was just in the area. Thought I’d pop in and say hi.”

“Great. Always good to see you.” He rounded the desk, intercepting Jordan halfway to the door as if physically pushing him back out into the anteroom with politeness.

“We should grab lunch next week,” Jordan added, casually. “You can tell me more about this international expansion.”

Brett gave a mile. “Absolutely. I’ll call you.”

Jordan nodded, offering Mickey a final glance before opening the door and walking out.

The moment it clicked shut, Brett let out the breath he’d been holding. He turned to Mickey. “That could’ve gone worse.”

Mickey’s eyes landed on him.  “It will. If you don’t get your story straight.” 

Brett swallowed hard and watched as the man turned and left the office. 

* * *

Sadie kicked off her sandals at the door with a dramatic exhale, her arms full of burlap sachets and a beeswax candle. The “sacral energy reset” had worked well enough—her aura felt slightly less crumpled after the humiliation she experienced—first with Brett, and then with Alex Reynolds.

She walked in to find Iris curled on the couch, legs tucked under her, a half-drunk LaCroix beside her and a printed screenplay in her lap.

“Why aren’t you at the Trauma Room set?” she asked. 

Iris placed the pages on the coffee table and looked up. “I don’t film again until tomorrow,” she said. “And by the way, I’ve been waiting to hear about this major role you were manifesting for me. You were asleep when I got home last night and gone by the time I woke up.”

Sadie squinted, crossing to the couch as she thought about her failed attempt at pitching Iris for Glass Gardens. She flopped down beside her with an overly dramatic sigh. “Turns out the stars weren’t aligned,” she said, waving one hand as if brushing the disappointment out of the air. “My fault for trying to force a vibrational pivot during a Venus-Neptune quincunx. Honestly, it’s textbook self-sabotage.”

“Oh,” Iris said, blinking.

“What’s this?” Sadie asked, hoping to shift subjects quickly, and picked up the script. 

“Sheldon’s new screenplay,” Iris replied. “It’s called Reverse L.A. It’s really good. Oh, and the best part? Lara Devon told him today she wants to produce it.”

Sadie’s hand hovered mid-air. “Lara Devon? Like from Malibu High?”

“Yes,” Iris said and went to the kitchen to pour herself a drink. “Apparently she’s launching her own production company. They just had lunch today and they’re already talking details. Isn’t that wild?”

Sadie studied the script, flipping to the first page like she was about to read tea leaves.

She scanned the first lines. “Huh.” She kept reading. “Well, that’s… interesting.”

* * *

The hallway was so quiet that Steve could hear the buzz of the ice machine at the far end. Plush carpet muted his footsteps as he walked toward Room 1206, fists clenching and unclenching at his sides. He lifted his hand and knocked.

Seconds later, the door creaked open and Briggs appeared, his shirt half-buttoned, his hair still disheveled. He held a bloody white washcloth against the cut on the side of his head. 

Steve shoved the door wide with a single, violent motion, slamming Briggs back into the wall. The impact rattled the frame.

“What the hell—?!” Briggs exclaimed.

Steve stepped inside, kicked the door shut behind him, and delivered a powerful blow to the man’s jaw with his fist. Briggs stumbled, attempting to run past him, but Steve took him by the arm and turned him toward him before punching him again, then a third time, causing blood to ebb from his nose. 

“Look, man—whatever Natalie told you, she’s emotional, she misunderstood—”

Steve grabbed him by the collar and drove him back onto the bed, the mattress creaking under the sudden weight. Briggs scrambled, shocked, flailing for leverage.

“She didn’t misunderstand anything,” Steve said through clenched teeth. “I saw what you did to her, you fucking psycho piece of shit.”   

Briggs sputtered, fear showing on his battered face. “I didn’t—she wanted—”

“Finish that sentence,” Steve growled, leaning close, “and I swear you’ll regret it.”

Briggs shut his mouth instantly.

Steve pulled him upright so that their faces were inches apart. “Listen carefully,” he said. “You go near her again—text her, call her, look at her from across a sidewalk—I will end you. Do you understand?”

Briggs nodded rapidly, breath shaking. Steve released him so abruptly Briggs collapsed backward onto the mattress, coughing.

“And another thing,” Steve said, stepping back toward the door, chest still heaving, “If you even think about twisting this to make her look bad? Try to drag her name anywhere? I’ll be your shadow.”

He reached for the door and left the room, the door slamming behind him with a force that made Briggs flinch.

* * *

Stormy pulled into the driveway late that afternoon and stepped out onto the pavement, his jacket slung over his shoulder and a leather Hermés attaché case dangling from his hand.  He glanced up at the front door and saw someone standing on the porch.  

The young man turned when he saw Stormy approach. He had one hand lifted toward the doorbell, frozen like he’d been caught.

Stormy stepped onto the walkway. “Can I help you?”

The guy turned sharply. Sharp cheekbones, twitchy hands. Seth Orr, Stormy realized. Amelia’s boyfriend. The low-rent dealer Jane had offered to help Amelia get away from.  

“I’m looking for Amelia,” Seth said, trying to push out his chest. “She staying here?”

Before Stormy could answer, the front door opened an inch, then fully. Jane stood there, arms folded rigidly. The moment she saw Seth, her expression tightened.

“She’s not here,” Jane said.

Seth scoffed and took a step closer, his gaze sliding past Stormy toward the doorway. “Yeah, I don’t think so. Amelia!” he suddenly shouted, pitching his voice into the house. “Amelia, hey—I need to talk to you!”

Stormy moved automatically, placing himself between Seth and the door. “That’s enough. You need to leave.”

Seth tried to lean around him, as if Amelia might magically appear. “Dude, back off. She’s not answering her phone, and she’s probably inside freaking out—Amelia!” He raised his voice again, cupping his hands around his mouth.

Stormy’s tone flattened. “Last chance. Walk away.”

Jane kept her foot braced behind the door, not letting it drift open. Stormy saw the smallest movement behind her—Amelia’s pale face peeking from the hallway, eyes wide, terrified. Jane shifted subtly, blocking Seth’s line of sight.

Seth shook his head, restless and agitated. “You’re lying. She wouldn’t just ignore me.” His eyes shot to the doorway again. “Amelia!”

“Enough,” Stormy said, the word coming out low and final. 

A muscle twitched in Seth’s jaw. He looked at Stormy like he wanted to push it to see what would happen, but the thought flickered and died. Seth exhaled hard through his nose. “Fine,” he muttered. “Tell her I stopped by.”

He stalked down the walkway, kicking at the gravel as he went, then disappeared around the corner toward the street.

Stormy waited until he was completely out of sight before turning back to the house. Jane stepped aside and Amelia rushed forward immediately, her entire body trembling.

“He followed me here,” she said, frightened. “He—”

Jane caught her in her arms before she could spiral further. “Hey, hey. You’re safe. He’s gone.”

Amelia pressed her face into Jane’s shoulder, sobbing in quick, panicked bursts.

Stormy shut the door behind them and set his hand on Amelia’s back to comfort her. “He’s not getting near you again,” he said quietly. “Not while we’re here.”

They guided her inside together, closing out the fading sunlight and the echo of Seth’s voice still ringing faintly in the air. The house felt steady again, but Stormy stayed vigil. Seth Orr wasn’t just a nuisance—he was a problem, and Stormy could already feel himself shifting into protective mode, ready for whatever came next. Call it a warm up for when his little one arrives in six months.

* * *

The Silverdale Telepictures mixer was underway at Paper Tiger, a dimly lit bar with just enough edge to feel exclusive. Industry chatter filled the air—casting rumors, ratings talk, whispers of looming mergers.

“Smile and nod,” Kelly murmured over her citrusy spritz. “You’re the shiny new thing. Let’s see if you can hold your own in the wild.”

Riley smirked. “I’m an actor. I can hold anything.”

“Don’t get cocky,” she said, scanning the room. “See the guy in the three-piece suit? Vest, pocket watch, probably smells like moth balls?”

Riley followed her gaze to a man with a shock of white hair. The gold chain of his watch gleamed against the navy pinstripe.  “He looks kind of…” Riley hesitated, searching for diplomacy.

“Old?” Kelly offered. “He is. But that’s Franklin Merrick, the president of Silverdale. They have three of the top ten shows on TV and they churn out a dozen TV movies a year. It’s a traditional operation—very structured. Very… conservative. Just to give you an idea of who you’re working for. Oh, and that’s Merrick’s son, Jason—he’s next-in-line as successor.” She pointed to a younger man with red hair who was surrounded by women.

“So my first big role is with a conservative television studio,” Riley muttered under his breath. “Great.” 

“It’ll get you noticed,” Kelly said, just as a woman in a cobalt blazer and sleek heels approached with a warm, familiar smile.

“Riley,” said Rachel Dresden, the VP of Casting. “So good to see you again.”

Riley smiled. “Hi again. It’s good to see you too. Thank you so much for the invitation.”

“You know, you were impressive in the audition. The team’s still talking about how quickly you found the rhythm of that dining room scene. Honestly, it sealed the deal.”

“I’m glad,” he said, glancing briefly at Kelly, who gave the subtlest nod of approval.

“We’re really excited to have you on Marigold Lane,” Rachel continued. “You’ve got a lot more screen time than you probably realize. Just keep showing up like you did in that room. And don’t be late on Monday—we move fast.”

With a quick squeeze of his arm and a polite nod to Kelly, Rachel slipped away into the crowd, already scanning for the next rising star.

Riley turned back to Kelly, who clinked her glass lightly against his.

Just then, commotion caught their attention. Riley glanced toward the entrance and his stomach flipped.

Zoanne Voss.

She swept into the gathering on the arm of a much younger man—obviously her taste since he knew that from personal experience. When Riley looked closer, he realized who the man was. Ty Stratton, the rival he was often up for the same parts as and who he’d run into at Miranda’s birthday party.  

Riley’s gaze followed them across the room. Zoanne air-kissed someone and Ty remained a half-step behind her, smiling faintly, but speaking to no one. It wasn’t just the posture, or the way he let her lead—it was the performance. Riley had done the same thing at the premiere she took him to.  Suddenly, he realized—Ty wasn’t her date. He was working.

A smirk tugged at Riley’s mouth. Here he was, mingling at a casting mixer for a TV movie he’d just been cast in, while Ty was clearly desperate and on the same escort app where he’d met Zoanne. Funny how the mighty fall.

“You okay?” Kelly asked when she noticed a shift in his posture. 

Riley nodded toward Zoanne and turned away just as she began to make eye contact with him.  “Look who’s here,” he said.   

Kelly followed his gaze, then raised a knowing eyebrow. “Don’t worry. I doubt she’ll out your secret past at a Silverdale mixer. Besides,” she added dryly, “looks like Noir Companions is her go-to source for arm candy.”

With a grin she excused herself to greet someone across the room, disappearing into a group of producers and casting directors.

As soon as she was out of earshot, Ty was approaching Riley with his trademark smug grin.  “Well, well… Riley Weir,” Ty drawled.  “You’re making a habit of crashing these parties. Not a good look, man.”

Riley smiled and put his hands in the pockets of his suit—the same one Zoanne had given him for their date. “Oh, I’m not crashing, Ty. I was invited… by the VP of casting.”

Ty sipped his drink. “That so?”

“Yeah, seems like they treat their talent really well.”  

Ty’s smirk faltered. “Wait, you’re… working for them?”

Riley relished the moment. “Yeah. Got cast in one of their TV movies. We start shooting next week.”

For a second, Ty’s face stiffened. Then the smile returned, but it didn’t quite reach his eyes.  “Huh. Didn’t realize they were hiring… uh… new faces.”

“Guess they are,” Riley said coolly.  “How are you doing? Any big roles coming up?”

Ty glanced over his shoulder, maybe looking for Zoanne, maybe just trying to hide the way his cheeks flushed. “Lots of stuff,” he said, noncommittal. 

Riley smiled. “Yeah, looks like it.”

Before Ty could come up with a comeback, a noise cut through the room—glass hitting tile, a chair skidding, then shouting. Heads snapped toward the bar.

Zoanne and the red-haired man Kelly had pointed out were nose-to-nose, voices rising above the music. Jason Merrick was red-faced, pointing at her like she’d personally ruined his evening.

“I was told you wouldn’t be here!” Zoanne shouted. “Your assistant said—”

“You don’t get to dictate where I go,” he barked back. “Besides, I’m at a mixer for my father’s company!”

“I have a restraining order, Jason!” Zoanne yelled, voice cracking with fury. “You know you’re not allowed to—”

Ty drifted away from Riley, suddenly eager to be at the center of anything chaotic and attention-grabbing.

Kelly materialized at Riley’s side, eyes huge. “They are really going at it.”

Riley was watching Zoanne’s face—terrified beneath the fury. He remembered her telling him that she’d had an aggressive ex and that was why she always had a man to accompany her to events. Now he understood exactly what she meant.

Zoanne stepped back, shaking, security finally pushing between them—and Riley felt something cold settle in his chest. Whatever image she crafted online, whatever glamorous dates she cycled through… this part was real. And ugly. 

Kelly exhaled. “Damn. That’s… rough.”

Riley nodded, eyes still on the doorway. “Yeah,” he murmured. “It is.”

* * *

Sadie turned the last page and looked at the title page again. Reverse L.A. by Sheldon Novak. She set the script on the coffee table and took a slow, cleansing breath like she was sealing a ritual.

“It’s good,” she said simply. “It’s really, really good.”

Iris called from the kitchen where she searched for her AirPods. “I know, right?”

Rising from the sofa, Sadie floated across the room toward her, bracelets chiming. “Oh my god—I was not expecting that twist at the end,” she said, mind racing as her words struggled to keep up. “It feels satisfying, but in a messy, realistic way—you know what I mean? The karma loops actually close.”

Iris nodded eagerly. “Yes!”

“And you know what, honey bunny?—Even though it’s written by a virtual unknown and it’s low budget and has that quirky indy vibe that I detest, you’d be perfect in the lead.” 

Iris shook her head. “What? Me? I don’t think so.”

“But why not?” Sadie picked up the script again and turned to the first page. “June: twenty-four-years-old; funny by reflex, braver than she lets on,” she read. “A watcher who’s about to become a disruptor. Iris, that is you! That’s your frequency.”

“I’m not asking Sheldon for a part in his movie,” Iris said. “He’s my friend. I don’t want him to think I’m using him.”

Sadie studied her. “You’re protecting the friendship.”

“Yes.”

“From your own talent.”

Iris rolled her eyes. “Don’t do that.”

“I’m not doing anything,” Sadie said, softening. “I’m telling you what I see. The field is open.”

“Even if that’s true,” Iris said, “I don’t want to make Sheldon feel obligated into even considering it.”

Sadie leaned back thoughtfully. She reached into her tote and pulled out a moonstone, passing it from hand to hand until it felt warm. “Okay, okay,” she said, another idea already blooming. “I get it. We won’t push against Mercury.”

“So you’ll drop it?” Iris asked, tying her running shoes before heading to the door.

“Of course,” Sadie told her. “I will not suggest asking Sheldon for a favor again. I release attachment.” She made a little flicking gesture, as if sending it to the Universe.

“Good,” Iris said, offering a smile and opening the door. “See you after my run.”

“Toodles,” Sadie called, tracing a lazy infinity sign in the air.

After she’d gone, Sadie pulled out her phone and did a quick Instagram search for Lara Devon. Her own posts were glossy, but the tagged ones weren’t. Several featured her in the same room, week after week: folding chairs, a metal coffee urn, a Sharpie-marked cup. Captions like “Thursday crew” and “one day at a time” were scrawled across many of them. The geotag was a church on Franklin; one photo even caught a wall sign: A.A. – Thursdays 7 PM.

“Okay, then,” she said, palming the moonstone like a plan. “Tomorrow at seven. Consider the path… opened.”

* * *

When he got home shortly after 6, Riley pushed the front door open. Inside, he saw Steve sitting at one end of the sofa, his arms loosely around Natalie, who was curled beside him, visibly shaken. Her eyes were red. She looked up sharply when Riley entered.

“Hey,” he said cautiously, stepping inside and letting the door ease shut behind him. “What’s going on?”

Steve’s expression tensed. “Where’ve you been?”

“The Silverdale mixer. I told you before I left.”  

“That was this morning,” Steve insisted.

“Tell me what happened,” Riley said. “Nat?”

She opened her mouth, but nothing came out. Her lips quivered slightly, and she looked down at her hands.

Steve met Riley’s eyes. “It’s Briggs. That meet and greet with the producer at the hotel today? There was no producer.” 

Riley froze. “Wait—what?”

Steve’s voice hardened. “He got her alone in the room, locked the door. He attacked her. She got away before he could hurt her too badly.”

Riley’s face drained. He crossed the room in two long strides, crouching in front of Natalie.

“I’m sorry,” he whispered, searching her face. “I should’ve been there. I should’ve warned you harder. I just—” 

Natalie wiped at her cheek, still avoiding his eyes. “I thought it was a real opportunity. God, how stupid could I be?”

“No.” He reached for her hand and squeezed it. “This is my fault. I never should’ve let you go. I should’ve trusted my gut.”

Behind them, Steve stood and stepped back, arms folded. The air in the room was heavy, thick with grief and guilt.

“Where is he?” Riley asked as he rose to his feet, his fists balled at his sides.

“I took care of it,” Steve said with a firm nod. “He won’t be bothering her again.”

Riley looked at him with uncertainty, then knelt back down to Natalie. He gently tucked a strand of hair behind her ear. “I’m gonna make this right.”

She didn’t respond as she leaned into his touch.

* * *

The next morning was business as usual at M.B.A.  They gathered in the conference room and shared updates, with Miranda first listing what still needed to be done for the upcoming party.  

“Florals need to be re-quoted; the greenery mix they sent over was unacceptable,” she said, scrolling through her tablet. “Catering still owes us the revised menu. And someone,” her eyes flicked toward Heather, “needs to remind Brett that the media will be there, so he needs to be on his best behavior.”

Heather, curled over her laptop, laughed, “I’ll tell him.”

Kelly nodded along, already typing a reminder into her phone. Jane reviewed the printed schedule, underlining items with precision.

Miranda continued, “The media wall mockup was supposed to arrive yesterday. I want it approved by noon so we’re not dealing with surprises.”

Jane slid a folder across the table. “I updated the guest list. We’re still waiting on four RSVPs.”

“Who?” Miranda asked.

“Your mother, for one,” Jane said.

Miranda rolled her eyes. “That tracks. Alex is the queen of late RSVP’s. Who else?”

“Um… Walter Smith, Zoanne Voss, and Shelby Ta—”

Kelly quickly interrupted. “Ladies, I totally forgot to tell you what happened yesterday at the Silverdale mixer,” she said, quickly garnering everyone’s attention. “Zoanne Voss showed up and got into it with Jason Merrick. I mean, security had to have her removed.”

“Got into it how?” Heather asked. 

“Just like screaming bloody murder at each other,” Kelly said, a hand to her forehead as if still in disbelief. “She said something about having a restraining order against him.” 

“They used to date,” Miranda announced. “I don’t think it ended well, and rumor has it Jason Merrick has quite the tempter.”

“Well, it was quite the scene,” Kelly said dramatically.  

“Which reminds me,” Jane cut in, “Amelia’s boyfriend showed up at our house yesterday wanting to talk to her.”  

“Did you let him?” Miranda asked, shocked. 

Jane shook her head. “No, she doesn’t want to see him. We told him she wasn’t there. I don’t know if he believed it, but he’s pretty adamant. I might talk to her about getting a restraining order come to think of it.  She’s such a sweet girl, and genuinely nice. I can’t imagine anyone talking to her the way he does. She told me that’s why she cuts herself.” 

“Poor girl,” Heather said with a shake of her head.  

The room fell quiet for several long seconds as they all absorbed the situation, breaking only when the elevator dinged out in the reception area.

Kelly pushed back her chair. “I’ll go see who—”

Miranda rose swiftly, cutting her off with a raised hand. “Actually, that’s someone I’ve been expecting.” She checked her watch. “Only thirty minutes late. A personal best for her.”

She slipped out of the conference room and returned moments later, posture triumphant. “Ladies,” she announced, beaming far too brightly, “meet our new receptionist.”

Kelly straightened with relief. “Finally!”

Courtney DeLoache stepped inside. Heather shot to her feet, eyes widening. “Courtney? Oh my god—it’s been forever.”

“Hi, Heather.” Courtney smiled, a little shy. “Surprised?”

“Very.” Heather glanced between her and Miranda. “I mean… didn’t you two basically hate each other in high school?”

Miranda waved a dismissive hand, as if shooing away a fruit fly. “High school was a thousand years ago. I barely remember people from last week.”

Heather pressed on. “Right, but… I’m confused. Aren’t your father and your husband, like, ridiculously loaded? Why would you need—”

Miranda cut in with theatrical sympathy, even tilting her head for effect. “Clark left her,” she said, pouting in a way that didn’t match the sparkle in her eyes. “Left her with nothing. Absolutely nothing.”

Courtney’s cheeks reddened, though she kept her smile polite.

“And it is the holiday season,” Miranda went on, clasping her hands dramatically. “A time for charity. For giving. Extending a hand to those in… transitional periods.” She gave Courtney a sugary smile. “It just felt right to bring her on. My good deed of the year.”

Heather blinked. Kelly’s jaw worked like she was biting back a reaction. Jane offered Courtney a small, genuine nod of welcome.

Miranda, meanwhile, was glowing—radiant, almost—like someone who had just placed the final bow on a perfectly wrapped present.

Courtney swallowed, smiled again, and murmured, “I’m really grateful for the opportunity.”

“Okay, let’s get you trained on those phones,” Miranda said and headed out of the conference room.  

Everyone followed her, Courtney pausing by the door next to Heather. “Am I making a mistake?” she asked.  

Heather thought for a brief moment.  “Probably,” she said and then smiled as she led Courtney out of the room.  

* * *

Third morning in a row.

Brett stood across from the gallery, coffee in hand, pretending to look at a framed abstract in the window. The same swirl of color. The same sunshine over the pavement. His same growing obsession.

He told himself it was insane. She might be no one. A stylist. An influencer. A walking illusion. But even as the rational part of his brain protested, the rest of him scanned the street like a radar dish.

Then she appeared again. His heart began to race as she exited the gallery’s side entrance, a large flat object wrapped in brown paper gripped in both hands. Probably art from the gallery, Brett concluded.  

He stepped into the street, trailing half a block behind. She turned down a shaded stretch off La Cienega—lined with boutique offices and showroom spaces. Brett kept pace, half-expecting her to vanish again into thin air. But not this time.

She stopped and opened a glass door emblazoned with elegant gold serif lettering that read DYER INTERIORS. Mid-century furniture and velvet swatches were visible through the windows. She stepped inside and disappeared behind a gauzy curtain.

Brett stood there, frozen. He could hear his heart in his ears. He moved closer to the door, looked in, and let his eyes travel through the space. Before he knew it, the woman had emerged from the curtain and spotted him. He panicked. His first instinct was to walk away, but she’d already seen him, and he desperately wanted nothing more than to know who she was. Taking a breath, he opened the door and stepped inside. 

“Hello,” the woman said. Her voice was like an angel sighing. “Can I help you?” 

Brett stared at her for a moment. Too long probably, but he was struggling to find something to say—anything that would get the conversation going.  For a moment, he thought she recognized him from the street the two times their paths had crossed, but the look on her face told him no, she was looking at a stranger.  

“I was looking for a designer,” he finally said, his words coming out slow and tentative.

“Oh?” the woman asked, interested, and took a few steps closer. “What kind of space?” 

“My house,” he said without thinking too much about it.

“The whole thing?” she asked, impressed.  “That’s quite a job.”  

He nodded, sweating. Why? Women didn’t make him nervous. He could talk to any woman in the world and have her in bed in fifteen minutes. Why was she any different?

“Are you available?” Brett asked.  

The woman went to a gilded marble desk across the room. Brett watched the way her cream skirt hugged her curves. 

“I am actually between jobs at the moment,” she said and referenced a planner laid out on the desk. “I just picked up the final piece of art for a bungalow in Venice that I just finished.  Where is your house?” 

“Also Venice,” he said. “I live on Ocean Front Walk.” 

“Well, I’m very familiar with that neighborhood,” she said, her eyes lighting up.  She stepped forward and extended a hand.  “I’m Sharon Dyer.”

“Brett Armstrong,” he said and shook her hand.  It felt soft and supple in his, and best of all, she wasn’t wearing a wedding ring.   

“Nice to meet you, Mr. Armstrong,” she said. “I’d like to take a look at your house to help me get an idea of the size of the project so I know how long it would take.”

“Okay,” he said.

She went back to her planner and checked the calendar.  “Are you available tomorrow morning? Say nine-thirty?”

He didn’t even need to look at his calendar. “Yes, that’s fine.”  

Smiling, she handed him a business card.  “Text me your address.  I look forward to seeing what I can do for you, Mr. Armstrong.” 

“Brett, please,” he said and took the card.  “So am I.” 

 * * *

The church basement smelled faintly of coffee and floor wax. Metal chairs scraped across the floor, a half-circle formed in the center. Sadie waited. She’d chosen a seat near the back and tried not to make eye contact with anyone.  

Lara stood when it was her turn, a paper cup cupped in both hands.  “I got my ten-year chip yesterday,” she said. Applause rang out in the room. “My husband asked why I was coming to a meeting the very next day after celebrating this milestone. But to me, whether it’s one day, one week, ten years or twenty—you don’t take your foot off the gas just because you hit one mark. You’ll slip. I did, a hundred times. You put in the work every day and that’s how you get to the next milestone.”

The chairperson read the closing. People stood, some joined hands, some didn’t. The serenity prayer was read, and then attendees scattered into small groups as they filtered out.

When Lara emptied her cup and tossed it into a wastebasket, Sadie approached her.  “Hi,” she said, voice quiet, almost shy. “I’m… Sadie. It’s my first meeting.”

Lara’s smile brightened. “Welcome.”

“I—” Sadie glanced at the room, the exits, the stack of chairs. She made herself meet Lara’s eyes. “I didn’t share. I wanted to. My throat just…” She lifted a hand to her collarbone, embarrassed. “Locked.”

“That happens,” Lara said gently. “It’s okay. You came and that’s all that matters.”

Sadie let out a shaky breath that wasn’t entirely performance. “Congratulations on your chip,” she added. “What you said about keeping your foot on the gas was… helpful.”

“Thanks.” Lara slung the tote higher on her shoulder. 

“I’m not asking you to be my sponsor,” Sadie blurted, then offered a tentative smile. “I know that’s not how this works. I just… wondered if you’d want to grab a coffee. Somewhere nearby. I could use someone to… talk to. Privately.”

Lara studied her, not suspicious so much as careful. Then she nodded toward the stairs. “There’s a coffee shop around the corner,” she said. “I’ve got twenty minutes before I have to be somewhere.”

Sadie’s response was quiet, relieved. “Perfect,” she said. “Thank you.”

They climbed the steps together into the late-afternoon light, the church door swinging shut behind them.

 * * *

“I used to be an actress,” Lara said as she and Sadie sat down at the coffee shop moments later. “But who wasn’t, right? Now I’m married, blissful—shockingly domestic. I’ve been thinking about the other side of the camera. Maybe a small company. Stories I actually want to tell.”

Sadie’s face softened, eyes going glassy on cue. She let her shoulders fall and folded the napkin in half, then in half again, as if steadying herself.

“My mother was an actress,” she murmured. “She… loved the work.”

Lara’s smile gentled. “Was?”

Sadie nodded. She stared at the napkin, then looked up with as much vulnerability as she could muster. “She passed away recently.”

“I’m so sorry.” 

Sadie drew a breath. “It was one of those long, mean illnesses that keeps changing its name every time you think you’ve learned it. A year of specialists and ‘good days’ that made the bad ones feel like you imagined them.”

Lara said nothing, only nodded.

“Our mother was the kind of woman who filled a room with her personality, and then one day Iris and I were rearranging furniture so the hospice bed could fit by the window. We learned the language—oxygen, titration, hospice nurse shifts—stuff I hope I never say again.”

Her mouth tilted, almost a smile. “We took turns being with her at night. Iris watched her old movies with her and I’d hold a straw to her mouth and swear I could feel her trying to drink the whole world through it.”

Lara’s eyes began to tear up.

“On the last night, she reached for our hands and said, ‘Help each other achieve your dreams.’ Then she said she wanted Iris to carry the torch, that she had the gift just as she had. The gift for taking the words on a page and performing them like they’re her truth. Then she closed her eyes, and… it was over.”

Lara’s fingers loosened on the mug. “That’s a beautiful wish.”

“She made me promise I’d help,” Sadie said, her eyes shining.

“What kind of stories did your mother love?” Lara asked.

“Ones that give you hope,” she said. “She was a hard worker. That’s why when you talked about ‘putting in the work’ at the meeting today, it really resonated with me.” She tilted her head. “She would have liked you.”

They sat in silence for a few moments while Sadie tried to determine if her words had any affect on her.  

After making plans to meet for coffee before the next meeting, Sadie went home and found Iris painting her nails on the floor. 

“Hi,” Iris said without looking up.  “Mommy called. She said to call her back when you got home.”

“Okay, thanks honey,” Sadie said gleefully. 

 * * *

Amelia sat curled into the corner of Stormy and Jane’s sofa, wrapped in a blanket she didn’t really need, staring at nothing while her phone vibrated over and over beside her. She didn’t have to look to know the messages were from Seth—his name kept flashing across the screen, each preview line a little more insistent than the last, begging her to talk, insisting he just wanted to “fix things,” and finally warning that she “couldn’t hide over there forever,” which made her chest tighten until she could hardly breathe.

The house, usually comforting in its quiet, felt too still now, and every small creak of the floorboards made her flinch as though he might somehow be standing right outside the door. She shoved her phone under a pillow in a futile attempt to silence it, but the vibrations kept slipping through the cushions anyway.

Amelia pulled the blanket tighter around herself and tried to steady her breathing, counting the minutes until Stormy and Jane would finally come home and the house would feel safe again.

 * * *

Seth sent another text—Answer me. I know you see these—and when Amelia didn’t reply, the silence gnawed at him until he couldn’t stay still. He shoved his phone away and headed deeper into the marina, the long docks stretching out into the darkening water, each step echoing in the quiet.

Slip numbers ticked by—402, 403, 404—until he reached 407.  A large figure stepped out from between two yachts, blocking his path. Bruno. No greeting, no expression, just a curt nod telling Seth to follow.

Bruno opened the cabin door and Seth stepped inside. Mickey Donovan turned from the window, whiskey in hand. Without a word, Seth set the backpack on the table. 

Mickey unzipped it, flipped through the stacks of cash, and nodded once. “Nice work.”

Bruno handed Seth a smaller duffel, heavy with drugs. 

Mickey lifted his glass slightly. “Try pushing the pills again. You moved them well last time.”

Seth nodded, gripping the bag. “No problem.”

“Try the schools again,” Mickey added. “Those rich snobs have plenty of money for extracurricular entertainment.”

“Sounds good,” Seth told him.