Last time on L.A. Connections…

While celebrating ten years of sobriety, Lara announced a new production company, then expressed an interest in Sheldon’s screenplay. But Sadie, determined to crown Iris as the star, infiltrated Lara’s AA meeting by posing as an addict and wormed her way into Lara’s trust. After Natalie was attacked by Briggs, Steve beat him up and warned him against coming near her again, while Riley grappled with guilt for not being there for her. Meanwhile, Mickey pushed Brett into launching production of a sham film to wash drug money, and Seth—exposed as one of Mickey’s drug mules—turned up at Stormy and Jane’s looking for Amelia, only for Stormy to send him packing. At a Silverdale Telepictures mixer, Riley spotted his rival Ty Stratton cozying up to Zoanne, whose ex—the CEO’s volatile son—later erupted into a public altercation with her. Back at M.B.A., Miranda hired Courtney as the agency’s new receptionist, while Brett secretly tailed his mystery woman to an interior design firm and promptly hired her under the guise of redecorating his home—when really, he wanted to get to know her.

* * *

Natalie stirred beneath the covers, her face scrunching as early morning sunlight filtered through the curtains of their bedroom. Riley sat on the edge of the bed, dressed in dark jeans and a charcoal button-down, his hair damp from the shower. 

“Nat,” he whispered. 

“What time is it?” she murmured, her eyes barely open.

“Just after seven,” he said, brushing a piece of hair from her cheek. “I’ve got that meeting at Silverdale this morning about the script revisions.”

She blinked, her groggy state giving way to the hollow ache that had settled in her chest the past few days. “You’re going now?”

“Yeah, I gotta be there by eight. I’ll text you after.”

“I wanted you to stay.” Her voice was filled with disappointment.

“I know, but this is important, Nat. They’re locking in rewrites and call sheets—this is kind of make-or-break.”

She pulled the covers closer to her chin. “It’s always important. Just once I wish I took priority over something.”

“You know how important this is,” he said, “And I’ll be home right after.” 

“Yeah,” she said, her eyes darting away from him.

Riley sighed, visibly torn, but didn’t argue. He leaned down and kissed her forehead. “I love you,” he said softly.

Then he was gone, and a moment later the front door shut with a soft thud.

Natalie lay still for a while, staring out the window. Then came the sound of movement outside the bedroom door. A floorboard creaked, followed by a gentle knock.

Steve’s voice came through, soft and tentative. “You awake, Nat?”

She didn’t answer right away.

The door opened anyway, and Steve stepped halfway in—shirtless and in boxers, his smooth, muscular frame backlit by the morning sun. “You okay?” he asked, his voice gentler than usual.

Natalie turned her head to look at him, eyes puffy, but she managed a distant nod.

He lingered in the doorway. “You want some breakfast? I was thinking eggs or maybe waffles.”

A moment or two passed, then a faint smile tugged at her lips. “Waffles sound good.”

Steve smiled back. “Then waffles it is.”

And for the first time since the incident with Briggs, she felt a little less alone.

* * *

The light reflecting off the ocean spilled across the kitchen tile, the early sun working its way through the glass doors. Violet stood near the center island, a Prada bag over her shoulder and her biology textbook tucked under an arm. 

Brett stood near the stove, a steaming cup of coffee in his hand. “I’m glad you stopped by,” he said softly. “Even if it’s just to pick up the biology book you left the other night. But I could have brought it to you.” 

She gave a shrug, brushing her long blond hair behind her ear. “My first class isn’t until ten, so I didn’t mind.” 

“How’s school this week?”

She looked down at her book, then back up. “Really good. Busy with midterms coming up.”

“Hope you’re making time for a social life between all those honors classes.”

Nodded happily, her eyes lit up.  “There’s a drama club party at Ava Solomon’s tomorrow night. Just the cast and some tech crew.”

“Sounds fun.” He smiled. “Should I pretend to object so it feels more rebellious?”

She blushed a little. “No. Just… maybe don’t text me five times if I don’t answer right away.”

“Three times. Final offer.”

This made her smile again as she moved toward the doorway.  “I better get going.”  

Brett led her to the front door, guiding her gently with a hand on her back.  “Have fun tomorrow night.”

“Thanks.” 

The doorbell buzzed just as Brett reached for the handle. When he opened it, Sharon Dyer stood on the doorstep, radiant in the morning light. Behind her, the ocean shimmered, framing her like a magazine cover.

“Am I early?” she asked, smiling.

Brett shook his head, momentarily caught off guard by her presence. “No, perfect timing.” He stepped aside, gesturing between the two. “Sharon, this is my daughter, Violet. Violet, this is Sharon Dyer—she’s an interior designer I hired to redo the house.”

Violet offered a polite smile. “Hi.”  Then, glancing up at her father: “Didn’t you just redo everything, like… last ye—”

Brett cut her off with a gentle kiss to the forehead, ushering her toward the door. “Have a great day at school, sweetheart. Love you.”

She paused, then kissed his cheek in return. “Love you too, Dad.”

He watched Violet disappear down the walkway, his eyes gleaming with adoration. With a slow exhale, he closed the door and turned.

Sharon stood just inside the entry, sunlight casting over her hair like strands of gold. “She’s lovely,” she said, her voice genuine.

“Thanks,” Brett murmured, collecting himself. “I’m really proud of her.”

He gestured for her to follow, leading her into the sweeping living room, where clean lines met polished concrete floors and two-story windows framed the Pacific.

Sharon walked slowly, her heels tapping against the polished floor. Her eyes moved over the space—the floating staircase, the bookshelves built into architectural niches, the doors leading out to the terrace and the sea beyond.

“Your home is beautiful, Mr. Armstrong,” she said, her gaze lingering on a sculptural lighting fixture above the seating area. “It’s very masculine. I’m curious how Mrs. Armstrong feels about that.”

Brett stopped near the edge of the sofa, resting his hand lightly on the plush fabric. “It’s Brett,” he corrected with a grin. “And there is no Mrs. Armstrong. Violet’s mother and I divorced a few years ago.”

Sharon nodded slowly, then stepped closer, her fingers brushing lightly over the back of a leather chair. “Well,” she said, glancing up at him with the hint of a smile, “let’s talk about softening some of the edges.”

Brett met her eyes. And for a few seconds, neither of them looked away.

* * *

The glossy black SUV glided up Benedict Canyon, sunlight flashing across the hood as Taylor Swift’s Anti-Hero vibrated through the speakers. Miranda drove with one hand, tapping the wheel in perfect rhythm, her Cartier cuff reflecting light through the windshield.

Heather sat in the passenger seat behind large Chanel sunglasses. In the middle row, Jane and Kelly were already half-buried in their phones checking emails and scanning calendar entries. 

Miranda, however, was far too energized for quiet. “Okay, so—tomorrow night’s agency party,” she announced, practically glowing. “I swear, I haven’t been this excited about an event in ages. It’s going to be massive. The video package that videographer Stormy recommended is brilliant. It’s gonna bring the room down.”

“I hope Riley, Iris and Siobahn are ready for the press they’re about to get,” Jane said.

“Did you invite Amelia?” Heather asked, craning her neck to the backseat. 

“Yeah, but I don’t know if she’ll come,” Jane replied. “She just doesn’t want to risk a run in with Seth.” 

They turned into a quiet but outrageously expensive Bel Air street. Miranda slowed to a stop in front of a minimalist white home with glass walls and perfectly groomed hedges.

Heather glanced up. “Courtney’s place?”

“Mhm,” Miranda said, almost humming.

“Why are we picking her up last? She lives, like, right by you.”

“Oh, no reason,” Miranda said with an exaggerated shrug and a clever smile. “I guess I just have a lot on my mind and didn’t even think about picking her up first.”

Courtney emerged from her front door, wearing platform sandals and a bright smile. She waved enthusiastically. “Hi!” she called as she neared the SUV. 

“Good morning, Courtney,” Miranda said from her open window. “So glad you could join our little agency carpool. We try to help the environment however we can.” 

Courtney opened the middle door automatically—only to see Jane and Kelly sitting there, belted and immovable.

“Oh!” Courtney blinked. “Um… I guess I’ll sit in the third row?”

Miranda’s voice dripped with supportive warmth. “It’s perfect. So cozy. Like your own private suite.”

Heather covered her mouth, trying not to laugh.

Courtney climbed in. Or tried to. The third-row opening wasn’t friendly: she had to twist sideways, duck, contort, and wedge herself past the seatbelt anchor. One of her shoes scraped the doorframe with an audible skhhk, and her tote bag nearly clocked Kelly in the temple.

Finally, breathless, she plopped into the tiny seat, knees nearly touching her collarbone.

“Whew!” she panted.

Heather leaned into Miranda, whispering, “You’re terrible.”

Miranda kept her eyes forward, innocence painted across her face.  “I have no idea what you’re talking about.”

* * *

After breakfast, Natalie and Steve drifted back to the couch, mugs of coffee cooling on the table between them. 

“I keep wondering if we should’ve even moved to L.A.,” Natalie said quietly. “It feels like the city just… eats us. And Riley—he’s slipping away from me. Or I’m slipping away from him. I don’t know.”

Steve watched her, elbows on his knees, hands clasped. “You’re not slipping,” he said. “You’re trying to hold everything together. He’s the one who’s not there for you.”

She looked down at her hands. “Maybe we weren’t ready for this. Maybe this place is wrong for us.” She looked up quickly. “I’m grateful that I met you, though. I don’t know what I would have done if you hadn’t been there after Briggs…”

Steve hesitated, then reached out and rested a hand gently on her leg.  Natalie froze. His touch wasn’t forceful or pushy. It was tender, and she had to admit it felt nice.

“Natalie…” Steve said quietly. He leaned in slowly, almost as if waiting for her to stop him. His breath brushed her cheek. 

For a moment, Natalie felt her own heartbeat in her throat. Then he kissed her.

He pulled back instantly, his eyes wide with regret. “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have done that. Not again. I just—” He shook his head, his voice rough. “You’re hurting, and I can’t stand to see you like this, Nat. I didn’t mean to cross a line.”

Natalie stared at him, stunned into stillness. She didn’t speak. Didn’t move.

Steve searched her face, and when she didn’t stop him, he leaned in again, slower this time. The second kiss was deeper and longer. When he finally broke away, breathing unevenly, he stood. Natalie waited a beat before rising to her feet.  

They kissed again—this time with passion—frantic and hungry. Steve lifted her into his arms, her legs straddling him, and carried her to the bedroom. After laying her down on the bed, he stripped off her clothes, then peeled off his shirt and let his shorts drop to the floor. Standing above her, he gazed down at her tanned, taut body. 

Panting with exhilaration, he lowered himself on top of her, lips pressed against hers and guided his throbbing cock into her aching pussy. For a moment, he didn’t move, savoring the feeling of their bodies joining at long last. Staring into her eyes, he began moving his hips up and down, gliding effortlessly with the slickness of her juices. As he went faster, her hips bucked wildly, grinding into him with urgency. 

* * *

They walked the sand where the tide had just withdrawn, shoes in their hands, the late morning cool enough to keep the beach mostly empty. Lara’s sunglasses flashed when the sun broke the clouds, then dimmed as she turned back toward the water.

“It was a Tuesday morning and I’d run out of bourbon,” Sadie said, making the story up as she went along. “I was late for a meeting with my spiritual advisor, hair half-dry, coffee going cold—and I unscrewed the vanilla extract and poured it into the mug like it was normal. I told myself it was ‘just to take the edge off.’ My whole kitchen smelled like cookies, and I felt sick because I knew exactly what I was doing and why. I dumped the coffee, sat on the floor, and googled the nearest meeting. That was the first one I went to.”

“You did the right thing,” Lara said after letting out a breath. “And you’re lucky because many people don’t get that far, and then it’s too late.”  

“I wish I’d had someone like you to look up to back then,” Sadie said, knowing she was laying it on thick, but it was necessary. “I mean, look at you. Wife, actress, entrepreneur. You’ve really shown what you’re made of.” 

Lara smiled. “I still take it one day at a time just like the rest of us. I have to. A slip up is always right around the corner.” 

“So what are you working on?” Sadie asked, pitching it light, like this was small talk and not a scouting mission.

“Negotiations, mostly. There’s a writer I like—Sheldon. We’re circling a deal.”

Sadie feigned surprise. “That’s a funny coincidence. I just read a script by someone named Sheldon—Reverse L.A.  He and Iris are friends, so I got a preview. I loved it.” 

“That’s the same one!” Lara exclaimed.

“Yeah?” Sadie asked. “Small world.”

Lara nodded in agreement. “Yeah.”

“You know, I couldn’t stop seeing Iris in the lead,” Sadie said. She watched for a reaction and got the barest nod. “It really felt like it was written for her.”

“Mmh,” was Lara’s noncommittal response. She looked ahead at a runner cutting a path near the lifeguard tower. “We’re a ways from casting.”

“Of course,” Sadie said quickly, matching Lara’s pace. “You haven’t signed, table reads are months away, you’re still courting money. I get it.”

Lara bent to pick up a shell, turned it once, then let it fall. “I don’t like letting my AA peers into my personal life. Saves everyone heartache. Just putting it out there.” 

“Totally,” Sadie said, all agreement. She let a wave lick her toes and pretended to be fascinated by a knot of kelp. “I only mentioned her because… it fits.” She looked up. “It’s just… I kept thinking how proud Mommy would be of Iris if she were alive to see her in this role.”

They walked a few more yards where the only sounds were the rush of waves. Lara asked about Sadie’s week; Sadie told a light, edited version. At the pier, Lara checked her watch.

“I’ve got to get to a fundraising meeting,” she said. “Thanks for walking with me. And don’t forget; one day at a time. You’re going to be fine, Sadie.”

“I think so,” Sadie replied almost through her teeth.

They parted with a quick wave. Lara headed toward the lot; Sadie stood back a moment longer, letting the tide circle her ankles. Once she was sure the woman was a safe distance away, she scowled, disappointed and a little angry that her plan had stalled. 

She’d have to be a little more aggressive in her approach. 

* * *

Natalie shut the apartment door quietly behind her. Steve was still on the couch, arms crossed, his jaw clenched. He stood the moment he saw her.

“Where’d you go?” he asked. “You ran off right after…”

She set her purse down and exhaled, not meeting his eyes. “I just needed to clear my head.”

Steve took a step toward her. “Are you okay?”

“I’m fine,” she said. “But what happened earlier… making love… it was a mistake.”

Steve’s face dropped. “I’m sorry,” he said immediately. “I shouldn’t have—”

“No,” she cut him off gently. “I wanted it too. I’m not putting this all on you. But that doesn’t make it right.”

Steve swallowed hard, nodding slowly.

“It can’t happen again,” Natalie said firmly, though her voice was shaking. “I won’t tell Riley. I don’t want to hurt him. But this… this isn’t something we come back from.”

Silence hung between them.

“I think you should move out,” she added after a moment.

He blinked. “This is my apartment.”

“I know. And I’m not kicking you out—not really. Riley and I will figure something out. Find our own place once the lease is up. You can have it back. But for now… I think some space would be good. For all of us.”

Steve looked down at the floor, then ran a hand over his face. “What are you gonna tell him?”

“I’ll make something up,” she said. “Say you found a spot closer to work, or you and Jeanie patched things up. Something simple. Something that doesn’t make things worse.”

He nodded, reluctantly. “Okay.”

Natalie turned toward the hallway, pausing only once to glance back. The weight of what they’d done hung heavy between them—unspoken and inescapable.

* * *

Victor Distefano’s study looked less like a place to read and more like a museum dedicated to himself. Oil portraits of him from every decade hung on the walls—Victor as Hamlet, Victor as Macbeth, Victor as a Roman general whose costume left little to the imagination.

He and Vaughan were already deep in conversation when the butler showed Keaton into the room. Victor spun toward him in a burgundy velvet smoking jacket.

“Ah! The young scribe arrives, quill in hand, mind aflame with ambition!” he boomed. “Come, Master Hartley. Approach the sacred trove.”

Keaton paused, one brow lifting as he glanced at Vaughan.

“Brace yourself,” Vaughan murmured. “He’s been warming up.”

“I heard that, knave,” Victor declared grandly, though his smile suggested he adored the attention. “But no matter. Today is a day of scholarship! A day of awakening! A day when the relics of Nathan Blackthorne shall whisper their truths!”

Keaton stepped forward. On the wide coffee table—carved walnut, clawed feet, absurdly ornate—lay three archival boxes stacked neatly, lids open. Inside were loose papers, thick envelopes, a small leatherbound notebook, even a few untouched film contracts yellowed with time.

“All of this belonged to Nathan?” Keaton asked.

Victor rested a hand on his heart. “Aye. Many a night did the great thespian entrust these humble pages to my safekeeping. ‘Victor,’ he spake unto me”—he deepened his voice several unnecessary octaves—“‘should the hour come when my story must be told anew, deliver these to one worthy.’”

“Keaton, if your screenplay is already finished, why did you ask for more material for research?” Vaughan asked. 

“Rewrites,” he replied. “Until I get a studio to produce it locked in, I’m trying to add some more historical facts.”

“I’m sure Nathan would approve,” Vaughan said. 

Keaton’s eyes searched the first box, fingers hovering above the pages. “This is… incredible. These letters aren’t in any of the biographies.” 

“Because,” Victor proclaimed, “the biographies were penned by cowards who trembled before the studio gods! Nathan’s truth was—how shall I put it—inconvenient.”

Vaughan smirked. “Meaning: scandalous.”

Victor beamed. “Precisely.”

“I just want the rewrites to be honest. The film deserves that. He deserves that.”

Victor stepped closer. “Then heed well what you find, lad. Nathan’s heart beat fiercely in these pages. His triumphs, his torments, his loves.”

Keaton stifled a laugh as he unfolded the first letter. “This one mentions the last picture he tried to get made. Something about a partner no one ever identified.”

Victor grew suddenly solemn—still dramatic, but less ludicrous. “Aye. The silent partner. The shadow. The one who financed dreams with a whisper and vanished like smoke.”

Keaton looked up. “You know who it was?”

Victor steepled his fingers, his voice dropping low. “I do.”

Vaughan leaned in, interest finally sparked. “So tell him.”

Victor inhaled theatrically. “That,” he declared, “requires brandy. I shan’t be a moment.”

With a sweep of velvet, he drifted out, presumably in search of his long-suffering butler.

Keaton immediately bent over the letters again, fully absorbed. Vaughan wandered to the built-in shelves along the far wall. They were a shrine to obsolete media—reel cans, cassette tapes, dusty VHS spines. He scanned lazily, pretending interest, until one handwritten label caught his eye: HEATHER RYDELL SESSIONS—2008

A slow, calculating spark lit behind his eyes. Whatever this was, it might be useful—if not now, then when he needed leverage. Jordan’s daughter was Miranda’s partner at the Miranda Blackthorne Agency, an empire that was too polished; cracks like these were rare.

Keaton rustled through papers behind him, oblivious.

Vaughan glanced toward the hallway, then slid the VHS free and slipped it into the inner pocket of his jacket in one smooth, practiced motion.

By the time Victor’s booming voice echoed back down the corridor—“Alas! The brandy was hiding behind the port!”—Vaughan had rejoined Keaton, hands folded innocently behind his back.

* * *

The next morning, Sadie swept into the Miranda Blackthorne Agency precisely three minutes early wearing a green kaftan and a long chain of amber thudding against her chest with each step.

“You’re new,” she said to Courtney at the reception desk, the corners of her mouth lifting in a condescending smile. “Iris Knox’s manager.”

Courtney—already briefed—didn’t bother checking the calendar.

“I have a ten o’clock with Heather Rydell,” Sadie announced, setting her tote on the counter as if staking a claim. “Please let her know I’m here—she’ll want to move quickly.”

“She’ll be out momentarily,” Courtney said, matching her tone.  

Sadie stood, waiting impatiently until the inner door opened and Heather appeared. 

“Sadie,” Heather said evenly.

“Heather,” Sadie replied. “You look… very Capricorn.”

“I’ll take it.” Heather ushered her down the hallway and into the glass-walled conference room.

Once they sat, Sadie planted a velvet pouch beside her elbow and rested her palms lightly on the table, eyes shining with rehearsed sincerity.  “First of all, thank you for making time to discuss Iris’s career,” she began.

“Thank you for making an appointment,” Heather countered.

“Lara Devon,” Sadie said, then paused for dramatic effect, “is circling a producing deal on Sheldon Novak’s new screenplay. I’m sure you’re aware of what a buzz it’s already creating.”

Heather’s face didn’t change. “Go on.”

“If that happens,” Sadie continued, “we want Iris positioned for the lead. Not as a favor but because she’s right for it. I’m asking you to make that happen.”

Heather took a breath and then exhaled deeply. “We’ve been over this. I’m cultivating Iris’s career strategically. Incremental visibility, age-appropriate roles that build equity. Not leaping into a lead in a high-concept satire because it’s trendy.”

“It’s not trendy, it’s aligned to our goals,” Sadie said. “And it’s not a leap; it’s a step onto the path she’s already walking. The role was practically written with her bones.”

“Even if that’s true,” Heather said, “the timing may not be. Momentum isn’t magic. I’m asking you to trust the plan. We have a network arc on deck. A prestige guest shot in June. If those land, Iris can read for something like Sheldon’s screenplay and be taken seriously.”

Sadie reached into the velvet pouch and produced a small quartz stone, placing it upright between them. “For clarity,” she announced. “I think you’re sticking your head in the sand if you think—”

“Stop,” Heather said, the word gentle but final. “You came here to ask me to do my job, and I am. My job is protecting a career from bad bets.”

“Or maybe what Iris needs is representation that believes in her now, not later.”

Heather’s expression remained unreadable. She picked up her tablet, folded the cover, and set it aside. “If that’s what you want,” she said, “then let’s not waste each other’s time.”

Sadie blinked, surprised by the ease of it. “Meaning?”

“Meaning I’m not going to fight you for a client whose manager doesn’t trust me,” Heather said. “If you think Iris needs new representation, then good luck. Truly. I wish her the best.”

“You’re firing her?” Sadie asked incredulously.

“I’m declining to be dragged sideways,” Heather replied. “There’s a difference.”

Sadie recovered, smoothing her kaftan and producing a smile. “Fine,” she said lightly, rising and scooping up the pouch and the quartz. “Then we’ll take it from here. I’ll loop Lara in directly.  And I have a feeling that you’ll wish you’d aligned sooner.”

Heather stood as well, and for the first time her tone sharpened. “And you’ll wish you’d listened. Close the loop with Iris today. She deserves to hear this from you, not from anyone else.”

Sadie opened her mouth, then shut it. “Of course,” she said after a beat. “I was headed to her anyway.”

“Good.” Heather moved to the door and opened it. “Then let me not keep you.”

The door clicked shut and Sadie just stood there, stunned. Good luck rang in her ears like a slap. She reached for her phone to text Iris, stared at the empty message box, and put it away. 

* * *

Steve pulled the clipboard from the office wall and stepped outside to the valet stand. Dressed slightly sharper than the rest of the valets in a short-sleeved collared shirt that hugged his biceps, he paced the motor court while checking the day’s schedule.

The quiet was broken by the familiar sound of Riley’s car pulling into the employee lot. He climbed out, sunglasses on, messenger bag slung over his shoulder. He gave a casual wave as he approached.

“Hey,” he said. “So, Natalie told me you moved out yesterday.”

Steve didn’t look up from the clipboard. “Yep.”

“You and Jeanie working things out then?”

Steve grunted a vague response. “Something like that.”

“Great,” Riley said. “That’s great. For what it’s worth, I know it probably wasn’t ideal for you crashing with us so long. But Nat said you were a big help. Especially after that Briggs thing. I appreciate you looking out for her.”  

Steve’s eyes flicked up from the clipboard. “Yeah.”

Riley caught the edge in his tone. “Everything alright?”

“You tell me,” Steve said, flipping the paper over sharply. “I move out, and suddenly you’re back to being husband of the year.”

Riley frowned. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

Steve tossed the clipboard onto the podium. “You’ve been coasting, man. Absent. Self-involved. You think booking one Hallmark gig makes you a star?”

“Okay,” Riley said slowly. “Where’s this coming from?”

Steve stepped closer. “You act like you’re some kind of gift to her. Like she’s lucky to be waiting around while you chase your dreams.”

“She’s my wife,” Riley said, the words coming harder than he intended. “And maybe you should ask yourself why you’ve been so interested in her lately.”

The muscles on Steve’s jaw worked overtime. “Screw you.”

Riley didn’t back down. “You’ve been hanging on her like some lost puppy. Offering to make breakfast, fix shit, run errands. I’m not stupid, Steve. You’ve got ulterior motives.”

“You don’t know what you’re talking about,” Steve said, willing himself restraint.

Riley stepped forward again. “All those hugs and lingering stares. You crossed a line. Some fucking friend you are.”

A long beat passed as Steve stared at him, then stepped back, nodded once, and said: “You’re done.”

Riley blinked. “What?”

“You’re fired,” Steve said, louder this time. “Get off the lot.”

“You’re kidding.”

“Nope. Pack your ego and go smile for someone else’s camera. You don’t work here anymore.”

Riley opened his mouth to argue but caught the attention of two valets watching from near the hedge line. He closed it again. Then turned, fists clenched, and walked.

Steve didn’t move. Just stood there, arms folded, until the taillights of Riley’s car disappeared onto Wilshire.

* * *

Sadie breezed into Titan Artist’s Group and approached Vaughan’s assistant who sat just outside his office. Entranced, she steadied herself and fanned her hot skin. 

“My god you are handsome,” she said, hand to heart. “That jawline must have been carved from stone.” 

Travis looked up, startled into a smile. “Can I help you?”

“You already have,” she said with a grin and a wink.  “I’m Sadie Knox. I believe I have an appointment with Mr. Novak.”  

He checked the screen and hit a key. “He’s ready,” he said, standing to open the door. 

Sadie let her gaze travel. “If this doesn’t work out,” she stage-whispered, “I’m stealing you to be my pool boy.”

Travis laughed. “I’ll… keep that in mind.”

Inside, Vaughan turned away from the window and walked toward the door. “Miss Knox,” Vaughan said, extending his hand. 

“Mr. Novak,” she said, shook his hand and took a seat when he offered.

“What is it I can do for you?” Vaughan asked. “My assistant said you were insistent on coming in today.”

“I’m looking for new representation for my sister,” she said. “Iris Knox.”

His eyebrows rose. “I thought Iris was happily enshrined at M.B.A.”

“She’s… tended to at M.B.A. Watered, pruned, rotated for even sunlight,” Sadie said. “Heather Rydell and the coven are in love with patience. I am not. Iris is perfect for a project right now and they won’t hear it.”

“Which project?” 

“Your son’s new screenplay,” Sadie said. “Lara Devon is sniffing around to produce, which means decisions that matter are coming fast.”

He leaned into his chair, temple resting on steepled fingers. “And you want me to pry her loose.”

“I want Iris with a team that doesn’t worship the word ‘later,’” Sadie said. “You. Or someone you appoint.”

A slow smile unfolded. “Miranda’s little lady boss headquarters has been too comfortable for too long,” he said. “I wouldn’t mind watching it fall. Leave them without a single client and see how fast she runs to daddy.”

“See?” Sadie said, all smiles.  “Alignment.”

He thought hard. “Let’s pretend I say yes,” he murmured. “How do you intend to convince Lara to cast Iris?”

Sadie hesitated before grinning. “I can be very persuasive.”

* * *

Amelia stood center-set in a draped black slip dress, her cheeks flushed not from makeup but from holding poses too long. Briggs circled her with his camera, the shutter clicking in sharp, rhythmic bursts.

“Chin up… eyes past me… good,” Briggs muttered.

“Break,” the stylist called.

Amelia exhaled and stepped off the backdrop as a makeup artist moved in with a powder brush. Briggs lowered his camera and wiped at the bandage on his forehead like he kept forgetting it was there.

The studio door opened and Jane slipped inside, sunglasses still in her hair, worry etched across her face.  “Hey,” she murmured, crossing to Amelia. “Just checking in. You doing okay?”

Amelia gave her a tired smile. “Yeah. Just a long shoot. Lots of looks.”

Jane nodded, then lowered her voice. “Has Seth reached out today?”

“Just more texts. I haven’t answered.”

Jane studied her for a moment—relief and worry tangled together. “Good. If anything changes, you call me immediately.”

“I will,” Amelia promised.

Jane squeezed her hand, then turned toward the exit. As she passed Briggs, she paused, brow furrowing. “Uh—Briggs? What happened to you? Looks like you got into a bar fight or something.”

He glanced up, almost startled. “Camera gear fell. You’d think I would know by now how to set up a truss shot.” 

“Looks bad,” Jane said, noting a bruise under his eye and the bandage on his head.

“All good,” he said dismissively.

But as she left and the door shut behind her, Briggs’ expression shifted—his gaze drifting unfocused into the distance. His jaw twitched. Something wild flickered behind his eyes.

He lifted the camera again, the mask of professionalism snapping into place—except for that faint, crazed gleam still burning just beneath.

* * *

Kelly stepped out of her Uber in a crisp navy blazer, clutching her tote as she scanned the awning of the restaurant where a casting agent was already waiting inside. She started toward the entrance—then stopped.

Keaton stood on the sidewalk, sunglasses pushed into his hair, a weathered brown leather attaché case tucked under his arm. For a second, they simply looked at each other, surprise turning into something kind.

“Kelly,” he said first, offering a cautious smile.

“Keaton.” She smoothed her blazer, steadying herself. “Wow. It’s been a while.”

“Yeah,” he said. “You look good.”

“So do you,” she replied, and meant it.

They fell into step beside the restaurant’s front planter, keeping an easy, tentative distance. 

“How’s everything going?” she asked.

“Busy. Chaotic. Potentially rewarding—if I don’t lose my mind,” he said with a half-laugh. “I’m, uh… working on that screenplay about Nathan Blackthorne.”

“Right. Stormy mentioned that. Has he agreed to produce it?”

Keaton grimaced lightly. “No. Not yet.” Then he tilted his head, giving her a playful, conspiratorial wink. “But when you see him… put in a good word for me, yeah?”

Kelly tried not to smile but failed. “I’ll… consider it.”

“Hey, that’s more hope than I had this morning,” he teased.

A server stepped outside to greet arriving guests, breaking the moment. Kelly shifted her tote and gestured toward the restaurant.

“I should get inside,” she said.

“Of course.” Keaton stepped back, giving her space. “Good seeing you, Kel.”

She nodded, then slipped through the doorway—but paused just long enough to glance back. Keaton was still there, watching her go, his easy smile lingering. 

* * *

When Sharon returned for their second meeting, Brett opened the door and found her standing there with her swatch book tucked neatly under one arm, a leather tote slung over the other.

She stepped inside, breezing past him with a light “Hi”, her scent following—a perfume he couldn’t place. It hit him the second the door closed, subtle but intoxicating. He tried not to react.

“I brought a few fabric options for you to look at,” she said, laying the fabric samples across the kitchen island. She opened the folio, fanning out squares of muted linen, deep navy, a rust-colored boucle. “These are the ones I’d lean toward. The textures play nicely against the concrete.”

Brett leaned in, fingertips brushing along the edges of the samples. He nodded, but his mind wasn’t on samples. He couldn’t stop thinking about how close she was. Their hands grazed, and for a second, neither pulled away.

“You smell…” he said before thinking. Then cleared his throat. “Good. Really good.”

Sharon glanced up sharply, the faintest smile forming at the corners of her mouth. “Thank you,” she said, letting her hand drift to another swatch. “That one’s a cashmere blend, by the way.”

He didn’t answer right away. Just watched her lips move as she spoke. Finally, he said, “I want to see you.”

She blinked. “You are seeing me.”

“No, I mean…” He exhaled. “Outside of the house. I’d like to take you to dinner.”

Sharon’s hand paused on a deep gray linen. She didn’t look up right away. “Brett…” Her voice was gentler now, but hesitant. “I don’t usually mix business with my personal life. It complicates things.”

He gave her a look. Something in between a smile and a dare. “Then bring the swatch book.”

That got a reaction—a quiet laugh, a shake of her head as she closed the folio. “You’re persistent.”

“I’m not very good at pretending I’m not interested,” he said simply.

Sharon looked at him then, and for a moment, the silence continued. Then she said, “Let’s finish the house first,” she said, carefully tucking the samples away.

But as she turned to leave, she hesitated in the doorway. Just enough to make him wonder, and just enough to make him hope.

* * *

Lounging on the sofa in the poolhouse, phone pressed to her ear, Sadie launched into mock panic. “Lara, I’m sorry—this is awful timing. I’m having a spiral. The moon’s void and Mercury is squaring my sobriety. I can feel a Kundalini spike and I—I’ve got to get to a meeting. I’m on the verge of taking a drink.”

On the other end came a quick inhale, then Lara’s voice, calm and firm. “Where are you right now?”

“In my car sitting outside a bar on Melrose. I’m shaking. I know that’s dramatic—”

“It’s not,” Lara said. “Listen, I’m at home. Come here.  Don’t stop anywhere, Sadie. Drive straight here.” 

Half an hour later, Sadie was standing in the parlor room at the Blackthorne mansion. 

“Sit,” Lara said, setting a glass of sparkling water on the table in front of her. “Feet flat. Hands around the glass. Breathe.”

“It came out of nowhere. I was fine and then—” Sadie’s eyes filled with tears she was somehow able to conjure up. “I drove to a bar and sat outside. I was so close to going in.”

“Okay,” Lara said calmly. “You reached out to someone for help, and that’s all that matters.” She sat across from her, elbows on her knees.

Sadie swallowed and breathed deeply.  “Wow, you’re good at this,” she said. “And you’re brave, you know. Most people would just… stay invisible. You want to build something where you were once made into a punchline. That’s—” She shook her head. “That’s something.”

“This isn’t about me,” Lara said.

“I know.” Sadie drew the glass to her chest. “And I’m sorry for what I said on the beach. For trying to use… this”—she gestured her hand between them—“to move Iris forward. It was gross. You’re my friend. I don’t want to be another person who wants something from you.”

Lara’s mouth curled slightly upward. “Thank you.”

Sadie breathed, as if deciding whether to risk the next words. “And if I’m being honest, part of why I pushed is because I’m scared for you. New ventures are lonely. People clap till the check clears, and then they start whispering.” She offered a rueful smile. 

Lara’s eyes gravitated toward the floor. “I know what town I live in.”

“Do you?” Sadie asked. “Of course you do. You grew up here.” She set the glass down, palms open. “Just promise me you won’t let the naysayers force your decisions. Or lean so hard on being respectable that you cast someone because it’s safe. You deserve to choose something, someone that scares them.”

Lara was very still. “Them who?”

“The ones who still call you ‘the girl from Malibu High’,” Sadie said softly. “James’s friends at the club. The actresses who smile and say they’re so happy for you and then tell their friends you’re a… a has-been.’” She shrugged, apologetic. “I heard someone say it last week. I shouldn’t repeat it.”

“Then don’t,” Lara said, her tone biting.

Sadie nodded. “It was the kind of comment that assumes you’ll build an unserious company.” She smiled like it pained her. “That you’ll just keep being nice.”

Lara stared at a ray of light shining on the rug, her jaw tense. “And my marriage is exactly what it needs to be,” she added abruptly, as if answering a question Sadie hadn’t asked.

“Of course,” Sadie said quickly. “James is solid.” She let a moment pass. “It’s just… people confuse ‘solid’ with ‘permission.’ If a husband looks calm enough at parties, they think he’s pre-approving your choices. It’s a little humiliating, isn’t it?”

Lara looked away. 

“I’m sorry,” Sadie said, and meant it just enough to be convincing. “I hate that I’ve ever added to the pile. I only—” She caught herself, softened to a whisper. “I only want you to be the one at the table who doesn’t let her fear influence her choices. If that’s Iris, great. If it’s not, I’ll live. But don’t pick safe because safe is what they bet on you doing.”

Lara nodded and made a fleeing attempt to change the subject. “You should go to a meeting,” she said. “Tonight.”

“I will,” Sadie said, rising. “Will you go with me?”

Lara didn’t answer. She was busy staring at the floor in a thoughtful daze.  

Once Sadie was walking to her car underneath the porte cochere, she called Vaughan with a triumphant grin. “The planets are aligning,” she said. “That role is as good as Iris’s.” 

* * *

After the call from Sadie, the door to Vaughan’s office opened and Travis poked his head in, holding a small silver flash drive. “Got that VHS tape digitized.”

Vaughan’s eyebrows lifted. “Already?”

“One of my ex’s is a videographer.” Travis handed the drive to him and backed out. “Let me know if you need anything else.”

When the door shut, Vaughan plugged it in. A grainy image filled the screen. Heather Rydell sat on a leather couch, hands twisting in her lap. Across from her, in a fake beard and glasses and tweed jacket, Victor Distefano as Dr. Anderson nodded gravely. The disguise was terrible. A multiple personality disorder Victor had suffered during a psychotic break, fueled by the desire to get revenge against Jordan Rydell.

Vaughan smirked and fast-forwarded. Heather talked about Brett. About baby Violet. About “trying to be perfect.”

He kept skipping, then he froze. Heather’s expression had changed into something more somber and distant.

“…sometimes I think about the trial,” she said softly. “We were just kids. Fourteen, fifteen. And twenty-five years is so long. What if… what if he really was innocent?”

Vaughan leaned forward.

Heather swallowed hard. “But Miranda—Miranda always said we remembered it right. That we knew what we saw. That he killed that woman. And we believed her. We all did.”

Then Victor’s voice—overly soothing and theatrical: “And dost thou regret thy testimony, child?”

Heather looked away. “I… don’t know.”

Vaughan stopped the playback. A slow, razor-edged smile crept across his face.

Miranda Blackthorne, the untouchable prodigal daughter.

Maybe now there could be a crack forming.

* * *

The Beast sat on his cot beneath the flickering fluorescent light, one day from release, a newspaper open across his knees. He skimmed lazily until a headline made him stop.

ENTERTAINMENT LAWYER DIVORCES WIFE, LEAVES HER PENNILESS

He studied the accompanying photo: a woman stepping out of a Beverly Hills office building, sunglasses on.

Courtney DeLoache.

He tore out the picture cleanly and rose, moving to the back wall of the cell where four images were already pinned there—faces clipped from magazines, social media printouts smuggled in by favors

Miranda Blackthorne. Eddie Distefano. Stormy Blackthorne. Heather Rydell.

He pressed Courtney’s photo beside them, completing the row.

Each one had testified at the trial. Each one had a hand in taking the last twenty-five years from him. Tomorrow, he would be free, and he would begin to get his revenge. 

* * *

Riley trudged across the pool deck toward his apartment; keys clutched in one hand. His shirt clung to his back as his mind replayed Steve’s face as he’d fired him.

He barely noticed the girl sitting on the bench near the courtyard gate until she stood.

“Riley?”

He blinked. “Yeah?”

She gave a nervous smile, brushing a strand of hair behind her ear. “I’m Jeanie,” she said, extending a hand. “I’m… Steve’s ex. I knocked but no one answered.”

Riley frowned. “Natalie must be at work still.” He looked past her, then back. “Everything okay?”

“I guess,” she said with a shrug. “I was just… hoping to run into Steve. You haven’t seen him, have you?”

He nodded slowly. “Yeah. Just now, actually. At the club. He was working a shift.”

Her face fell. “Figures. He won’t return my calls. Or texts. Nothing.”

Riley’s brow furrowed. “Wait. Didn’t he move back in with you?”

Jeanie looked at him like he’d just spoken a different language. “What? No. I haven’t seen him in weeks. Not since he broke up with me and moved out. He said he needed space to think.”

Riley stared at her, the gears clicking into place behind his eyes.

Steve lied. About Jeanie. About moving out. About everything. Jeanie hadn’t thrown him out at all. 

* * *

Lara stood by the bar cart, the cut-glass decanter catching the last embers of daylight. James was out at a dinner with the board. She stared at her reflection in a chrome cocktail shaker, the image stretched and warped—almost funny.

Sadie’s voice lingered heavier than the scent of patchouli that hung in the air: 

You deserve to choose something that scares them.
Don’t pick safe because safe is what they bet on you doing.
If your husband looks calm enough, they think he’s pre-approving your choices.

Beside her, her phone buzzed with texts.  

SADIE: Just got to the meeting. Where are you?

Lara remembered feeling like the industry had punched her in the gut before, but never like this. She felt like a failure before she even tried. 

She reached for the vodka. 

* * *

The headlights cut out as Natalie turned the key and sat in silence for a moment. The street was quiet—too quiet, she thought. Even the usual murmur of TVs through open windows seemed to be absent.

She grabbed her purse and stepped out, shutting the car door with a soft click. Her lunch shift at the Smoke House had run long—extra tables, short-staffed again—and now it was close to eight. Her feet ached and her shoulders were stiff. All she wanted was a long shower and sleep.

She crossed the sidewalk and approached the front gate of the apartment complex, digging in her purse for her keys.

Then—

Footsteps.

She froze.

A soft shuffle behind her. She whipped her head around but there was nothing there. Just the shadows cast by streetlamps and the glow from a nearby upstairs window. A distant TV flickered blue light behind closed blinds.

She quickened her pace, heels clicking against the pavement, keys trembling slightly in her hand.

Another step—closer this time.

She turned again, scanning the street. Empty. Silent. Deserted.

Briggs.

His name flared in her mind like a siren. Her heartbeat spiked. Maybe Steve hadn’t scared him off after all.

She reached the gate, fumbled with the key. Her fingers slipped once, then twice. The third time, the lock turned with a metallic clack, and she shoved it open, darting through. The courtyard around the pool was lit with low lighting—tranquil by day, eerie by night. Her footsteps echoed on the concrete as she half-ran across the courtyard, eyes darting behind her. She didn’t stop until she reached the apartment.

Only then did she see what was taped to the door. 

Her headshot. One that Briggs had taken. She turned it over in her trembling hand and saw writing scribbled across the back.  

I need you, Natalie

Her scream tore through the quiet courtyard, echoing off the stucco walls and rippling across the surface of the pool. She fumbled with her keys again. This time her hands shook so violently she could barely fit the right one into the lock.

Finally, the door gave, and she stumbled inside, slamming it shut behind her. The apartment was dark.

“Riley?” she called, her voice raw. She flipped on a lamp and realized his shoes weren’t by the door and his jacket wasn’t on the hook.

Her heart pounded so hard it hurt. She snatched her phone from her purse with clumsy fingers and dialed his cell. It went straight to voicemail.

“Come on, come on, Riley, pick up…” she whispered, pacing the length of the room. She tried again and again but kept getting the same result.

She didn’t want to do it, but her hands moved on their own, switching to Steve’s number. It rang once, twice, a third time—

Then he answered.

“Steve, it’s Natalie,” she said, trembling. “Steve… I’m so scared.”

* * *

The kitchen was warm with the soft clatter of cards being shuffled and the faint scent of Leilani’s hibiscus tea. Kelly sat across from her mother at the small round table, fanning out her hand with a dramatic sigh.

“You always get the good cards,” Kelly said.

Leilani smirked over her glasses. “I always get your good cards.”

Kelly laughed, tossing one into the center pile. It was a rare quiet night—no calls from the agency, no drama, no fires to put out. Then a knock sounded at the front door and both women looked up.

“That better be Amazon,” Leilani said. “I ordered Inamona to make poke next week.”

“I’ll get it,” Kelly said, pushing back from the table before padding down the hallway and opening the door.

A young woman stood on the porch. Brown hair tucked behind her ears, shoulders slightly hunched, eyes big and hesitant—like showing up had taken every ounce of courage she had.

“Hi,” the woman said softly. “Are… are you Kelly Kahoano?”

Kelly blinked, hand still on the doorknob. “Yes. Can I help you?”

The woman swallowed, nerves tightening her voice. “My name’s Phoebe Wheland. Um… I—I think… I’m your sister.”

For a moment, the world fell silent—just the rustle of palm fronds outside and Kelly’s heartbeat thudding in her chest.

* * *

Amelia sat curled on the couch under a throw blanket, scrolling halfheartedly on her phone. Jane, in leggings and a sweatshirt, tidied magazines on the coffee table.

“Stormy texted,” Jane said over her shoulder. “Board dinner’s going long. He’ll probably be home late. Guess we’ll have extra Thai when it gets here.” 

“I’m starving anyway.” Amelia tucked her feet under her. “If he’s not gonna be home, what should we do?”

“I say we make some popcorn and watch Glenn Powell take his shirt off in a movie.”

“Which one?” Amelia asked. 

Jane grinned. “Who cares?” 

A sudden knock interrupted their laughter.

“Thank god for Door Dash,” Jane said, crossing the living room and opening the door.

Seth stood on the porch. His pupils were blown wide, his movements jittery, like he couldn’t make himself stand still. Sweat clung to his temples despite the cool night air.

“Where is she?” he rasped, eyes darting past Jane. “I need to talk to Amelia.”

Jane straightened her posture to make herself look threatening. “No. You need to leave.”

Seth stepped forward. “I just want to see her.”

“You’re not coming in,” Jane said, her voice firm but controlled. “Turn around and go home.”

When he didn’t move, she shut the door in his face, turned the lock, and hurried toward the kitchen counter where her phone lay.

She’d barely grabbed it before—

CRACK.

The door splintered, flying inward as Seth kicked it open.

Amelia screamed. Jane spun around, heart slamming into her throat.

“Amelia!” he shouted, staggering inside.

Amelia ran toward him, hands raised. “Seth, stop! What are you doing?”

He grabbed her arm, pulling her with him as he staggered backward onto the porch. She stumbled, nearly losing her footing.

“Let her go!” Jane yelled, sprinting after them.

She reached the doorway just as Seth jerked Amelia to the side. Jane lunged, grabbing his shoulder, trying to pry him off her.

“Get—off—me!” Seth snarled.

With one wild shove, he hurled Jane away. She flew backward, her heel catching the edge of the top step.

“Jane!” Amelia cried.

Jane tumbled down the porch steps, hitting the ground hard, the breath knocked clean out of her as the world spun above her—Seth, Amelia, the porch light haloing them in a chaotic blur.