Last time on L.A. Connections…

After sleeping together, Natalie abruptly ordered Steve out, triggering a vicious chain reaction that saw Steve pick a fight with Riley at work and fire him—only for Riley to later discover Steve had lied about being thrown out by his girlfriend, while Natalie grew increasingly terrified that she was being stalked. Elsewhere, Brett asked Sharon Dyer on a date and was met with icy noncommitment, while Sadie schemed to manipulate Lara into casting Iris in Sheldon’s film by preying on Lara’s insecurities—leaving Lara reaching for a bottle of vodka. Vaughan uncovered old tapes of Victor’s fake psychiatry sessions with Heather, in which Heather confessed doubts about the trial and revealed that Miranda had pushed them into false testimony. When Sadie threatened Heather with replacing her as Iris’s agent, Heather called her bluff, cutting Iris loose entirely. Desperate, Sadie turned to Vaughan to strike a deal, only to be left hanging. A violent struggle between Seth and Amelia sent Jane tumbling down the stairs, unconscious and unmoving.

* * *

Nicodemo Bravetti missed the velvet ropes more than anything. Not the parties, not the drugs, not even the women—though those had their moments. No, it was the moment of arrival he craved. The hush that fell when someone recognized your name. The doors that opened. That feeling of being essential.

He used to drive through the gates of Sunset Studios like he owned the place—or at least like the guy you called when the person who did own it needed something cleaned up. Nobody really knew who had hired him. Not the director. Not even the studio head. That was the point. He wasn’t on the payroll. He was on-call.

Nico’s job was to protect the family’s investment. That meant keeping actors in line, paying off the right people at the right time, and making sure nothing messy ever made it to Variety or Page Six. Rumors were squashed. Threats disappeared. Everything ran smoothly.

He liked knowing things. Who was sleeping with their co-star. Who was about to get fired. Who had pills taped under the sink in their trailer. Who needed a carefully orchestrated “accident” on set to bring them in line. There was a time he’d been useful. Indispensable, even. Maybe even legendary.

But legends didn’t end up in places like this.

The buzzer sounded, then a hard, mechanical clack. Somewhere down the corridor, a guard muttered, “Showtime.”

Nico turned and picked up the cardboard box left waiting for him. Inside was one pair of worn boots, a folded sweatshirt, a few magazine clippings, and a manila envelope holding his discharge paperwork.

The walk to the gate seemed to take forever. The guards made their usual wisecracks as he passed.

“Here comes The Beast,” one said behind him, struggling to hold back a snort.

“Five-seven and a buck fifty soaking wet,” another muttered. “What a monster.”

They laughed under their breath, as if he couldn’t hear.

Nico didn’t turn around. He kept his eyes forward and his chin up.  In his mind, they weren’t mocking him. They were nervous. Maybe impressed.

One more chuckled, “Guy gave himself a nickname. How sad is that?”

He felt his jaw tighten, but he didn’t flinch. Sure, maybe he was only five-seven and a hundred and fifty pounds, but inside he was bigger than that—sharper, harder, built from twenty-five years of learning exactly how to survive.They judged him by what they saw. He judged himself by what he’d endured. 

Inside, he’d made himself into someone they didn’t cross, someone who didn’t fold, someone who didn’t apologize. Inside, he became The Beast, because of what he knew he was capable of doing again if he had to. 

He let the guards laugh. Let them think the name was pathetic or desperate. They didn’t understand how things worked in there. He built that reputation brick by brick because it kept him standing. Because it made him untouchable.

The last steel door buzzed, locking behind him as he stepped forward toward the exit. He pushed open the heavy door and walked out of prison for the first time in two and a half decades, blinking hard as the outside world revealed itself at long last.

Nico Bravetti was out, and he had scores to settle. 

* * *

Stormy barely remembered the drive—just flashes of streetlights streaking past the windshield and his father’s voice urging him to breathe. By the time they reached Cedars-Sinai, Stormy was out of the car before it had fully stopped, sprinting through the sliding doors with James close behind, calling his name.

In the waiting area, Amelia stood near the wall, arms wrapped around herself, her face blotchy from crying. When she saw them, she darted forward.

“Amelia—where is she?” Stormy demanded, rushing to her. “Where’s Jane? What happened?”

Amelia shook her head, words jumbled in her head. “I—I’m so sorry, Stormy. Seth showed up and he—” She wiped at her face with trembling fingers. “He wanted to talk to me, and Jane told him to leave, and then he—he kicked the door in, and we were outside and… she fell. I tried—” Her voice cracked into a sob. “She fell down the steps.”

Stormy staggered backward as if the floor had tilted. James took his arm to steady him.

“Where is she now?” James asked gently.

“They took her in,” Amelia whispered. “They’re checking her and the baby and—she hit the ground so hard, Stormy, I don’t know—” She broke again, burying her face in her hands.

Stormy was shaking, raw animal terror clawing its way up his chest. “I need to see her. Someone needs to tell me something.”

At that moment, a door opened and Dr. Mitchell stepped out, her expression calm but grave. She was a woman in her sixties, hair pulled back, scrubs marked with the hospital’s logo. She approached them gently.

“Stormy, James…” she began.

“How is she?” Stormy asked. “How’s the baby?”

Dr. Mitchell folded her hands. “We’re monitoring both of them closely. Jane is stable at the moment, but she experienced blunt-force trauma from the fall. We’re assessing for any potential internal injuries and checking the baby’s heartbeat regularly. It’s too early to give you definitive answers, but we’re doing everything we can.”

Stormy’s face crumpled. He pressed a hand to his mouth as if trying to hold himself together by sheer will. James stepped closer, wrapping an arm around his son’s shoulders, pulling him in firmly.

“She’s strong,” James murmured. “She’s going to fight. Just like always.”

But Stormy couldn’t stop shaking. He leaned into his father, burying his face against his shoulder as the terror finally broke through him—helpless and crushing.

Dr. Mitchell paused. “I’ll update you as soon as I know more,” she said softly. Then she returned through the double doors, leaving them in the sterile quiet of the waiting room.

Amelia slid down into a chair, crying quietly, and James held his son tight as Stormy’s world threatened to fall apart around him.

* * *

Morning light filtered through vertical blinds in the pool house as Iris stood at the counter in running shorts, tapping at her phone, her hair pulled into a lopsided knot.

“Why isn’t Heather calling me back?” she said, more to the room than to her sister. “I’ve texted, emailed… nothing.”

Sadie looked up from the kettle with mild concern. “Weird,” she said lightly. “Maybe she’s slammed.”

In her chest, her heart thudded. Because she fired you yesterday. Because of me.

Iris paced to the sliding door and back. “I’ll just talk to her tonight at the party. She can’t dodge me there.”

“Honey bunny, I was thinking maybe we shouldn’t go to the party,” Sadie said quickly. “Mercury’s sideways and those things are always—political. I say we skip it.”

“No way, I’m going,” Iris said, turning, her jaw set. “With or without you.”

They stared at each other for a few seconds until the kettle started to whistle.

“Okay,” Sadie said, stepping aside with her hands raised in resignation. “Do what you need.”

Iris grabbed her keys and a baseball cap and left through the side door. Silence filled the room in her wake. Sadie stood very still, then reached for her phone and scrolled to Lara Devon. She pressed call, listening to it ring while the steam from the kettle fogged the window.

Voicemail. She hung up, tried again. It went straight to voicemail again.

Next, she called Vaughan’s office. “Vaughan, it’s Sadie Knox. I just wanted to let you know I’m having a little trouble getting a hold of Lara Devon, but not to worry—I feel it in my solar plexus that she’s already on board with giving Iris the lead in Reverse L.A. As a matter of fact, why don’t we skip the formalities, and you sign Iris on to Titan Artists Group now… today. That way it’s official.”

“I’d like to have this little detail squared away first, Sadie,” Vaughan said.

She pursed her lips. “Again, it’s just a formality. You’d be lucky to have Iris as a client. Tell you what, we’ll talk about it tonight at the party. By the end of the night, I know you’ll be on board.”

Vaughan chuckled. “I’m not exactly tight with the hostess,” he said, then paused. She could hear the smile in the silence. “But maybe if I were to come as your plus one, we could talk.”

Sadie glanced at her reflection in the dark phone screen. “Done,” she purred. “I’ll meet you there.”

“Excellent. See you tonight, Sadie.”

He hung up and leaned back in his chair, a devious grin forming on his lips. 

* * *

The bell hadn’t finished chiming when the door swung open to Ruthie, the housekeeper in her late-fifties who came to the Blackthornes employ a year ago when Leilani retired. A gracious black woman with a close cropped afro, she was the kind of woman who’d worked for several big name personalities in Hollywood over the years.

“Ms. Merteuil,” Ruthie greeted, stepping aside. “I’m worried about her.”

Renee paused, one heel still on the threshold. “Why?”

Ruthie glanced down the hall, then back, her voice purposefully quiet. “Best you see for yourself.”

She led Renee down the hall toward the family room where afternoon light came in narrow slats through the shutters. The bar cart gleamed in the corner.

Lara stood as Renee entered, and swayed—only a little, but enough to draw concern.

“Renee,” she said brightly. “I’m so—oh, I forgot. I completely forgot. I’m afraid I have to reschedule our lunch date.”

Renee walked further into the room, her heels sinking into the plush carpet. “I assumed as much,” she said. “But I also assumed you’d be at the hospital with James and Stormy and Jane. Why are you still here?”  

Lara nodded, bracing herself with a hand on a wingback chair. “Well, you see, James was at a board of directors event when the news came in and so I haven’t seen him. I was planning on heading over to the hospital soon.”  

“I see,” she said.  “Well, I can drive you. I’m headed there myself. I just stopped by to see if there was anything I could do.  Are you ready?” 

Lara’s eyes drifted to the bar cart and back. “That’s kind of you, Renee, but… I need to print some paperwork for James. Insurance forms. A release. And Ruthie’s waiting on a delivery—flowers for Jane. Five minutes. Ten max.”

“I’ll wait,” Renee said, unmoving.

Lara’s hand tightened on the chair. “I also need to call Stormy. He texted, and I—I don’t want him to think I’m ignoring him.” She reached for her phone, missed it by an inch, then found it. “It’s silly. I just want to say the right thing. I know how much they want this baby.”

Renee watched the tremor run through Lara’s fingers. “We can call from the car.”

“I’m not… presentable,” Lara said breathlessly. “I spilled something earlier. I should change. And powder my nose.” She laughed softly. “Nerves. I hate hospitals.”

“So do I,” Renee answered. “I had to leave my twenty-one-year-old daughter in the morgue at the hospital, so I assure you, this visit will be a breeze.”

Lara’s gaze drifted past her, unfocused. “Renee, I appreciate you. I do. But I don’t need a babysitter.”

Renee held her gaze. “Is everything all right, Lara?”

“Yes,” Lara said pointedly. “I just need to do a few more things before I head over.”

Renee waited a beat longer while thinking. Finally, she lifted her purse. “All right. I’ll see you there then.”

“I’ll be right behind you,” Lara promised. “Tell James I’m on my way.”

Renee glanced once at the gleam of the bar cart, then back at Lara’s careful smile. “Don’t dawdle.”

“I won’t.”

Renee kissed the air near Lara’s cheek and moved toward the hall. Ruthie appeared as she reached the door, worry spread across her face. Renee simply shook her head and stepped out into the afternoon sunlight.

When the door shut, Lara let out a breath, set her phone on the table, and turned toward the bar cart where she finished a half rocks glass of vodka. 

* * *

Natalie was making a cup of tea when a knock at the door drew her from the kitchen and across the room. She opened it to find Steve standing there, his hands stuffed awkwardly into his pockets.

“Hey,” he said. “Just wanted to check in to see how you were.”

She gave him an appreciative smile. “I’m okay. Thanks for coming over last night. I don’t know what I would’ve done if you hadn’t picked up. I was losing it.”

He shrugged, stepping inside. “You were right to be scared. I’m glad you called.”

She nodded. “Riley’s taking care of everything. He’s being really great, actually.”

Steve gave a nod, as if accepting it but not believing it. Before he could respond, Natalie’s phone buzzed on the coffee table.

“Hang on,” she said, turned and picked it up. No caller ID. She hesitated first, then answered. “Hello?”

Silence. Then—

“Natalie…” The voice was soft. Drawn out. Eerie, even.

A shriek escaped her throat and the phone slipped from her fingers and hit the floor with a clatter.

Steve was beside her instantly. “What? What happened?”

She was trembling. “It was him. I think it was Briggs. That’s the third time since last night.”

Steve pulled her into an embrace, steadying her, holding her tightly as her body trembled against his. Just then, the front door opened and Riley stepped in, shirtless, sweat still clinging to his chest from the gym, earbuds dangling around his neck. The sight stopped him cold.

Riley’s eyes narrowed as he dropped his gym bag. “Get your hands off my wife.”

Steve backed away, hands raised. “She was scared. I was just—”

“Someone just called me. I think it was Briggs, Ry,” Natalie said, stepping between them. “That’s all it was. Steve was comforting me.”

But Riley was already seething. “You think I don’t notice the way you’re always hanging around her—hugging her, touching her? What, is that why you moved in with us? It must be because that story about Jeanie throwing you out was billshit.”  

Natalie frowned. “Wait, what?” 

Steve’s jaw tensed. “Don’t do this, man.”

Riley turned to Natalie. “He broke it off with Jeanie. He moved out so he could come back here and have an excuse to be around you.” 

Natalie’s eyes darted between them like she didn’t know who to believe. 

“Did Jeanie tell you that?” Steve asked.  “She’s lying, you know. She’s nuts, man. I had to move out.”

But Riley was shaking his head. “Whatever, man. I don’t care. Do whatever you want, just not here.”

“It’s my place,” Steve said.

“She’s my wife!” Riley snapped.

“And you don’t treat her like it half the time!” Steve barked back, his voice rising.

The tension snapped and Riley lunged forward.  They spilled out into the courtyard by the pool, shoving, shouting. Steve blocked the first punch, but Riley’s second landed square against his jaw, sending him stumbling into a lounge chair.

“You son of a—” Steve came back swinging, but Natalie’s scream from the doorway made him hesitate.

“STOP IT! Both of you!”

Breathing hard, Steve wiped blood from the corner of his mouth and straightened his shirt. “You just made a big mistake,” he muttered to Riley, his voice bitter. Then he turned and walked out the front gate, slamming it behind him.

Riley stood in the courtyard, fists still clenched, chest rising and falling.

* * *

 The living room was quiet except for the soft clink of porcelain as Leilani set a teacup down in front of Phoebe. Steam curled up between them, carrying the faint scent of chamomile.

“Thank you,” Phoebe replied, wrapping both hands around the cup. She sat perched on the edge of the sofa, her eyes darting nervously between Kelly and Leilani.

Kelly stood near the armchair, still trying to orient herself to the reality of the girl sitting in her living room. Her sister.

“My mom’s name is Charlotte,” Phoebe said, almost apologetically. “She’s an actress. Mostly theater now, some low-budget horror movies years ago. We live near Santa Barbara.”

Kelly nodded, absorbing each word. “How old are you?”

“Thirty-one.”

Thirty-one years and this was the first Kelly knew of her existence. It was surreal. She turned slowly toward her mother. “Mom… did you know Matthew had another family?”

Leilani’s face was drained of color. She shook her head, stunned. “No.”

Phoebe looked down into her tea. “I didn’t know about you either. Not until recently.” She swallowed. “A year after Dad died, I finally brought myself to go through his things. Mom never could. There were letters. Old photos. A name that kept coming up.” She looked up, eyes shining. “That’s how I found you.”

Then Kelly’s phone rang. She glanced at the screen. “Miranda,” she said, already answering. “Hey—”

Miranda’s voice came through pressed and urgent, and Kelly’s expression changed instantly.

“What?” Kelly gasped. “Jane—?”

Leilani glanced up, watching her daughter’s face as it went pale.

“Yes,” Kelly said softly, one hand gripping the back of the chair. “I understand. I’ll come right away.”

She ended the call, her hand trembling slightly as she lowered the phone.

“Kelly,” Leilani said. “What is it?”

Kelly swallowed hard. “Jane’s been hurt. There was an accident.”

Phoebe sat frozen on the sofa, forgotten for the moment, as the weight of another crisis appeared.

* * *

Miranda and Heather burst through the sliding doors, breathless, eyes scanning the waiting room frantically. 

“Stormy,” Miranda said, spotting him instantly.

Stormy stood near the far wall, James beside him, both of them rigid with tension. Miranda crossed the room in seconds and threw her arms around her brother. Heather followed, wrapping them both up in a tight embrace.

“Oh god,” Miranda whispered. “How is she? And the baby?”

Stormy pulled back just enough to look at her. His eyes were rimmed red, his voice steady. “No word yet.”

James stepped forward, running a hand through his hair. “They won’t let us see her,” he said helplessly. “They say she’s still being evaluated. Like her own husband is some stranger.”

Miranda’s chest tightened. “Stormy—”

“It’s because of him,” Stormy snapped, pacing now, unable to stand still. “Seth. He did this. He showed up high, kicked the door in. I swear if I ever see him again—”

“Stormy,” Heather said quickly, placing a hand on his arm. “Hey. Look at me.” She waited until his eyes met hers. “Yelling isn’t going to help Jane or the baby right now. You need to breathe.”

He shook his head, jaw clenched, fists balled at his sides. “He put his hands on my wife.”

“I know,” Heather said softly. “And he’ll get what’s coming to him. But not like this.”

Stormy turned away, pressing his palms to his eyes as if trying to hold himself together.

“Well, I wasn’t sure until just now, but we have to cancel the party,” Miranda said, looking at Heather and then Stormy while dropping her arms to her sides in resignation. 

“No,” he said. “Miranda, don’t do that.” 

But she was adamant. “Are you serious? One of my sisters is fighting for her life and the life of her baby. No way can we celebrate the agency in a few hours like nothing’s happened.”  

“Jane is stable,” Stormy assured her. “She’s in no danger physically. And she’d be livid if she found out you tossed all the work you’ve done out the window. If anything changes, or if there’s any news, you’ll be the first one I call.”

Miranda and Heather exchanged glances, torn, but each nodding like they had no choice but to continue with their plans. 

At that moment, Renee entered the waiting room, her heels slowing as she took in the scene. She spotted James immediately and crossed over, concern etched into her face.

“James,” she said quietly. “Any news?”

He shook his head and reached a hand toward her. “Nothing yet.”

Renee exhaled, then hesitated. “I just saw Lara,” she said, lowering her voice. “She was… off. Avoidant. Almost jittery.” She searched his face. “Do you think she’s been drinking?”

James stiffened slightly. He didn’t answer right away, his gaze drifting back toward the closed doors of the emergency wing. “I don’t know,” he said finally.

* * *

The receipts made a soft shuffling sound as Mickey flipped through them at Brett’s desk, his eyes moving lazily over line items that didn’t mean much—props, costume design, location fees. All of it fiction. All of it funded by something far more dangerous than entertainment.

“Gotta hand it to you,” Mickey said, setting the folder down and smoothing a wrinkle from his cuff. “You’ve done a nice job keeping the trains running.”

Brett sat stiffly behind his desk, a pen clenched between his fingers. “I didn’t realize we were tracking performance.”

Mickey smiled, faint but cool. “Oh, we always are.” He stood, then adjusted the other cuff. “Anyway, I won’t take up more of your valuable time. Just wanted to offer my appreciation for a job well done.” He turned toward the door, then stopped, glancing back over his shoulder. “Keep it up and I might have to give you a bonus.” 

Brett’s stomach dropped. He wasn’t sure he wanted whatever ‘bonus’ Mickey had to offer. 

Mickey gave a wink, then exited with his usual confidence. Brett sat there, staring at the receipts, the fake budgets, the fake movie, and the very real trap he was in.

* * *

Violet stood near the wrought-iron gates of Eastland Prep with Ava Solomon, both girls in their loosely regulated uniforms—pleated skirts and untucked blouses, oversized cardigans stretched and casually buttoned.

Ava twisted her long auburn braid around one finger as she laughed about something when her eyes drifted past Violet toward the sidewalk beyond the security line.

“I’ll be right back,” Ava said, already walking.

“Where are you going?” Violet asked, but Ava didn’t answer.

Violet watched as her friend crossed toward a tall, wiry man leaning against a parked car just outside the school boundary. His hoodie was up and his posture reeked of disinterest. She’d never seen him before.

“Hey.”

Violet turned to see R.J. approaching, backpack slung over one shoulder. His shirt was wrinkled, hair half-damp after gym class.  He followed her line of sight.

“Is that Ava?”

Violet nodded. “Yeah. I wonder who that guy is that she’s talking to.” 

They both watched as Ava and the man—boy, really, maybe mid-twenties—leaned in close. He passed her something small and folded. She slipped it into her pocket casually.

R.J.’s expression tensed. “That guy’s been coming around our place the last few days,” he said. “Trying to talk to this girl Amelia that’s staying with us.”

Before Violet could respond, Ava reappeared, bouncing across the courtyard with a glimmer in her eye. “We’re officially stocked for the drama party tonight,” she said cheerfully, flashing Violet a grin. “Party favors secured.”

Violet’s stomach turned. She glanced back to where the man had been, but he was already gone. “Ava, what was that?”

Ava waved her hand dismissively. “Don’t stress. It’s nothing serious. Everyone’s doing it.”

R.J. took a step back. “I gotta go,” he muttered, eyes narrowing. “Jane’s still in the hospital and I said I’d go see how she’s doing.” 

“Tell her I hope everything’s okay with the baby,” Violet called after her. 

Ava raised an eyebrow. “What’s with him?”

But Violet didn’t answer. She was looking at Ava’s backpack wondering if she was serious about doing whatever she’d bought from the guy. 

* * *

Natalie stood in the bedroom in lacy pink panties and a matching bra, her dress for the party laid out on the bed. Outside, the sun had begun to set, and for some reason, she dreaded it. The phone calls, someone following her, her headshot taped to the door. She couldn’t shake the feeling of impending doom. And when Riley said he had to exchange the shoes he’d bought for the party for a smaller size, she nearly begged him to stay. 

She reached for her necklace on the dresser and—out of the corner of her eye—saw a tiny blue light blink on and off on the shelf across the room. 

Frowning, she stepped closer. There—tucked between a stack of books and a framed photo of her and Riley at Zuma Beach—sat a small black square no bigger than a matchbox. It was almost invisible unless you knew where to look.

The light blinked again.

Slowly, as if sudden movement might trigger something worse, she stepped closer. She touched it with one finger and realized it was warm, jerking her hand back with surprise. 

Her mind raced—Briggs, the calls, the headshot on the door…someone had put this here. Someone who was watching her.  

Quickly and without hesitation, she set the device on the dresser, lifted a black heel with her trembling hand, and delivered three shark blows until it cracked and splintered, shards of black plastic scattering.  

Staring at the remnants with bated breath, she began to wonder what else was happening that she didn’t know about.  Were there more cameras? Was somebody watching her every move?  Slowly, she sunk to the bed and buried her face in her hands. 

* * *

The waiting room had thinned as the evening wore on, chairs emptied and refilled by strangers cycling through their own private crises. Stormy sat hunched forward, elbows on his knees, staring at the floor as if answers might rise up from the tile.

James stood nearby, arms crossed.  Alex had arrived an hour earlier, her face pale beneath her carefully applied composure, Jordan’s arm firm around her shoulders. Renee paced in short, restless loops, heels tapping softly, stopping every few steps to glance toward the double doors. No one spoke much. There were no words left that hadn’t already been used up.

The doors finally opened and Dr. Mitchell stepped out, her expression grave, her hands folded in front of her as she approached them. Stormy was on his feet instantly.

“Please,” he said.  “Tell me something.”

Dr. Mitchell met his eyes, then looked at the small cluster of faces surrounding him. “Jane is still stable,” she began carefully. “But I need to be honest with you about the pregnancy.”

Stormy felt as though he’d stopped breathing. 

“The fall caused a significant placental abruption,” she continued. “The placenta partially separated from the uterine wall. We’ve been monitoring the baby’s heart rate, but the trauma compromised oxygen flow. Barring a miracle…” She paused, choosing her words with care. “I do not expect the baby to survive.”

Stormy’s knees buckled and James caught him just in time, pulling him in, holding him upright as if sheer force could keep him from collapsing completely.

“No,” Stormy whispered, shaking his head violently. “No, that’s not—she’s strong. Jane’s strong. Our baby—god, she wanted this so badly.” 

Alex moved in, wrapping her arms around her son, pressing his head to her shoulder. “Oh, sweetheart,” she murmured, tears streaking freely now. “I’m so sorry.”

Dr. Mitchell gave them a moment. “We’re doing everything we can to make Jane comfortable,” she said softly. “Stormy, you can go in and see her whenever you’re ready.”

She retreated back through the doors, leaving devastation in her wake.

James took Stormy by the shoulders and turned him to face him.  “I know this is awful, son,” he began. “But you have to be there for Jane now. She needs you.” 

Nodding, Stormy attempted to pull himself together. 

Moments later, two uniformed police officers entered the waiting area. Their presence shifted the air instantly.

“Amelia Strong?” one of them asked.

Amelia looked up from her chair, her eyes red and alert. “Yes.”

“We need to ask you a few questions about Seth Orr,” the officer said. “We understand you were there when the incident occurred. Do you know where he might be now?”

Amelia swallowed. “I—I think so. He lives in Westlake. A walk up on Alvarado. 741, I think.” She paused.  “That’s where he was staying anyway. I don’t know if he’s there now.”

Stormy lifted his head. 

James felt Stormy shift beside him. “Stormy—” he started.

But Stormy was already pulling away, wiping his face with the back of his hand, his eyes dark and focused now in a way that made Alex’s stomach drop.

“I need air,” Stormy muttered.

Before anyone could stop him, he turned and walked quickly toward the exit—past the nurses’ station, past the sliding doors, out into the night.

And by the time James looked up and realized Stormy was gone, whatever had been holding him to the hospital—and to reason—had already snapped.

* * *

They stepped outside to the courtyard by the pool—Riley in a dark suit jacket, Natalie in the dress she’d almost decided not to wear. She clutched her purse a little too tightly, the discovery of the camera still heavy on her mind.

“I don’t understand how it got there,” Natalie said quietly as they walked. “Unless someone had access to the building. Or—”

She stopped when the door to the unit next door opened and Steve stepped out, keys in hand. He glanced up, then smiled slowly when he saw them.

Riley’s stomach dropped. “What the hell is this?”

Steve slipped the keys into his pocket. “I rented the place next door.”

Natalie stared at him. “You… what?”

“I needed a place,” Steve said lightly. “You guys can keep the apartment you’re subletting from me. I mean, I’m not heartless.”

Riley took a step forward. “You didn’t think to mention this?”

Steve’s smile sharpened. “Didn’t think I owed you an explanation.”

For a moment, no one spoke. Natalie’s gaze drifted awkwardly between Steve and Riley.

Then Steve glanced at her—just long enough to make her squirm—then turned and headed toward the gate, humming breezily under his breath.

Riley and Natalie stood frozen, the realization settling in like ice.

Steve hadn’t left. He’d moved closer.

* * *

By the time the party hit its stride, the house was glowing. From the street, the villa on Bellagio Road shimmered like a Christmas ornament, its grand arched windows glowing, its sweeping driveway filled with valeted European cars. 

Inside, at the center of the foyer stood a twelve-foot Douglas fir, flown in from Oregon and dusted with faux snow. Its branches dripped in crystal ornaments, miniature movie cameras, and deep red velvet bows, all arranged around a tree skirt embroidered with the Miranda Blackthorne Agency logo in silver thread. 

Music pulsed as servers in fitted black suits circulated with trays of hors d’oeuvres courtesy of a caterer that also handled the Vanity Fair Oscars party.  Agents, actors, and studio execs filled the living room and spilled out into adjacent rooms, the foyer, and onto the lantern-lit terrace. 

“I just keep hoping the baby’s okay,” Miranda said to the others in a quiet corner of the foyer. “I haven’t heard from Dad or Stormy in hours.”

“I keep texting Stormy but haven’t heard anything either,” Eddie said with an arm around her.

“If she loses this baby—” Heather said solemnly. 

Kelly touched her necklace absently. “Jane’s strong. But after what happened last time, this would devastate her.” 

Miranda smoothed a hand down her black velvet gown. “Look, let’s try to do what we set out to do tonight—celebrate the agency’s success. As hard as it may be to do that under the circumstances, we have to.” 

“Ok, before we get too involved with celebrating the agency, I have to say it:” Heather began as she turned to Kelly. “A half-sister? Out of nowhere?”

“I know,” Kelly said, shaking her head. “Phoebe. She’s thirty-one. And apparently her mom lives up near Santa Barbara. I don’t—” She paused. “I thought my dad and I were close. I thought we had rebuilt something. Why wouldn’t he tell me?”

Miranda, standing nearby, gave Kelly’s arm a gentle squeeze. “It doesn’t change the fact that he loved you very much.” 

“Where is Phoebe now?” asked Eddie, glancing around the crowded space.

Kelly gestured with her glass. “I left her on the terrace taking it all in. She’s never been to a party like this before. You should have seen her face when she laid eyes on Siobhan.”

Heather gave a wry smile, but her attention shifted. Across the room, Sadie had just walked in—flowing white dress, crystals in her hair like snowflakes—and at her side was Iris, radiant in a backless gold gown.

Heather’s smile vanished. She crossed the room quickly, intercepting Sadie near the caviar and champagne station. “What are you doing here?”

Sadie blinked, faux-innocent. “What do you mean?”

“Are you forgetting that Iris is no longer a client?” Heather said flatly.

Sadie gave a small, serene smile. “Iris wanted to come, and really—she’s still shooting her guest stint on Trauma Room—which you contracted, so technically she has every right to be here. I’m sure you’d agree with me on that.”

Heather leaned in closer. “Does she know that we’re no longer representing her?”

Sadie hesitated.

“She doesn’t, does she?” Heather said with disbelief.

Sadie’s mouth opened slightly, but no sound came.

“You tell her tonight, or I will,” Heather said, and turned sharply.

As she moved back toward the foyer, she spotted her mother standing near the fireplace, looking uncharacteristically soft in a dove-gray capelet and pearls. Heather’s expression changed at once. She approached with a warm smile, and Suzanne pulled her into a brief, warm hug.

Across the room, Keaton had joined Miranda, Kelly, and Eddie near the bar. “Speaking of half-siblings,” Miranda said, sipping her drink. “Don’t remember inviting you.”

Keaton smirked. “Well, I had to miss your birthday party so I thought I’d make an appearance. Plus, I heard the tree cost more than my car.”

“It did,” Eddie said.

Kelly smiled at Keaton. “Good to see you again.”

“You too,” he said, his eyes lingering before shifting. “Where’s Stormy? Haven’t seen him all night.”

Miranda’s smile faded. “You didn’t hear?”

“Hear what?”

“Jane fell,” Eddie said. “She’s in the hospital.”

Kelly added gently, “They’re monitoring the baby. It’s serious.”

Keaton blinked. “Jesus. No—I hadn’t heard. How is Stormy handling it?”

“He’s not leaving her side,” Miranda said. 

Keaton nodded, subdued now. “I hope everyone’s okay.”

Then the front door opened again and Riley and Natalie stepped inside. “Hi everyone,” Riley said, joining the small huddle.

“There’s the man of the hour,” Kelly said and kissed Riley on the cheek before shaking hands with Natalie. “You both look stunning.”

“Luminous as ever,” Miranda agreed.

“Sorry we’re late,” Riley said, his hand knotted through Natalie’s. “There’s some commotion up on Sunset just by Holmby Hills. Sirens and a huge police presence.” 

“Oh great, L.A. traffic is going to keep Page Six away from my party,” Miranda said with a mock pout. 

As they chatted, Heather and Suzanne returned to the circle, Heather linking arms with Miranda, Suzanne holding a fresh glass of wine.

Riley froze when he saw Suzanne. Images from their night together weeks ago at the Beverly Hills Hotel flashed through his mind. She’d been one of his last gigs with Noir Companions.

“Riley, Natalie, this is my mother, Suzanne Rogers,” Heather said and gestured between them.  “Riley’s a new client at the agency and already making a big splash.”  

Suzanne’s expression didn’t falter. “So nice to meet you both,” she said. “Natalie, you look beautiful. I love your gown.” 

“Thank you!” she exclaimed, flattered. 

Miranda’s eyes scanned the room, then stopped when she spotted Blake, Sheldon, and—

“You have got to be fucking kidding me,” she said, handing her drink to Eddie and tearing off like a woman on a mission. 

* * *

Bass thudded through the floor of the Solomon estate, echoing off the high ceilings and into the corners of every chandelier-lit room. Teens spilled across the space in clusters—on the stairs, sprawled across velvet couches, loitering near the kitchen island where someone had set up a careless array of booze and half-empty soda bottles. The drama club party had grown into an all-out rager with half the teenage population of L.A. in attendance.

Violet hovered near the back doors that opened to the pool, arms folded tight across her chest. She didn’t drink. She didn’t smoke. And tonight, apparently, that made her some kind of exhibit.

“You gonna say no to everything?” a boy in a black hoodie teased, waving a blunt toward her. “Jesus, you’re like a nun.”

A few others laughed.

Violet’s cheeks flushed. She hated being called a square, and hated how fast that word could turn the air hostile.

From the other side of the kitchen, Ava appeared—beer bottle in hand, eyeliner smudged from hours of laughter and dancing. “Lay off,” she said with a breezy smile. “Just because she’s not a burnout like you losers…” 

But Violet had another approach in mind.  She turned toward her friend, her voice sharp. “You still have some of those pills?”

Ava blinked, caught off guard. “You sure?”

“Yeah,” Violet said defiantly. “Why not.”

She followed Ava through the crowd to a hallway just off the den. Ava pulled a small zippered pouch from her purse and handed over a single white tablet.

Violet stared at it for a second before she popped it into her mouth and swallowed. She didn’t know what it was called, but she knew what it meant. She wouldn’t be the square tonight.

* * *

Stormy drove through the night, a tight grip on the steering wheel and the address looping in his head like a chant. 741 Alvarado. A neon sign buzzed over a liquor store down the block. Somewhere, a siren wailed and then faded.

The building was a tired two-story walk-up with peeling paint and a porch light flickering like it might go out at any second. Stormy mounted the steps two at a time and pounded on the door.

Nothing.

He knocked again—harder, and the door cracked open. Seth’s face appeared in the gap, eyes glassy, pupils blown wide. He squinted, trying to place him.

“What—”

Stormy shoved the door open and barreled inside. Seth stumbled back, tripping over a coffee table littered with ashtrays and pill bottles. Stormy grabbed him by the collar and slammed him into the wall, the impact rattling a framed poster loose.

“You did this,” Stormy said, his voice raw. “You did this to my wife. To my baby.”

Seth laughed. “Man, I didn’t—”

Stormy punched him, consumed with grief and fury, fists crashing into Seth’s face. Seth covered up, sliding down the wall, cursing, trying to crawl away.

“They say my baby won’t make it,” Stormy said through gritted teeth, sending one shattering blow after another into his face until it was bloodied and bruised. 

The words seemed to drain whatever resistance Seth had left. He curled inward, groaning as Stormy kicked him in the side over and over amidst the sound of cracking ribs. 

Stormy hauled him up by the collar and slammed him once more against the wall, close enough to smell the blood and cheap cologne on his skin. Seth whimpered, barely conscious now, eyes swollen shut, mouth working uselessly as if he might say something that could undo any of it.

“Look at me,” Stormy said, voice shaking. He hit him again anyway.

Seth slid back down, leaving a dark smear on the paint. Stormy stood over him, chest heaving, hands trembling at his sides. For a moment it looked like he might keep going—like nothing in the world could pull him back from the edge.

Then he stopped. Stormy took a step back, wiping his knuckles on his jeans. He looked down at Seth one last time before he turned, yanked the door open and walked out. 

* * *

Miranda’s heels tapped against the marble floor as she approached the gathering that included Blake, Sheldon and Vaughan Novak.

“How did you get past security?” she asked, her eyes directed at Vaughan and her hands balled at her sides. 

“Well, Miranda, lovely to see you too,” Vaughan said and lifted his glass. “And to answer your question, I was invited. By a guest.”

She raised an eyebrow. “Name?”

He sipped, then smiled. “Sadie Knox.”

Miranda glared.  “Ah. Well, that explains it. Miss Knox is known for questionable decision making.”

Sheldon chuckled into his drink. Blake looked like he might choke.

“Regardless,” she added, “this is a professional event. So whatever clients you’re here to steal—don’t.”

Vaughan smiled wider, entirely too pleased with himself. “I’m just enjoying the atmosphere. You throw quite a party. Better than the ones your father used to host. Less ashtray-throwing.”

Miranda’s expression didn’t change, but her voice was smooth as glass. “Try anything tonight, Vaughan, and I’ll have you removed so fast—”

He interrupted, raising his glass in mock toast. “Understood.”

Miranda gave a friendly glance to Blake before turning and walking off without another word.

Once she’d gone, Vaughan let his gaze drift across the room and excused himself from his son and Blake. He moved through the crowd where Travis was standing. 

“Stay close to the D.J.,” he told him in a whisper.  “When the music stops, it’s showtime.” 

Travis nodded, taking a flash drive from him. 

* * *

The music from inside spilled out onto the terrace where Riley and Natalie stood near the railing. 

“I don’t understand how he got into the apartment,” Natalie said. “Unless he copied a key. Or watched us long enough to know when I’d be alone.”

Riley shook his head. “Obviously, Briggs hasn’t given up, Nat. He’s been after you since that day in his hotel room.” 

A few feet away, Kelly paused mid-conversation with a studio exec. The name caught her attention. She turned, listening without meaning to. “Briggs?” she said, stepping closer. “Why are we talking about Briggs?”

Riley exhaled sharply. “Because Natalie’s been getting calls. Someone’s been watching her. We found a camera in the apartment tonight.”

Kelly’s face hardened. “When did this start?”

Natalie answered quietly. “A few days ago. I thought it was him. He took my headshots. He knew where we lived.”

Kelly shook her head slowly. “It can’t be Briggs.”

Riley frowned. “How do you know?”

“He left town two days ago. A shoot with one of our models in Carmel.  We had a video conference yesterday afternoon—ocean behind him, wind blowing his hair all over the place. He hasn’t been anywhere near L.A.”

The words seemed to knock the air out of Riley’s lungs. He stared past them, the pieces sliding into place—Steve moving next door, the lies about Jeanie, always knowing when Natalie was alone.

“Oh my god,” Riley said.

Natalie’s voice was barely a whisper. “Riley…?”

He turned back to her, his eyes dark. “It’s not Briggs. It’s Steve.”

“Steve—?” Natalie said, confused.

Riley was already moving, heading for the front door. He had to settle it with Steve once and for all.  

* * *

Across the terrace, Phoebe hovered near the edge of the crowd, wide-eyed and a little breathless. She took a step forward, then another, craning her neck to get a better look at a silver-haired actress laughing near the bar, and promptly walked straight into someone.

“Oh— I’m so sorry,” Phoebe blurted, stumbling back a half step.

“Hey— no harm done,” a voice said, warm and amused.

She looked up and saw a man standing in front of her—tall, casually handsome with dark hair, an awkward smile and thick, dark rimmed glasses. “I should probably watch where I’m going,” she said, flushing. “I’ve never been to anything like this before.”

He smiled wider. “First industry mixer?”

“Is it that obvious?”

“A little,” he said gently. “But that’s not a bad thing.”

She laughed, surprised by how quickly her nerves eased. “I’m Phoebe.”

“Keaton,” he said, offering his hand. “Keaton Hartley.”

Something about the way he said it—unassuming, almost shy—made her smile as she shook his hand.

* * *

Courtney found them clustered near the edge of the foyer—Eddie, Miranda, and Heather—mid-conversation about Jane and the baby.

“Have you heard the news?” Courtney asked, breathless.

Miranda frowned. “Oh god, what now?”

Courtney glanced around as if making sure she wasn’t about to say it too loudly. “It’s all over the television. Breaking news alerts. Zoanne Voss is dead.”

Heather stiffened. “What?”

“And she wasn’t alone,” Courtney continued. “They found her with a younger man. They were murdered tonight in her house.”

For a moment, none of them spoke.

Eddie was the first to find his voice. “Jesus.”

Miranda’s mind jumped instantly. “That commotion Riley said they ran into on the drive over. He said police were everywhere and they had streets blocked off.”

Heather nodded slowly. “That had to be it.”

Courtney swallowed. “They’ve already issued an arrest warrant.”

“For who?” Eddie asked.

Courtney hesitated, then said it. “Jason Merrick. Her ex.”

Miranda’s eyes narrowed. “The Silverdale president’s son?”

Courtney nodded. “They’ve been seen screaming bloody murder at each other all over town recently. She had a restraining order.” 

“I saw them get into it at the Silverdale mixer last week,” Kelly said as she appeared from behind. 

Heather glanced back toward the party, suddenly seeing it differently. “So while we’ve been networking and drinking champagne…”

“Zoanne and her gentleman friend were being murdered,” Eddie finished quietly.

* * *

Riley crossed the courtyard with determination, the pool lights rippling across his face as he reached the apartment next door. He didn’t hesitate. He slammed his fist against the door. “Steve, open up.”

The door swung open and Steve stood there, calm to the point of arrogance. “What’s going on, Ry? Thought you had your big industry party tonight.”

Riley didn’t hesitate, flying into a rage and shoving him against the door. He drew his fast back, prepared to punch him, when Steve managed to shirk away from him. 

“Now what the fuck is your problem, bro?” Steve asked incredulously.

“You’re the one who’s been following Nat,” Riley said, chest heaving. “You put the camera in our apartment, and taped her picture to the door, and made those phone calls—”

Steve shook his head once. “Natalie got one of those calls while I was standing in the room with her.”

Riley laughed. “You think that proves anything? There are apps that spoof numbers, Steve. Anonymous calls. Anyone can do it. You were trying to scare her so you could swoop in and be the hero again, just like when you went after Briggs after he attacked her.”

Steve studied him for a moment, then exhaled slowly, like he was done pretending. “You want to know what really happened?” he said. “Fine.”

Riley stepped closer, fists clenched.

“You were gone,” Steve said. “All the time. Chasing auditions. Meetings. Parties. You left her alone—and I was here.”

Riley’s stomach tightened.

“We got close,” Steve continued, his voice steadying. “And yeah. We slept together.”

The words landed like a punch. Riley lunged. Steve shoved him back hard, enough to send him stumbling against the railing. The pool water sloshed.

“She loved it,” Steve said coldly. “So don’t act like I stole something. You handed it over.”

“You son of a bitch.” Riley came at him again, blind with rage.

“Oh, suddenly you care about the sanctity of marriage?” Steve sneered, dodging him. “Where was all that devotion when you were screwing Hollywood housewives for money so you could afford Natalie’s headshots and your car repairs and those fancy clothes for auditions?”

Then they saw her. Across the courtyard. Natalie stood frozen near the gate, her phone still in her hand, Uber taillights glowing red on the street beyond. She had heard everything.

“Nat, wait,” Riley said. “Don’t listen to him.”

Her face drained as the pieces snapped together. “The extra money. All those big tips and vague explanations.”  She stared at Riley like he was a stranger.

“Nat—” he said, turning.

She shook her head once, already backing away. Without a word, she ran past them, across the courtyard, and into the apartment. The door slammed and the lock clicked.

Riley stood there, chest rising and falling, staring at the door.

Steve smoothed his shirt down his chest. “You should’ve told her yourself,” he said quietly.

Riley didn’t respond.

Inside, Natalie slid down the door, shaking, everything she thought she knew now splintered beyond repair.

* * *

Streetlights blinded her through the windshield as Lara’s hands gripped the wheel. The dash clock glowed 9:42pm. Her phone, propped against the console, kept skating the map in jittery circles.

“Miranda… Eddie…” she muttered, thumbing the search bar. Autofill offered two wrong addresses. She tried again and the GPS finally connected, a voice cutting through the dark: Turn right in 400 feet.

Headlights flared in the opposite lane, causing her to blink hard from the glare. She felt the car veering into the next lane when a horn blasted sharply with warning.  Lara yanked the wheel back, tires clipping the curb. The car fishtailed toward a hedge and a row of trash bins lit by moonlight. She braked hard.

The seatbelt yanked her body back close to the seat. Everything inside the car jolted.  Lara’s breath came in shallow gulps. The GPS corrected itself and she eased back into the lane, her knuckles white, the road ahead a narrow stretch of darkness.

* * *

Iris found Heather near the terrace doors, the city glittering behind her like stage lights.

“I’ve been trying to talk to you all night,” Iris said, breathless. “Can we—?”

Heather turned, her warm, genuine smile firmly in place. “Of course.” She took Iris’s hands, squeezed once, then let go. “Iris, I have to tell you something.”

Iris blinked, bracing herself. 

“Sadie came to me,” Heather said gently. “She hedged her bets. Told me she’d find you a new agency if we didn’t fast-track a project I don’t think is right for you. I called her bluff.” She offered an apologetic tilt of her head. “I’m sorry, Iris. You’re no longer represented by the Miranda Blackthorne Agency.”

The room spun. Iris felt the floor come up and her eyes flood at the same time. “What?”

Heather’s voice stayed soft. “You’re talented. You will be fine. But I won’t be handled by a manager.” Her touch was light on Iris’s arm. “I wish you luck. Truly.”

Iris was already shaking her head, tears slipping loose. She turned and pushed back into the crowd of bodies, scanning for a floating kaftan, that bright crown of hair. She found Sadie by the bar, laughing with a handsome man with a chiseled jaw.

“When were you going to tell me?” Iris burst out. “How could you do that to me?”

Sadie’s smile was smooth.  “Honey bunny, breathe. Let’s not feed the chaos dragon.”

“I’m not a dragon!” Iris’s voice cracked. “Heather fired me!”

Sadie’s hands came up, palms-out, priestess-calm. “Everything happens in divine sequence. This is an ego collapse, not a career collapse. Trust the pivot.” She slipped an arm around Iris’s shoulders and steered her through the room. “Come. We have a lot to celebrate.”

“Celebrate what?”

“Your new home at Titan,” Sadie said, as if introducing a cake.

They reached Vaughan standing by a sculpture in the atrium nursing an old fashioned.

“Vaughan Novak,” Sadie sing-songed, “the star of your year. Iris Knox.”

Vaughan’s smile was practiced and polite. “Iris.”

Sadie beamed. “Shall we make it official? She’s thrilled to be—”

“Sadie,” Vaughan began with a shake of his head.  He turned to Iris, almost kind. “I’m sorry. I’m reconsidering. The timing isn’t right. Good luck to you, though.”

Iris stared at him, then at Sadie. “Reconsidering?”

Sadie’s mouth opened but no words would come. For once, the crystals had nothing. Her hands, empty of tactics, fell to her sides.

Iris’s tears came hot and fast. “I don’t have an agent,” she said to no one and to everyone. “I don’t have an agent.”

Vaughan glided past them to the next conversation. Sadie stood very still, bracelets suddenly quiet.

* * *

Out in the foyer, the music lowered to a hush and then cut out altogether as people turned toward the grand staircase, where Miranda, Heather, and Kelly stepped into the glow of the chandelier.

“Thank you all for coming,” Miranda called down to the throng of guests.

“We’re so happy you could all spend this magical evening with us,” Heather added.

At the base of the stairs, Brett stood half-turned toward the bar, drink in hand, only loosely paying attention. He smiled reflexively at a passing executive, then looked up when the lights dimmed, instinctively finding Heather.

Miranda took a breath. “It’s been a resilient year for M.B.A.,” she said, her gaze sweeping donors, clients, friends, enemies disguised as both. “We wanted to share a few highlights of our successes—and a taste of what’s to come with some fresh faces as well as a few longtime friends. Ladies and gentlemen… without further ado—”

The house darkened. A swell of cheers rose, then faded as the screen mounted above the landing came to life.

The first frame wasn’t Siobahn as planned. It was grainy and static-flecked. Heather, several years younger, seated against a bland wall. A tinny hiss undercut her voice, the sound of a hidden mic.

Brett straightened. His glass stopped halfway to his mouth.

“…sometimes I lie awake thinking about it,” Heather’s voice said, brittle and private. “…what if he’d been innocent? But Miranda—Miranda was so sure. She said we knew what we saw. That he killed that woman…”

A collective gasp rippled through the room, wine glasses frozen midair.

Brett’s eyes went from the screen to the woman standing above it. Heather on the landing had gone pale, one hand gripping the banister. He took a step forward without realizing it, unease crawling up his spine.

The footage jumped—white lines scrolling—then settled again. “That man… Nico Bravetti,” the younger Heather said, rubbing her thumb along the rim of a paper cup. “He got twenty-five years. I still hear the door close.”

Silence fell, thick and stunned. Eddie started toward the stairs, unsure of what to do.

“No,” Heather whispered, too softly to carry. “No, that’s not—”

Brett was already moving closer to the stairs, his concern turning into something protective. He watched the crowd turn and felt the shift as eyes began to slide toward Miranda.

Miranda’s chin lifted, her gaze darting between the screen and Heather, hurt and comprehension rising together. “Turn it off,” she said. Then, louder, “Kelly—turn it off.”

Kelly was sprinting for the AV console on the mezzanine with Eddie just behind.

On the screen, Heather continued, unaware and exposed. “Miranda insisted we tell the truth. I believed her. I still— I don’t know.”

Whispers erupted.

“Oh my god.”

“Is this real?”

“They put an innocent man away?”

“Stop it,” Miranda said again, the warmth stripped from her voice. “Kelly.”

Heather stepped forward. “This was stolen,” she said, shaking. “It’s taken out of context—I was talking about doubt, not fact—Miranda did not—”

The room wasn’t listening anymore.

Miranda scanned the crowd—clients she’d built, actors she’d soothed, executives she’d outmaneuvered with a drink in hand—feeling the tide turn.

Eddie yanked the plug and the screen finally went black. For a few seconds the room stayed dark, then the house lights rose, revealing judgment and curiosity.

Music rushed back in, covering the whispers and murmurs.

“Who did this?” Kelly demanded, breathless, rounding on the AV tech, on anyone. “Who touched the deck?”

No one answered.

“Miranda,” a reporter called from the stairs, voice lacquered with concern. “Do you have a comment?”

Miranda opened her mouth, then closed it again, one hand tightening around the banister as if it were the only thing keeping her upright.

“Everyone, please enjoy the bar,” Kelly announced brightly, buying seconds. “We’ll… resume in a moment.”

The music swelled and conversations restarted in nervous fragments. Miranda didn’t move. Her eyes locked onto Heather’s. For a long beat, the noise faded into the background. There was hurt there—raw and unmistakable—but beneath it, something sharper was forming. Anger. Not the kind she wielded in boardrooms, but something personal, something that burned.

Heather met her gaze, already shaking her head, already trying to explain.

Miranda didn’t give her the chance. She stared at Heather as if seeing her for the first time, the betrayal settling into place between them, and whatever had just shattered did not look like it could be put back together.

* * *

After retreating to a room back near the kitchen, Iris glared at Sadie, her arms folded rigidly across her chest. 

“What did you think was going to happen?” Iris hissed. “You parade me to Vaughan like a party favor and he dumps me before I get a word in. I don’t have an agent, I don’t have a plan, and you—” Her voice broke. 

Sadie blinked, stunned. “Honey—”

“No!” Iris’s eyes were wide with fury. “You’re a terrible manger, and a worse sister!  All your crystals and ‘frequency’ and ‘divine timing’—it’s bullshit! I wish I’d never moved out here with you!”

“I was trying to—”

“To what? Control it? Control me?” Iris swiped at her cheeks. “You ruin things, Sadie. Then you light sage and call it a lesson.”

Silence filled the room. Beyond the doorway, the party rumbled into scandal.

“You don’t mean the things you’re saying,” Sadie said. “We’ve been in this together since you were a little girl.”

“Not anymore,” Iris said with despair, her voice rising as tears fell. “I hate you! Do you hear me? I hate you!”

Stunned, Sadie turned and bolted—through the side hall, past the catering racks and out the servant’s entrance. Night air hit her in the face, cool and black. She ran across the gravel flank of the drive, caftan snapping around her legs, breath coming out in jagged sobs.

Headlights flared ahead. Sadie threw up an arm. The car leapt the seam of asphalt, fishtailed, and then corrected wrong. Tires shrieked. 

Upon impact, Sadie’s feet flew out from under her, the world turning sideways before the ground punched the air from her lungs. The car clipped a light pole and shuddered to a stop, steam hissing up from the grille.

Sadie lay sprawled on the gravel. The driver’s door hung ajar. Inside, slumped forward over the steering wheel, was Lara with blood at the temple where her head had struck the glass. One hand still clutched the wheel, knuckles white, the other limp at her side. Her forehead rested against the horn, pressing it just enough to let out a shrill, continuous blast.

* * *

When Stormy arrived back at the hospital, he stepped off the elevator and made his way toward the waiting room, his head still ringing. He had no idea if his baby was still alive or not. The not knowing clawed at him worse than anything else.

“Stormy—” James was already moving, fear spread across his face. Alex was right behind him, her hand flying to her mouth.

They reached him at the edge of the waiting area, both of them talking at once.

“Where have you been?” Alex said, grabbing his arm as if to steady him. “We’ve been worried sick.”

“Did you hear anything?” Stormy asked, the words tumbling out, frantic. “Has anyone said anything about the baby?”

James shook his head. “No. Not yet. We were just—”

He never finished.

“Police!”

The shout echoed down the corridor. Stormy turned as two officers strode in, eyes already locked on him. Hands seized his arms from behind, yanking them back.

“What—?” Stormy protested, confusion flashing into anger. “Hey—”

“Sir, stop resisting,” an officer barked as they twisted his wrists behind him.

Alex cried out. “What are you doing? He hasn’t done anything!”

The cuffs snapped shut, cold and final.

Stormy sagged, the fight draining out of him all at once. James stood frozen, helpless, as the officers turned Stormy toward the exit while reading him his rights. Red and blue lights flashed through the hospital windows, painting the waiting room in hard, unforgiving color.

* * *

The music was still pounding when Ava realized she hadn’t seen Violet in a while.

She pushed through the crowd, irritation giving way to concern. “Have you seen Violet?” she asked a girl slumped on the stairs.

The girl shrugged. “Bathroom, maybe?”

Ava checked the downstairs powder room. Empty. The patio. Empty again.

She moved down the hallway toward the guest bedrooms, opening doors at random. Laughing kids in one. A girl and two boys in an Eiffel tower in another. Someone passed out but breathing in a third. Then the last door— Violet was on the bed.

At first Ava thought she was asleep, shoes still on, one arm twisted awkwardly at her side. 

“Violet?”

No response.

Ava crossed the room fast, shaking her shoulder. Violet’s head lolled, her eyes half-open, unfocused.

“No—no, no.” Panic tore out of Ava’s voice. She screamed into the hallway. “Someone call 911! Now!”

The music cut abruptly as footsteps pounded and voices rose.

Ava stayed on the bed, gripping Violet’s hand, her own shaking so badly she could barely hold on.

“Please,” she whispered, over and over, as the house filled with chaos.

* * *

Nico drove with one hand on the wheel. On the seat beside him lay two hand guns, placed neatly, parallel to each other like tools he might need later. 

That morning had started on a bus leaving prison. He got off where instinct told him to. Bel Air, as it happened. He hadn’t planned it—not consciously anyway. But his feet knew where to go. He walked uphill until the houses got quiet and the gates got bigger. One gate, in particular, caught his attention. It wasn’t flashy and didn’t seem to be guarded properly. There was a keypad and a speaker box hanging crooked, the plastic cracked, the sound warped when someone buzzed through.

He pressed it once and a woman’s voice snapped back through the broken speaker, tinny and chewed up by static: “Wh—zzzt—it?”

The gate rattled and creaked when it opened. The dogs came first. Two dobermans, sleek and fast, running the perimeter like they’d been trained well. He waited. Let them see him. Let them decide.

They decided wrong.

Inside the house, the woman stared at him like she was trying to place his face. He smiled calmly and politely, forcing his way inside with threats. There was a younger man too. Mid twenties, maybe. Attractive. Trying to be brave. Probably an actor.

Nico told the woman to show him where the guns were.

She cried. The younger man tried to call 911 but Nico grabbed him by the hair and hit his head against a granite counter, momentarily stunning him. As soon as he had the guns, he shot her in the face and him in the back of the head when he turned to run. Blood was everywhere so he was careful not to leave tracks as he left.

A block away, he found an old car with an alarm system that hadn’t been updated since before his sentence. He popped the steering column and worked the wires with steady hands. The engine coughed, then turned over.

Now here he was, driving toward the marina. He pulled the stolen sedan into a shadowed space near Slip 407, cut the engine, and slid one of the guns into the folds of his jacket.  As he approached the boat, two men stepped forward from the gangway.

“Nico?” Bruno grinned, stepping forward. “Well I’ll be damned.”

“You look like prison aged you backwards,” Dennis said.

“Fuck you guys,” Nico said with a chortle. 

They laughed genuinely. Bruno gave him a brief clap on the back. “Come on. He’s inside.”

A silent steward disappeared down the hall as Bruno opened the door to the lounge.

Inside stood Mickey Donovan, hands in his pockets, hair slicked back, wearing a black dress shirt with the sleeves rolled up. He turned—and for a second, his expression was unreadable.

Then came the embrace. Neither of them particularly sentimental, but the ceremony behind it was real.

“I expected you hours ago,” Mickey said.

“I was waiting for someone to pick me up,” Nico replied. “No one did.”

Mickey stepped back, eyeing him. “You’re disappointed.”

“I’m surprised,” Nico said. “Figured family’d show up.”

Mickey’s mouth tightened. “Family’s complicated.”

Nico smirked.

Then Mickey’s eyes dipped to Nico’s jacket. “You’re carrying.”

Nico didn’t bother to lie. “Of course I’m carrying.”

“You’ve been out of prison for what—fifteen hours? Where’d you get it?”

“A house in Bel Air. Nice one. Two dogs. Lady in a robe and a boyfriend who cried a lot.”

Mickey shook his head once, slowly. “Jesus, Nico.”

“What?” Nico said. “They didn’t suffer.”

Mickey stared at him. “You shouldn’t have come back.”

Nico’s eyes darkened, but the smile stayed. “Well, I’m here. So now we deal with that.”

A tense second passed between them, then Nico asked, “Where is he?”

Mickey looked away. “Sicily. Some family business.”

Nico arched a brow. “He know I’m out?”

“He will soon. He’s expected back by the end of the week.”

Nico nodded. “Good. I’ve got things to say.”

“And what if he doesn’t want to hear them?” Mickey asked dryly.

Nico smiled again, this time more cocky than before. “He’s our father. Of course he wants to hear them.”