Last time on L.A. Connections…

Freshly sprung from prison, The Beast emerged as Nicodemo Bravetti—blood heir to the Bravetti crime family—and wasted no time turning Los Angeles upside down, brutally killing Zoanne Voss and Ty Stratton before stealing Zoanne’s guns. He later paid a visit to his half-brother, Mickey Donovan. Stormy snapped after learning Jane would likely lose the baby, violently attacking Seth Orr and landing himself under arrest. Iris exploded upon discovering Sadie had orchestrated her firing from M.B.A. with no safety net—sending Sadie fleeing straight into disaster when she was struck by a drunk Lara behind the wheel. Kelly reeled from the revelation that Matthew had another family but, swallowing her shock, still brought Phoebe to the agency party. Meanwhile, desperate to shed her “good girl” label, Violet took a pill bought from Seth by her friend Ava and wound up unresponsive. Vaughan crashed Miranda’s party to play a damning tape of Heather admitting she wasn’t sure Nico was guilty of murder.

* * *

October 1999

Steel Midnight—a film centered around patrons of a legendary L.A. nightclub—was already half-way through production. Most of the film was shot on a soundstage at Sunset Studios, but many scenes took place at night, turning the backlot into a maze of lighting rigs and cables stretched like spiderwebs. 

Patty Ruiz, nineteen, stood near the edge of the set, still in costume. Her hands shook as she spoke.

“I’m not crazy,” she said. “I know what happened.”

James Blackthorne stood in front of her, and beside him was the film’s director, Eric Autumn, both trying to look reasonable. They’d had to talk actors down before, but Patty was adamant.

“Patty,” James said carefully, lowering his voice. “You’ve been working a lot of late nights. Everyone has. I know this schedule can be chaotic, but—”

“They drugged her,” Patty insisted. “They drugged her and then—” She stopped herself, swallowing hard. “People were watching. Laughing. Someone was filming while they raped her.” 

“Look, even if something happened to Valerie last night, it’s up to her to report it,” James said. “Don’t take this all on yourself.”

She offered a slight chuckle, but her expression was serious. “You think that’s the only shady thing that goes on on this set at night?” she asked. “You’ve got security supplying everyone with coke, the lighting techs getting blowjobs from prostitutes—”

“To be fair, that happens on most movie sets in Hollywood,” Eric reasoned. “I know you’re upset, but just take a day and try to calm down.” 

Patty shook her head. “No, there is some fucked up shit going on here. You can normalize it all you want, but I’m reporting it. Tomorrow.” 

James sighed. “Let’s just cool down.”

But Patty was already backing away, her expression sharp with resolve. “No,” she said. “I’m done staying quiet.”

She was summoned back to the stage by someone from security after everyone had gone home for the night. They wanted to have her identify the men who had allegedly raped the makeup girl using their studio badge photos.  

Nico Bravetti was waiting near the edge of the nightclub set when she arrived, leaning against a railing while he examined a ring on his finger. Over the sound system came too-loud music: Battleflag by Lo Fidelity Allstars. 

“Oh,” Patty said when she saw him. “It’s you.”

He smiled thinly. “Relax. I just want to get to the bottom of all this confusion about last night.” 

“What confusion?” she asked, frustrated.  “I was here.” 

“No. You’re confused,” he said matter-of-factly. “About what you think you saw.”

“I’m not.”

“You are,” he insisted. “People misread situations. Especially when they want attention.”

Patty laughed once, sharp and bitter. “What are you even doing here, Nico?” she asked with condescension. “You say you’re security but I don’t see a badge. You’re always hanging around, doing coke with the grips, acting like some big shot when it’s your father who—” 

The slap came fast. Not hard enough to knock her down, but just enough to shock her.

Patty stared at him for half a second, disbelief flooding her face. She thought she heard someone else on the soundstage during a break in the music, but quickly realized it was just the two of them.

Nico stepped closer, his gaze burning into her eyes. “You don’t understand what you’re messing with.”

“I understand exactly,” she said, trembling. “And I’m not going to be quiet for you. Or for anyone.”

And with that, she ran. Nico bolted after her, blocking the exit, widening his arm span so she couldn’t get around him.  Instead, she turned and ran to the steps. She took the stairs two at a time, breath tearing out of her chest, shoes slipping on metal grates. The catwalk loomed above, a lattice of steelwork.

“There’s nowhere to run,” Nico called after her.

She reached the catwalk, heart pounding, the nightclub set fifty feet below. 

Battleflag went on: Tell me is it time to get down on your muthafuckin’ knees

“Stay back,” she shouted over the music.

Nico followed anyway.

They argued too close to the edge. Her heels scraped against the metal grating as she stepped back. Then again. Then she shifted. Faltered. A misstep? A stumble? Or something else?

A gasp and a scream escaped her throat, and then she was gone.

Nico stood frozen, chest heaving. He moved to the edge and looked down. Her body was twisted, motionless. Blood ebbed onto the floor beneath her head. Her eyes stared upward, glassy and still.

Somewhere above, the music kept playing.

He took a remote from his pocket and stopped the music cold, plunging the stage into eerie silence. Then, for a moment, he heard something. A scuff. A clang. Movement somewhere above or behind him. He glanced around but saw nothing. Just the empty catwalk.

He stood there for a few seconds in the silence before retreating down the steps and leaving the soundstage without looking back. 

High above, hidden in the shadows of the steel rafters, Miranda, Stormy, Eddie, Heather, and Courtney stared down in frozen silence. No one uttered a sound. Their faces were pale, eyes wide, limbs stiff with shock. The echo of the girls’ fall still seemed to hang in the air below them. They hadn’t meant to see anything—just a thrill, a secret glimpse from the catwalk—but now they had seen everything. The violence, the fall, Nico’s face in the moments after. And now, they knew a secret they could never unsee.

* * *

Today

The soft murmur of departing guests filtered faintly through the windows, but upstairs the mood was anything but quiet. Miranda paced in her heels, one hand tangled in her hair, her other gripping a glass of wine. The faint sound of ice clinking in Eddie’s drink sat heavy in the silence.

“Did you see the way everyone looked at me?” she said, her voice sharp. “Clients, Eddie. People who trust me to represent them in their careers. What are they going to think now?”

Eddie sat at the edge of the bed, his tie loosened around his neck. He’d been quiet since the video hijacked the party—Heather’s face on-screen, stammering about the trial, about doubt in their testimony.

“I spent my whole life protecting people,” Miranda continued, pacing faster now. “And suddenly I’m just… the villain. In my own house.”

Eddie set his drink down and stood. “Miranda—”

“I mean, how could Heather say those things?” Miranda asked.

Eddie exhaled. “To be fair, she was being hypnotized by my father, Miranda. Those tapes were from those phony therapy sessions when she was barely holding it together.” He gave a short, disbelieving laugh. “God, when you actually say that out loud…”

“Yeah, but that was all about her mother’s disappearance,” Miranda said. “The fact that she brought the trial up at all tells me she’s felt like this all along.”

Eddie placed a hand on her shoulder.  “I don’t believe Heather had any malicious intent when she said those things,” he assured her. “And I don’t think you do either.” 

She stopped. “Tell me the truth. Did you ever… ever even once doubt what we saw that night? Did you think maybe… maybe he didn’t push her?”

Eddie looked at her, long and hard. “No. I believe you. I always have.”

Her eyes welled, but she didn’t let the tears fall. A knock broke the silence and Miranda froze, her eyes narrowing.

Another knock, gentler this time. “Miranda?” came Heather’s voice. “Can we talk?”

Miranda crossed the room and opened the door just enough to see Heather’s face in the hallway light. She looked anxious and remorseful and immediately opened her mouth to speak. Miranda cut her off before she’d uttered a word. “Now’s really not a good time,” she said coolly.

Heather took a breath. “I didn’t know anything about that tape. Honestly, I had no idea that it even existed, much less how it got cued up at the party tonight.”

“How it got cued up is not hard to figure out,” Miranda told her. “Vaughn and Eddie’s dad are thick as thieves. All he needed was opportunity. You, on the other hand, are supposed to be my friend. My sister.”

“I am,” Heather told her. “Miranda, that tape recording was from over fifteen years ago. I was a mess. I’d just had Violet, I was having blackouts, a madman was using me to kill my father.”

“Madman might be a bit of an exaggeration…” Eddie mused lightly from across the room. 

Miranda ignored him and let out a dry laugh. “Oh, I’m very familiar with the Heather Rydell Greatest Hits compilation. We’ve got trauma, cheating husbands, repressed memories, postpartum—what else are we blaming tonight’s disaster on? Mercury in retrograde? Sorry, that’s Sadie’s schtick.”

Heather flinched. “That’s not fair.”

“No,” Miranda said coolly. “What’s not fair is you giving people permission to question what we saw that night. The five of us testified under oath. You want to unravel your memories, go ahead. But don’t pull the rest of us down with you.”

Heather didn’t speak as Miranda shut the door in her face.

* * *

The music had stopped. Most of the guests were gone, save for a few lingering in quiet clusters by the terrace. The once-glamorous agency party now looked more like the aftermath of a gala that had ended in scandal.

Heather descended the stairs slowly, gripping the railing like it might steady more than just her steps. She looked pale and hollowed out.

Brett crossed the foyer and met her at the base of the staircase. “What happened?” he asked gently. “Are you okay?”

Heather shook her head. “Not really.”

“What happened?”

“She’s furious,” Heather said. “And she has every right to be, but it’s not like I put the video up on that screen myself.”

“I know,” Brett muttered. “Vaughan Novak has gone too far this time”

A voice rang out behind them.  “What the hell is going on?”

Kelly stood a few feet away, heels off, a glass of ginger ale in hand. Beside her, Phoebe watched with folded arms, eyes narrowed with curiosity. And just behind them, Courtney approached tentatively.

Heather turned, surprised to find them all there. “It’s… a long story.”

“We’ve got time,” Kelly said flatly.

Heather glanced at Courtney, then back at Kelly. “We were teenagers. Miranda, Eddie, Courtney, Stormy, me… We snuck onto a soundstage at Sunset Studios. We were just goofing around.”

Phoebe tilted her head, confused. “And?”

“There was this girl,” Heather continued. “An actress named Patricia Ruiz. She was very young. She got into it with a man, and then she died from a fall off a catwalk, and we were the only ones who saw it happen.”

Kelly stared at her, stunned. “He pushed her?”

Again, Heather and Courtney exchanged glances.

Courtney murmured, “We thought we were doing the right thing by coming forward with what we saw and testifying. But… I guess… some of us weren’t really sure what we saw.”

Phoebe looked between them, her voice barely above a whisper. “Who was on trial?”

“A man named Nico Bravetti,” Heather told them. “He was twenty-one—twenty-two years old maybe. Part of a crime family. He got twenty-five years.” 

Brett’s brow furrowed. “I just read something about him…” He pulled out his phone, swiped through headlines. “Here—he completed his sentence. He’s being released.”

“When?” Courtney asked.

Brett looked up. “Today.”

Just then, the doorbell rang and everyone turned. Mei Lin moved to open it as Ava Solomon rushed in, breathless, her cheeks tear-streaked.

“Miss Rydell, thank god,” she said, zeroing in on Heather and Brett. “I didn’t have your number, but R.J. mentioned the party… I didn’t know how else to reach you.”

“What’s wrong?” Heather asked, already bracing for more bad news.

“It’s Violet,” Ava said. “She took something. A pill. It was supposed to be molly, but then she passed out and wouldn’t wake up. They took her to Cedars.”

Brett was already moving, steering Heather toward the door.  “Come on. We’ll drive.”

And just like that, they were gone—into the night, into something much heavier than whatever scandal the party had left behind.

* * *

The heavy door buzzed, then slid open with a mechanical groan. Stormy stepped into the hallway—rumpled, bruised, the cut above his eyebrow sealed with a butterfly bandage. His knuckles were still swollen.

Alex and Jordan stood waiting. With them was a man in a charcoal suit, broad shouldered, glasses perched on his nose.

Alex reached for Stormy first, pulling him into a tight hug.  “Oh, darling, what were you thinking?” she whispered in despair.

Stormy pulled back slowly, his voice raw. “Is Jane okay?”

“She’s fine,” Alex said. “And for now the baby’s still hanging in there.”

Jordan gestured to the man standing with them. “Stormy, this is my attorney, Michael Larrabee.”

Stormy’s eyes darted to the lawyer. “I’m not getting out tonight, am I?”

“No,” Larrabee said. “Arraignment is set for tomorrow morning. They’re going to book you.”

Stormy exhaled, his jaw clenched. “What are they charging me with?”

“Felony battery,” Larrabee said. “Assault with intent. Possibly attempted murder, depending on how the D.A. wants to play it. Orr is stable and they expect him to recover, so that’s a definite plus.” 

Alex shook her head in disbelief. “That cretin is the reason Jane’s in the hospital and will probably lose the baby.”

“Doesn’t matter,” Larrabee replied. “You’re a public figure. He’s playing victim now, and his lawyer’s already talking to the press.”

Stormy’s hands balled into fists. “He’s an abusive drug pusher.” 

“I know,” Larrabee said firmly. “And we’ll deal with that. But for now, keep your head down. The first thing we have to do is get you out on bail after tomorrow’s arraignment. After that, no statements. No calls. Nothing until we’ve got clarity on how the charges are being filed.”

Stormy looked down the corridor, suddenly hollow. “Everything’s unraveling.”

Alex placed a hand on his arm. “There’s still time to fix it. But you need to trust the people trying to help you.”

“Thanks,” Stormy said, his eyes going from her to Jordan. “I guess Dad’s pretty disappointed in me judging from the fact that he’s not here.” 

“He wanted to come, but just as we were leaving, word came in that Lara was in a car accident,” Alex told him. “He stayed behind at the hospital.” 

Stormy stared at her, stunned. “What? What happened?” 

“Single-car crash,” Jordan said. “They think she was drinking.”

Stormy took a shaky breath, glancing between them. “What the hell is going on?” 

* * *

The fluorescent lights buzzed softly above James as he sat slumped in a waiting room chair, elbows on his knees, his hands knotted tightly together. Across from him, a vending machine glowed dimly. His phone sat facedown beside a cold cup of coffee. 

A set of double doors swung open and a doctor in blue scrubs approached, removing her gloves. “Mr. Blackthorne?”

James stood quickly. “Yes. My wife… Is she…?”

“She’s stable,” the doctor said gently. “Lara has a concussion from the impact—she hit her head against the car window. No internal bleeding, no skull fracture, but she’s going to be groggy for a while.”

James exhaled, shoulders sagging. “Thank god.”

“She’ll be moved to a private room shortly. You can see her soon.”

Before he could reply, two uniformed LAPD officers entered the hallway, one of them flipping through a small notepad.

“Mr. Blackthorne?” the taller officer asked.

James stiffened. “Look, can this wait? She just got here. She’s barely conscious.”

The officer kept his tone neutral. “We understand. But we need to inform you that her blood alcohol level was well over the legal limit at the time of the crash.”

James sighed with disappointment. Renee had mentioned she thought Lara had been drinking earlier. As it turned out, she was right.

“She ran a red light on Sunset and struck a pedestrian. We don’t have a status on the victim yet.”

James’s face hardened. “She’s not going anywhere tonight. She’s in no state—”

“We’re not arresting her now,” the second officer clarified. “But once she’s discharged, charges are likely. DUI. Possibly felony if the injuries are serious.”

James nodded. “Can you just give us time?”

The officers exchanged a glance, then stepped back. “We’ll be in touch.”

The doctor offered James a small nod before disappearing down the hallway. He stood there for a moment, hands on his hips, as if trying to hold the entire night together by sheer force of will.

The television mounted in the corner of the hospital waiting room flickered with the dull light of a late-night broadcast, volume turned low as James barely registered it. 

“…confirmed a double homicide at the residence of Zoanne Voss, a prominent executive at the popular streaming service, FlickFix. Authorities responded to a 911 call shortly after eight o’clock this evening. The second victim has been identified as Ty Stratton, an actor and known associate of Voss.”

Onscreen, the reporter stood outside Zoanne Voss’s Bel Air home, patrol cars and floodlights crowding the driveway. Yellow tape cordoned off the house from the street.

“…LAPD confirms that a warrant was briefly issued for Jason Merrick, heir to Silverdale Telepictures,” the reporter said. “That warrant has since been rescinded after investigators verified an alibi placing Merrick elsewhere at the time of the killings.”

* * *

Iris stood with her arms crossed tightly over her chest, her eyes glued to the linoleum floor of the waiting room. She barely acknowledged the tail end of a news story as it played out on the screen across the room. 

“As of now, no arrests have been made,” the reporter continued. “Sources close to the investigation tell us detectives are describing the murders as reminiscent of a mob-style hit—precise, targeted, and violent.”

The camera pulled back, revealing the house lit like a crime scene and a movie set all at once.

“…and tonight, the killer remains at large.”

Blake stood nearby, still reeling from the news about Zoanne as he watched the near-constant news coverage. Between that and video from Heather’s confession at the M.B.A. party, it was a busy news night. 

“I have to hand it to you, Iris,” Sheldon, who stood between them, said. “After sabotaging your career the way Sadie did, I’m surprised you made the effort to come see her.” 

She shrugged.  “I only came to make sure she’s alive,” she said. “That’s it. I mean, I’m not a monster. But after tonight, I never want to see her again. I mean it. I don’t care what happened. There’s no coming back from what she did to me.”

Behind them, just down the corridor, a shadow lingered just outside the waiting room entrance. Sadie, pale and bruised, barefoot in a hospital gown, clutched her IV stand with one trembling hand. A nurse had let her stretch her legs for a moment… and she’d wandered far enough to hear her sister’s voice.

Her face crumpled as Iris’s words cut sharp as glass.  Her fingers tightened on the metal pole. She was about to step forward… but something in her faltered. Her lip quivered, and she quietly backed away, disappearing down the corridor before anyone saw her.

Back in the waiting room, Iris rubbed her eyes, her anger masking the hurt underneath. “I just want all of this behind me.”

Blake didn’t respond right away. He was still staring over at the photo of Zoanne and Ty freeze-framed on the television, their faces now ghosted by tragedy.

“Don’t we all,” he murmured.

* * *

The doors slid open and Heather, Brett, and Ava rushed into the emergency room. A nurse directed them toward the ER desk, where a young doctor approached with a tablet in hand.

“Are you here for Violet Armstrong?” he asked.

Heather stepped forward, gesturing between her and Brett. “Yes, we’re her parents.”

The doctor nodded. “The paramedics administered Narcan en route. It reversed the respiratory depression, but the combination she took was… dangerous.”

Heather’s voice broke. “What did she take?”

“A hallucinogen laced with fentanyl,” the doctor replied. “Could’ve been fatal if they’d arrived even five minutes later.”

Heather’s knees buckled slightly. Brett steadied her, his jaw clenching. Ava stared at the floor, unable to meet anyone’s eyes.

“She’s conscious now, and stable,” the doctor continued. “We’re keeping her for observation overnight.”

They nodded, absorbing it. Then Brett turned, eyes narrowing.

“Where did she get it?” he asked sharply, looking at Ava. “Ava, you were with her. Who gave her the pill?”

Ava hesitated, glancing between them. “I… I don’t know,” she said. “She asked for it. Someone at the party had some stuff. I didn’t see who.”

Brett took a step forward. “Ava—”

“I swear,” she said quickly. 

From behind them, a voice cut through the tension.  “I know who it was.”

They turned to see R.J. standing just inside the sliding doors, his hair damp from the mist developing outside.

Heather blinked. “R.J., what are you doing here?”

“I came when I heard,” he said, then looked at Brett. “It was this guy who kept coming by the house asking for Amelia—one of Jane’s clients. He’s the one who pushed Jane.”

“Him?” Heather asked. She searched her memory for the name, knowing she’d heard it at least a half dozen times in the last few days in discussions at the agency.  “Seth… Uh… Seth Orr. That’s it.” 

A cold pit opened in Brett’s stomach. He knew the name. Seth Orr. He’d seen it in receipts Mickey Donovan had given him. Until now he thought it was another fake vendor or made-up expense. But all this time he’d been laundering drug money for Mickey—drugs that nearly killed his daughter.  

He balled his fists at his sides. He didn’t say anything yet. But the weight of it settled in his gut like concrete. He was beginning to see just how wide Mickey Donovan’s reach really was.

* * *

When Alex and Jordan returned to the hospital, they found James pacing the waiting room, his phone clenched in his hand.

“How is Lara?” Alex asked.

James stopped short. “She has a concussion, but she’ll pull through.” Then, immediately, “What’s going on with Stormy?”

Alex didn’t soften it. “Stormy’s arraignment is set for first thing in the morning. Our lawyer’s hoping he’ll make bail after that.”

James’s temper flared. “Hoping?” he snapped. “That’s not good enough, damn it. I won’t have my son sitting in a cell while his baby could—”

Jordan lifted a calming hand. “Until the D.A. files official charges, that’s all we’ve got.”

James exhaled sharply, then asked, “You’re using Michael Larrabee on this?”

Jordan nodded.

“That’s something,” James muttered. “At least.”

They turned as another man entered the room. He was early fifties and dressed in a sharp suit with a badge clipped to his belt. He had rugged, familiar good looks that suggested he’d once been a heartthrob before trading cameras for crime scenes. He moved with the ease of someone who’d spent decades in rooms like this.

James gave a sigh and shake of his head. “If this is about Lara again—”

“No,” the man said. “Different situation.” He offered a brief nod. “Detective Carver. LAPD homicide. I heard at the station you were here. Thought you should hear this in person.”

“Hear what?” James asked.

“Nico Bravetti was released from prison today.”

The words landed hard.

Alex’s face drained slightly. She didn’t speak—just exchanged a brief, charged look with James. 

Carver continued, “I was a rookie when I worked the original case twenty-five years ago. I’ve been assigned to tail him now. See if he slips.”

Jordan crossed his arms. “You think he’s looking for revenge.”

“I think men who lose twenty-five years don’t come out looking to rebuild,” Carver said. “They come out looking to even the score.”

James’s jaw tightened while looking at Alex and Jordan. “Against our kids for testifying.”

“That’s the obvious place to start,” Carver said. “But it rarely ends there.”

Alex swallowed. “What else?”

Carver hesitated, then added, “Word is Giancarlo Bravetti’s wrapping up business in Sicily. Could be back in L.A. any day now now that his son’s out of prison.”

James stared at him. “Father and son back in the same city.”

The detective nodded. “Exactly. And when that family reunites, things tend to move fast.”

He shifted his weight. “One more thing. News from the M.B.A. party is already spreading. There’s a video circulating of Heather Rydell admitting on tape that she wasn’t sure Nico was guilty.”

Jordan frowned. “What tape?”

“Nothing is private once it hits the internet,” Carver said. “That clip’s already making the rounds. It’s going to fuel the fire. Public opinion, media pressure, old grudges—Bravetti’s walking into a very different city than the one he left.”

James ran a hand through his hair.

Carver held his gaze. “If Nico Bravetti decides you or anyone you love had a hand in what he lost, he won’t be careful about how he responds.”

The three of them stood there, unsettled.

“I’d watch out for your families,” Keller said quietly.

The hospital noise slowly crept back in with the distant beep of monitors, the squeak of a cart rolling past, an overhead announcement echoing down the hall.

Alex looked away.

And somewhere out in the city, a man who’d been gone for twenty-five years was deciding what came next.

When the detective finally moved on, they barely had a moment to process what he’d said before the elevator doors opened and Dr. Mitchell stepped out.

“Mr. Blackthorne,” she said, scanning the room until she spotted them. “I’m so glad I found you.”

James nodded eagerly. “What is it?”

“Is it Jane?” Alex asked quickly. “The baby?”

Dr. Mitchell reached out, resting a reassuring hand on Alex’s arm. “They’re both stable,” she said gently. “In fact, the fetus’s vitals are improving.”

James let out a breath he hadn’t realized he’d been holding. “They are?”

She smiled. “Yes. We’re not completely out of the woods yet, but everything is moving in the right direction. I’m optimistic Jane will be able to carry to term.”

For the first time all night, the room felt a little lighter.

* * *

Sadie lay still in the hospital bed, eyes half-closed, a gauze bandage taped above her temple. Iris entered slowly, arms crossed, her lips pursed tightly.

“I’m not here because I care,” Iris muttered. “I just wanted to make sure you were still breathing.”

Sadie’s voice was weak, almost too soft. “I’m glad you came.”

Iris didn’t respond. She stayed near the door like she might leave at any second. “Well, you probably won’t be once I tell you what I came here to say. Now that I see you’re okay, here goes…” 

“Before you say anything,” Sadie began, “I just want to say how awful I feel about what happened tonight.”

Iris shook her head adamantly. “Don’t you see it isn’t just about tonight? Ever since we came out here you’ve been trying to control me, and—” She stopped and held up a hand. “No, I told myself I wasn’t going to get into it with you again. And do you know why? Because I don’t care anymore. I’m through trying to reason with you, Sadie. You no longer matter to me.”  

After a long pause, Sadie spoke again. “I don’t blame you for wanting to walk away, honey. As a matter of fact, I want you to. It’s better this way. Better for your career.” 

Surprised by her reaction, Iris started to turn to the door.  

But Sadie continued, “I mean, I don’t want what’s happening to me to interfere with your success. It wouldn’t be fair to let you watch me deteriorate.” 

Iris turned back. “What do you mean ‘what’s happening to you’? The nurse said you just had a few cuts and bruises.” 

“It’s nothing, honey bunny. I don’t want you spending another minute worrying. Now go get on with your life. I insist.”  

Walking closer, Iris folded her arms. “Sadie, if there’s something wrong, I want you to tell me.”   

Sadie pressed her lips together and answered in a shaky voice: “They found something. In the scan. They were checking for a concussion, and they saw something else.”

Iris went still. 

“A mass,” Sadie said quietly. “Behind my left lung. They think it’s malignant. They’re running more tests, but… it’s advanced.”

Iris didn’t say anything at first. She just stared at Sadie, searching her face. Whatever she was looking for—sarcasm, manipulation, a tell—it wasn’t there.

“You’re serious,” Iris said finally.

“I wish I weren’t,” Sadie replied. “So, you see, it’s better that we go our separate ways. Once chemotherapy starts, I don’t want you to feel… obligated to stand by me and see me through it.”

The silence that followed was thick, broken only by the steady beep of the heart monitor.

Sadie swallowed. “I know I’ve hurt you. I know I’ve ruined things. I don’t expect forgiveness. I just… I didn’t want this to be how we ended.”

Iris’s jaw tightened. Her first instinct was still anger, still defense, but it was mixed with something else now. Fear. Loss. The sudden, unwanted weight of finality.

“You always did know how to pick your timing,” Iris said at last, her voice unsteady. “Dying… that’s one hell of a move.”

Sadie managed the faintest smile. “You said I destroyed your career. I figured maybe this could be my redemption arc.”

“Look, I don’t think you should be alone right now,” Iris said. “Blake and Sheldon are in the waiting room. I’m just going to go out and tell them I’m sticking around for a while.” 

“Thanks, Iris,” Sadie said.  

A nurse arrived just as Iris stepped out. She made a few notations on a couple of charts before looking up with a smile. 

“Well, you were a very lucky young woman,” she said. “The doctor finished his tests and you are in perfect health. You can leave first thing in the morning.”

Sadie smiled.  “That is lucky,” she said, confident that she had steered Iris away from making a big mistake.

* * *

 The bedroom was dim except for the soft glow of the vanity mirror. Miranda sat there in her silk robe, her eyes fixed on her reflection. Her phone rested face-up beside her makeup brushes, lighting up every few seconds with another notification. Another clip. Another repost. Another comment she didn’t open. She didn’t have to. 

On the bed across the room, Eddie lay shirtless against the pillows, one arm flung over his eyes. “Miranda,” he groaned. “Stop torturing yourself.”

She didn’t look at him. Her thumb refreshed the screen again. “It’s everywhere,” she said. “Entertainment blogs. Reddit. Someone stitched it with that old trial footage.”

“They’re vultures,” Eddie said, dropping his arm and sitting up.

She finally set the phone down, but her hands didn’t stop moving. She leaned closer to the mirror, studying herself with practiced precision. “It’s karma,” she said. “I’m getting what I deserve.”

Eddie snorted. “Bull.”

 “Oh, come on, Eddie. You know I haven’t always been the nicest person. Look at some of the things I’ve done.”

“Well… you’ve come a long way since then.”

But Miranda leaned in, brushing her fingers lightly along the faint line across her cheek—the scar that never fully disappeared no matter how good the makeup.

“It’s happened before,” she said softly. “Just not this publicly.”

Eddie crossed the room and stood behind her, resting his hands on her shoulders. “You told the truth,” he said. “Then and now.”

She met his eyes in the mirror, tilting her head to meet his hand, allowing him to console her for now because tomorrow would no doubt be worse.

* * *

The yacht rocked gently in its slip, the marina lights rippling across the water. Nico sat alone at the dining table, a single lamp on, the rest of the cabin dark. He scrolled through his phone, seething at every mention of the video that had now gone viral.

Heather Rydell’s words echoed in his mind. 

“What if… what if he really was innocent?”

Nico made a fist, his eyes red with rage.  

“But 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.”

 In front of him lay a folded page torn from an old society paper, yellowed at the edges and dated December 2008. He read it slowly, savoring the language.

…the devastating earthquake that struck Los Angeles Saturday night left bridges collapsed and entire blocks reduced to ash…

His eyes drifted down the column.

…among the most high-profile losses was the historic Hotel Terranova, owned by Sunset Studios mogul James Blackthorne and managed by his daughter, Miranda, which burned to the ground after a gas main ruptured…

Nico continued reading.

…Miss Blackthorne was pulled from the building by first responders and transported to Cedars-Sinai with third-degree burns to her face…

He leaned back in his chair as a smile crept across his face. From the table, he picked up a blowtorch and ignited it. A clean blue flame burst to life, steady and precise. Nico watched it dance for a moment, mesmerized.

“Poor Miranda,” he said. “This burn’s gonna hurt a lot worse.” 

The flame hissed ominously as the yacht rocked on the water.