Last time on L.A. Connections…

Old wounds resurfaced when Eddie revealed to Kelly the truth about the trial that convicted Nico Bravetti, with Heather’s doubts threatening to unravel what Miranda insists they all witnessed. Chaos spread as Heather and Brett rushed Violet to the hospital after her overdose, Stormy landed in jail for attacking Seth Orr, and James learned Lara could face charges for driving drunk. Meanwhile, Sadie manipulated Iris with a fake cancer scare to keep her from leaving, and Detective Carver warned that with Nico’s release, the Bravetti crime family is reuniting—setting the stage for dangerous fallout.

* * *

Riley hadn’t really slept. He’d dozed in the driver’s seat of his car, waking every few minutes with his heart racing, the events of last night still weighing on him. By the time he crossed the courtyard, the sun was just coming up over the hills.

He knocked once, then again. “Natalie,” he said through the door. “Please talk to me.”

After a few moments of unbearable silence, Natalie opened the door, a duffel bag slung over one shoulder and a suitcase in hand. Riley felt something drop straight through him.

“Don’t,” he said immediately. “Please don’t go. Just talk to me. I want to explain.”

She walked past him, struggling with the weight of the suitcase. “I can’t even look at you,” she said flatly. “You’re a different person to me now.”

“It didn’t mean anything, Nat. I swear to you.”

She did try to look him in the eyes but quickly turned her head as if the sight of him pained her.  “The fact that you would let those women touch you…” she said with repulsion. “I just can’t stop envisioning it. How did you even get mixed up in this?” 

“I ran into my buddy Wyatt from acting classes at the club.” He swallowed. “He said he made a lot of money so he could focus on acting. That’s all I wanted. I did it for us.”

She laughed once, sharp and humorless. “For us? You weren’t even around, Riley.”

“That’s not fair.”

“You were always gone,” she said, her eyes filled with anger and something sorrowful and hurt underneath. “I was the one waiting at home every night while you were out with other women.”

He opened his mouth, then closed it. “You slept with Steve.”

Her chin lifted. “I was alone. I felt like you’d abandoned me.”

The words were like shards of glass. She wasn’t wrong, after all. The money came with a price tag bigger than its worth. 

“How many were there?” she asked. “How many women paid you for sex?”

Riley stared at the ground. “I don’t know.”

That answer was worse than any number. She nodded, like his answer was slowly settling in. Then she stepped past him into the courtyard.

“Nat, don’t go back to Minnesota,” Riley said, reaching a hand uselessly toward her. “We can work this out. I know we can.” 

But she didn’t move toward the gate. Instead, she walked straight to the neighboring door and knocked.

The door opened almost immediately. Steve stood there in nothing but a towel, his hair damp, an easy grin on his face as he stood clear of the door and took her suitcase. Natalie didn’t hesitate before walking past him and going inside. 

Steve lingered in the doorway a second longer than necessary, his eyes locking on Riley’s. His satisfied smile remained until he turned and closed the door.

Riley stood there, stunned for a few moments before he pounded on the door. It opened again with Steve still grinning. 

“What?” he said lightly.

“So this is what it comes down to?” Riley asked, enraged. “Jesus, Steve, you’re not even subtle about it. I mean, I knew you were after Natalie from the start, but damn, you move fast.” 

Steve’s jaw tightened. “You lost her. That’s not on me.”

“She’s just angry.”

“She’s done with you,” Steve said. “That’s why she turned to me.” 

Riley looked past him, hoping stupidly to see Natalie reconsidering, but she didn’t appear.

Steve followed his gaze, then looked back at him, amused. “You should go, Ry. We’ll try to keep it down.”

Riley stood there a moment longer, then backed away, the door closing between them with a final thud.

And just like that, he was alone in the courtyard—watching the life he’d built disappear into someone else’s apartment.

* * *

Violet’s hospital room was bright with morning sun, the blinds tilted just enough to keep the glare off her face. She sat propped up against the pillows, her long blond hair pulled back, an IV taped to her arm. Color had returned to her cheeks, and she looked like herself again.

Heather sat closest to the bed while Brett stood near the window, arms crossed, trying not to hover, and failing anyway.

Violet cleared her throat. “I know you’re both waiting for me to say I’m sorry, but I didn’t do it because I’m reckless or because I wanted to scare anyone. I didn’t even want to get high.” She stared at the blanket, picking at a loose thread. “I just didn’t want to be the girl who never does anything.”

Heather’s heart tightened in her chest.

“I’m the good one,” Violet went on. “Honor roll, swim team, drama club. I show up, I try hard and I don’t mess up. Teachers like me and parents trust me.” She glanced up at them. “You trust me.”

Brett shifted, his expression softening.

“And that’s kind of the problem,” Violet said. “Everyone already knows who I am. There’s no room to mess up. Or be curious. Or be… human.”

Heather leaned forward. “Sweetheart—”

“At the party,” Violet continued, her voice steadier, “everyone was drinking and smoking pot and stuff like that. And I was just standing there holding a soda feeling like a child.” Her voice cracked. “Like I didn’t belong.”

Brett and Heather exchanged looks of worry.

Violet took a breath. “They weren’t even pushing that hard. That’s the worst part. Someone just said ‘It’s fine. Everyone does it. Don’t be such a good girl.’”

“So you took it,” Brett said gently.

Violet nodded. “Because for once, I didn’t want to be the responsible one. I didn’t want to be perfect. I just wanted to stop thinking about how careful I always am.”

Heather reached out, taking her daughter’s hand. “You could’ve died.”

“I know,” Violet said, tears welling. “And that’s what scares me. I didn’t think about that at all. Not for one second. I just… I don’t want you to think I did it because I’m broken, or because you failed.”

“We don’t think that,” Brett announced.

Violet looked between them, searching their faces. “I just wanted to feel normal.”

Heather brushed a tear from Violet’s cheek. “You are normal,” she said softly. “And you’re alive. That’s what matters right now.”

Violet nodded, exhausted but relieved. She leaned back against the pillows, her eyes closing for a moment.

* * *

The mansion was tucked into a hillside high above the city, its grounds so expansive there wasn’t a neighbor in sight from any angle. The gates were still locked and the driveway was cracked with weeds. Nico pushed the front door open and stepped inside.

The air was stale and heavy with dust. White sheets covered the furniture like old ghosts. He crossed the living room slowly, tugged one free, and watched dust float into beams of sunlight. He ran a hand along the surface of a grand piano and blew, the dust lifting and settling again.

Suddenly, footsteps echoed behind him.

“I figured I’d find you here,” Mickey called from across the room.

Nico didn’t turn. “I’d forgotten how massive this place was. Can’t understand why you’ve been living on that yacht all these years.”

Mickey stopped just inside the doorway of the room. “It was never really my house.”

Nico smiled faintly. “You mean until our father found out Deirdre Donovan had given birth to his firstborn,” he said, finally turning to face him, “and decided you should come live with us.”

Mickey’s expression was unreadable.

“My mother certainly didn’t like that,” Nico added calmly.

“No,” Mickey said. “She didn’t.”

They stood there a moment, the past settling between them like the dust Nico had disturbed.

Nico broke the silence first. “You know,” he said, almost casually, “for all the chaos it caused at first… I liked finding out I had a brother.”

Mickey looked at him, surprised.

Nico shrugged. “I was an only child. Spoiled, but on a tight leash. Everything I did was his business.” He let out a short breath. “When you showed up, it split the attention. Took some of the weight off.”

“That’s not how I remember it,” Mickey said.

“It meant I wasn’t alone anymore.”

Mickey’s expression softened just a fraction.

“Then we got older and assumed our roles in the family,” Nico went on. “I was the muscle. The problem-solver. The one he sent in when he didn’t want to get his hands dirty.”

“I thought you enjoyed being the hammer,” Mickey said. 

“When you showed up,” Nico said, dismissing the remark, “suddenly there was someone else he trusted. Someone who got the meetings, the phone calls, the decisions.” He glanced at Mickey. “You were the operator. The thinker. The one he listened to.”

Mickey considered his words. “I didn’t feel trusted. I felt… tested. Like I could be taken away just as fast as I was brought in.”

“But you were his favorite,” Nico said.  

Mickey raised an eyebrow. “You think there was a favorite?”

“Well,” Nico said quietly, “he didn’t let you rot up the river for twenty-five years.”

Mickey shook his head. “He couldn’t stop it. There were witnesses. A jury convicted you.”

Nico’s mouth curved, humorless. “You really believe that?” He folded his arms, leaning back against the sheet-covered sofa. “You think if he wanted me free I would have spent one night in that hell hole? He bought witnesses like jewelry. Had judges in his pocket all over this city.”

“Not untrue,” Mickey said, his hands in his pockets.

He looked straight at Mickey. “If I stayed inside, it’s because he decided I was more useful there.”

“Well, you’ll have your chance to hash it out with him when he gets back,” Mickey said after a beat. 

Nico paused as he walked to the stairs. “Then we should make sure the house is ready.”

“For him?” Mickey asked.

Nico glanced back. “For all of us.”

Mickey nodded slowly.

Outside, the city glittered beneath the sun, unaware that an old family was about to reclaim its space.

* * *

The courtroom was colder than Alex expected, the air-conditioned chill settling into her bones as she sat between Miranda and Eddie, her hands clasped so tightly her fingers ached. Across the aisle, Stormy stood beside Michael Larrabee, shoulders squared, jaw set—trying to project control when everything in his life felt anything but.

The D.A. rose first.

“Your Honor,” she said, crisp and deliberate, “the People have rejected the defendant’s request to lessen the charges against Mr. Blackthorne to Aggravated Assault. After further review of the victim’s medical reports, the charge of Felony Battery will remain.”

A soft murmur swept through the gallery.

“The victim, Seth Orr, suffered multiple fractures, internal injuries, and prolonged loss of consciousness,” the D.A. continued. “These were not incidental wounds. They were the result of sustained, intentional force. The People contend the defendant acted with clear intent to cause serious bodily harm.”

Alex felt Miranda’s hand tighten around hers.

“Given the severity of the injuries,” the D.A. said, “and the defendant’s emotional state at the time of the attack, the People believe Mr. Blackthorne poses a continued risk. We are requesting the defendant be remanded to county jail until trial.”

Stormy swallowed, his gaze fixed straight ahead.

Larrabee rose smoothly. “Your Honor, there is no dispute that this was a violent incident,” he said, his tone measured. “But context matters. My client’s wife had been hospitalized. Their unborn child was believed to be in danger. Mr. Orr was not an innocent bystander. His actions directly contributed to that crisis. Ryan Blackthorne has no history of felony violence. He is a lifelong Los Angeles resident with deep family ties and no flight risk. What happened was a moment of extreme emotional distress, not criminal predisposition.”

The judge reviewed the file in silence, flipping a page, then another. Finally, she looked up over her glasses.

“The court agrees that the injuries were severe and that the charge of Felony Battery is appropriate,” she said evenly. “This was not a single blow. It was an assault with potentially lethal consequences.”

Alex’s heart dropped.

“However,” the judge continued, “the court also recognizes the extraordinary circumstances surrounding the incident and the defendant’s community ties. Bail is set at one million dollars. Mr. Blackthorne will be released pending trial upon posting bail. A protective order is issued. Any violation will result in immediate remand.”

The gavel struck and relief hit in uneven waves. Alex was on her feet before she fully registered it, wrapping Stormy in her arms as Miranda joined them. Eddie clapped him hard on the back, emotion breaking through the rigid tension he’d carried all morning.

“Thank you for being here,” Stormy murmured hoarsely. “All of you.”

Larrabee leaned in close. “This just got serious,” he said under his breath. “But we’ll fight it.”

As the bailiff ushered them forward, Alex pulled Stormy close again, her voice trembling but hopeful. “Sweetheart… the doctors called. The baby’s going to be fine. They’re optimistic.”

Stormy closed his eyes, a shaky breath escaping him as he held her tight, then drew Miranda into the embrace. The weight hadn’t lifted, but for the first time since the attack, there was a thin, fragile thread of hope running through it.

* * *

At Kelly’s bungalow in Hancock Park, R.J. sat at the kitchen table, hoodie pulled on as he scrolled on his phone. He hadn’t said much since waking up, but at least he was here—safe and contained while Stormy and Jane went through their own crises. 

In the kitchen, Leilani moved quietly, wiping down the counter that was already clean, stacking plates with deliberate care. She didn’t interrupt as she listened to the chatter in the room.

Phoebe sat on the couch with her legs tucked beneath her, fingers wrapped around a mug of steaming hot coffee.

“So, Santa Barbara was… quiet,” Phoebe was saying. “Smaller. Slower. Nothing like that party last night. I mean, wow.  Is it always like that around here?” 

Kelly smiled politely. “It has its moments,” she said.  “Did you grow up in Santa Barbara?”

“Mostly. My mom moved around a bit when I was younger, but she settled there eventually. She was an actress, like I mentioned. Nothing huge, but enough to keep us moving.”

Leilani glanced up from the sink. “Where is she now?”

“Still in Santa Barbara,” Phoebe said. “She wanted to give us space. Said this was our thing to figure out.” She smiled faintly. “She’s also busy with a new boyfriend.”

R.J. snorted softly from the table. Phoebe laughed, easing the tension.

“What did you do there?” Kelly asked.

“I’m a nurse,” Phoebe said. “ER, mostly. Long shifts. A lot of chaos.”

Kelly nodded, impressed despite herself. “Wow, that’s cool.”

“It is,” Phoebe agreed. “But that kind of work just made sense to me.”

“And… my father—er, our father—lived with you there?” Kelly asked. 

“Until I was in high school,” Phoebe explained. “He and mom divorced about fifteen years ago.” 

Kelly’s eyes shot toward her mother, and then back. “So when Matthew showed up looking for me, he’d already split from Charlotte,” she said.  “I don’t understand why he never mentioned you.” 

“He never mentioned you either,” Phoebe said somberly.

There was a brief, comfortable silence. Then Kelly surprised herself. “You know,” she said, “you don’t have to rush back. I mean, if you want to stay for a while. Get settled. Get to know us.”

Phoebe’s eyes widened. “Really?”

“Yeah,” Kelly said with a smile. “I’d like that. I’ve never had a sister.”

“Me either,” Phoebe said, excitement building.

Leilani caught Kelly’s eye and subtly motioned her into the hallway. 

“I think I’ll get a refill,” Kelly said as she rose to her feet. “Do you need anything, Phoebe?”

She shook her head. “I’m fine, but thank you.”

As soon as Kelly approached the coffee maker, Leilani leaned in discreetly. 

“You barely know her,” she said quietly “She shows up out of nowhere and suddenly you’re inviting her to stay here?”

Kelly lowered her voice. “I know. But she seems… genuine. Sweet. It’s not her fault that Matthew kept her a secret from us.”

Leilani studied her daughter’s face for a moment, then sighed. “I just don’t want anyone taking advantage of you.”

“I don’t think she would do that,” Kelly said gently. “And besides, I want to at least try.”

Leilani nodded, unconvinced but respectful. “Okay. I’ll trust your feelings.”

Back in the living room, Phoebe smiled uncertainly, as if waiting for permission to breathe.

Kelly met her eyes. “Make yourself at home,” she said just as there was a knock at the door. She frowned. “I’ll get it.” She crossed the living room and opened the door.

“Hey,” Keaton said from the doorstep. “You ready?”

Kelly blinked. “Oh my god. Keaton. I completely forgot about our lunch plans.”

He smiled easily. “Rough morning after that doozy of a party?”

“You could say that again,” she said, stepping aside. “Come in. I’m so sorry.”

As he entered, his eyes lifted. “Oh, hello again.”

Phoebe looked up from the couch, equally startled. “Hi. Keaton, right?”

They both laughed, almost in sync.

“Wait,” Kelly said, turning between them. “You know each other?”

“We met last night at the party… before… well, before things went berserk,” Keaton said, then gestured between Kelly and Phoebe. “I’m guessing this is an agent/client situation?”

“Actually, Phoebe is my sister,” Kelly told him. It still sounded strange to say out loud.

From the kitchen, Leilani watched the exchange closely, drying the same plate twice. R.J. glanced up from his phone, interest briefly piqued.

“Huh,” Keaton said casually, then scrunched his face. “Um, did I miss a family development or something?” 

Kelly laughed.  “It’s a long story. I’ll tell you over lunch.” 

Keaton shifted his weight. “Are you sure? If this is a bad day, we can—”

“No,” Kelly said quickly. “No, we can still go. I just… forgot. Everything’s a blur.” She looked back at Phoebe. “You okay here for a bit?”

Phoebe nodded. “Of course. Take your time.”

“Let me grab my bag,” she said. “Two minutes.”

As Kelly disappeared down the hall, Keaton lingered awkwardly near the doorway, acutely aware of Leilani’s unblinking, appraising stare. He shifted his weight, offered a polite half-smile that went entirely unreturned.

When Kelly came back, she moved quickly—kissing R.J. on the top of his head, brushing her cheek against her mother’s, giving Phoebe a small, apologetic wave, then followed Keaton out into the morning light.

Inside, Phoebe leaned forward on the couch, curiosity soft but unmistakable. “So… they’re friends?”

R.J. didn’t look up from his phone. “They used to date.”

Phoebe’s eyebrows lifted. “Oh.”

“Until he broke her heart,” Leilani added, folding a dish towel with unnecessary force.

Phoebe nodded slowly, her expression remaining pleasant. She took another sip of her coffee, eyes drifting toward the door Kelly had just closed, as if filing the information away for later.

* * *

Brett’s living room was littered with fabric books and oversized swatch boards, the coffee table transformed into a grid of textures and colors. Sharon Dyer stood near the sofa, holding two samples up to the light, weighing them against one another before turning and lowering her hands.

“I’m so sorry about your daughter,” she said gently. “I hope you didn’t leave the hospital on my account. We could’ve rescheduled.”

Brett shook his head. “Her mother’s with her,” he said. “Violet wanted to sleep anyway. I’m heading back this afternoon before she’s released.”

Sharon nodded and set the samples down. “Still… I’m sorry.”

“Thank you,” Brett said. He watched her for a moment, then added, almost casually, “And the truth is, I needed to see you.”

“Why?” she asked. 

He placed his hands on his hips, turned away for a beat while he gathered his nerve, then turned back. “Because… I can’t stop thinking about you.”

Sharon held his gaze quietly.

“I was sitting in a hospital room with my daughter,” he continued, his voice soft and unguarded. “The person I love more than anything in this world. I was terrified. I was relieved and grateful she was alive.” He swallowed. “And still… all I could think about was you.”

Her eyes stayed on him but she didn’t move.

“You’ve done something to me,” he said softly. “I don’t know how. I just know I hear your voice when it’s quiet. I notice the way your eyes change when you’re thinking. The way your hair falls when you forget to tuck it back. It honestly feels like I’m under some kind of spell, and I don’t care.”

“Brett…” Sharon said carefully.  “Look, maybe our working together isn’t a good idea.”

She stepped back, breaking the space between them, and began gathering her things—sliding fabric samples back into her tote, tucking a folder under her arm. Her movements were efficient, but her hands trembled just enough to give her away.

“Maybe I should have someone else finish the job,” she said lightly. “I have an associate I work with sometimes. She’s very good.”

Brett shook his head immediately. “I don’t want anyone else.”

She paused, keeping her back to him.

“No woman has ever made me feel the way you do,” he said.

Sharon finally faced him, her eyes glossy and her thoughts conflicted. “You’re not being fair.”

“Just one dinner. That’s all I’m asking. One night. No expectations.”

For a moment, it looked like she might say yes. Her mouth parted slowly. Then she shook her head, pressed her lips together, and moved for the door.

“I can’t,” she said, almost to herself.

And then she was gone.

Brett stood there, hands on his hips, staring at the empty space she’d occupied. He turned away for a moment, swallowing hard, then faced the room again.

* * *

Stormy leaned over Jane’s hospital bed, kissing her with a relief that still felt unreal. He wanted to pull her into his arms and hug her as tight as ever, but knowing she was still in pain from her fall, he forced restraint.

“God, I missed you,” he said, gazing into her eyes.

“I missed you too,” Jane said, shifting against the pillows.

“Is it true? The baby’s okay?” 

“She’s no longer in danger. Dr. Mitchell says everything’s stabilizing. I just have to slow down for a while.”

Stormy exhaled, something deep and knotted finally loosening in his chest. “She did say it would take a miracle for him or her to pull through. I guess miracles do exist.”

“I know,” she said, squeezing his hand.

He kissed her again, gentler this time. “That’s it. I’m waiting on you hand and foot from now on.”

Jane laughed. “Stormy—”

“And when I’m not around,” he added, completely serious, “R.J.’s going to learn how to give proper foot rubs.”

Jane burst out laughing. “Oh, he’s going to love that.”

“He’ll thank me later,” Stormy said, grinning.

The laughter faded into something quieter and more tender.

Jane studied his face. “What about the assault charges?”

Stormy stiffened slightly. “I don’t want you to worry about that right now.”

“I get why you did it,” she said softly. “I do. But I wish you hadn’t.” Her hand rested over her stomach. “I need you around for this baby.”

He covered her hand with his own. “Nothing is pulling me away from you. Or from this.” He kissed her knuckles. “Not now. Not ever.”

Jane’s eyes filled with happy tears as she nodded, smiling.

* * *

Heather stood just outside Violet’s hospital room, her arms folded tight as she stared through the glass at her daughter sleeping. 

Suzanne exhaled beside her. “I’m relieved she pulled through,” she said quietly. “So many people don’t. Fentanyl kills millions every year. One bad pill, one wrong dose…”

Heather nodded, unable to look away from the room. “I keep thinking that if Ava hadn’t come to the house when she did…”

Suzanne squeezed her arm. “She’s alive. That’s what matters.”

Heather finally turned, and that’s when she saw Miranda, standing down the hall with Alex. The sight put her stomach in knots.  “I should—” she said, already stepping away. “I should talk to her.”

Suzanne hesitated. “Heather—”

But she was already moving. “Miranda,” she said softly as she approached.

Miranda turned, her expression cool. “What?” she snapped. “Here to plant more seeds of doubt?”

Heather blinked. “That’s not what I was doing.”

“Oh, wasn’t it?” Miranda said, her voice low but cutting. “How could you say those things out loud? That I told you what to say at the trial? Do you have any idea how this makes me look?”

Heather swallowed. “Miranda, I never meant to—”

“Right,” Miranda cut in. “You never mean to ruin people. It just seems to happen around you.”  

“Miranda, please—”

“Maybe this is all stemming from your accident on PCH all those years ago.” She shook her head, her eyes flashing major danger signals. “I know you say you eventually remembered everything, but obviously not, so I’ll remind you: We all agreed that we saw Nico push that girl off the catwalk.”

Heather fidgeted awkwardly with her hands as Alex stood by uncomfortably.  “Well, I mean… some of us didn’t.” 

Miranda shook her head in disbelief, her eyes stinging. “I can’t do this,” she said, her voice cracking. Then she walked off down the corridor, heels clicking fast and furious.

Heather stood there, stunned.

Alex lingered, watching Miranda disappear before turning back to Heather. Her expression softened. “Don’t take it personally,” Alex said quietly. “Nico being released has everyone on edge.”

Heather searched Alex’s face. “You don’t believe her either, do you?”

Alex didn’t answer right away. There was something guarded in her eyes now—something unreadable.

“It’s just… a lot of history,” Alex said finally.  She offered a faint, apologetic smile, then followed Miranda down the hall.

Heather stood alone, the weight of that trial heavy on her mind. 

* * *

Down the hall, Seth lay on the bed with one eye swollen nearly shut, bruises around his nose, his knuckles wrapped. Mickey stood at the foot of the bed, his expression calm but no-nonsense.

“I won’t be needing you for a while,” Mickey said evenly.

Seth shifted, wincing. “I was just—”

“You were stupid,” Mickey cut in, not raising his voice. “You drew attention. Police attention. Media attention. The kind I spend a lot of money making sure doesn’t land anywhere near me.”

Seth swallowed. “That Blackthorne guy lost it. I didn’t think—”

“That’s the problem,” Mickey said. “You didn’t think at all.”

Sinking back against the pillows, Seth shook his head in frustration.

Mickey stepped closer. “You’re going to lay low. No parties. No showing up anywhere uninvited. You disappear until this blows over. If I hear your name again before that—” He didn’t have to finish the thought.

Seth nodded quickly. “I get it.”

“Good,” Mickey said. “Heal up.”

He turned and left the room without another word. In the hallway, he headed for the elevators, slowing when he noticed a woman waiting near the call button. When he got a clearer look at her face, he stopped altogether.

“Excuse me,” he said, lightly. “Are you Suzanne Rogers?”

She looked up, surprised but gracious. “Yes, that’s me. I’m sorry. Do I know you?”

Mickey smiled. “No. I recognized you from your films.”

Her lips curved with practiced ease. “That was a lifetime ago.”

“Maybe,” he said, letting his gaze linger a moment. “But if you don’t mind me saying, you’re even lovelier now.”

She regarded him with amused skepticism. “Flattery still works, I see.”

“Only when it’s earned,” Mickey replied, extending a hand. “Mickey Donovan.”

She shook it. “Nice to meet you.”

Mickey folded his arms casually. “Forgive me for asking, but I’ve always wondered why you stopped acting.”

Suzanne considered his question. “Let’s just say fate had other plans.”

The elevator chimed as it arrived.

“I’m an author now,” she added, stepping inside.

“Ah,” Mickey said. “Fiction?”

She smiled as she pressed the button. “Afraid not. Real life tends to be far more interesting, don’t you think?”

Mickey smiled back.

“Are you going down?” she asked, holding the doors open.

“I am,” he said. “Mind if I join you?”

“Of course.”

She released the button, and the doors slid shut, sealing them together as the elevator began its descent.

* * *

Silverdale Telepictures buzzed with that specific kind of first-day energy—clipboards, coffee, people moving fast through sets and up and down hallways. Riley signed in, nodded at a PA who barely looked up, and followed the arrows toward wardrobe. Whatever was happening with Natalie and Steve, whatever was eating at him, this was still a win. Marigold Lane was a role that he had earned.

The wardrobe room smelled like steam and fabric spray. A woman with a measuring tape around her neck glanced at him, already assessing.

“Shirt off,” she said. “Arms out.”

Riley did as told, staring at himself in the mirror. He looked the part. Clean and all-American like a guy who belonged on a TV movie poster.

A phone rang on the counter and the wardrobe woman answered without looking at him. “Wardrobe.”

A pause. Her expression shifted slightly. “Uh-huh.” Another pause. “Yeah. I understand.”

As she spoke, Riley looked at himself in the mirror. He didn’t have any shirtless scenes in the movie but if they decided to throw one at him, he’d be ready. He’d hit the gym harder than ever over the last few weeks. 

The woman hung up and finally met his eyes. “That’s it,” she said. “You’re done.”

Riley blinked. “Done what?”

She sighed, already reaching for the clipboard. “You’re fired.”

“What?” He laughed, certain this was a mistake. “I haven’t even started.”

She shrugged. “Didn’t come from me. Came from the top.”

“The top of what?”

She gave him a look that was half pity, half irritation. “This studio doesn’t like actors with sketchy pasts. They like squeaky clean ones.” She tilted her head. “Too bad, too. You look the part.”

Riley’s stomach was doing flips. “Why? What did I do?”

“Check the internet, sweetie,” she said with a shrug and turned away.

He left in a daze. In his car, hands shaking, he opened his phone. It didn’t take long.

The video was already everywhere—cropped, reposted, blurred just enough to skirt moderation but clear enough to recognize him. Shot from a neighboring balcony, angled down toward a high-rise terrace on Wilshire. No sound or context. Just him, unmistakably, fucking that vouyer woman from behind.

Then the clip split and screenshots appeared beside it—his name, his face, profile images from Noir Companions, headlines already forming their own narrative.

Riley dropped the phone onto the passenger seat. He stared straight ahead, the studio lot stretching out in front of him, suddenly unreachable.

* * *

Larchmont Bungalow was half full, sunlight slanting in through the front windows and catching the condensation on their water glasses. It wasn’t a date—that had been established—but it was familiar and comfortable.

Keaton leaned back in his chair, watching Kelly rearrange the ingredients on her salad plate. They’d already covered the basics: last night’s party fiasco and the fallout, updates on Stormy and Jane, and the surprise half-sister that showed up on her front stept. That gave room for him to broach another subject. 

“So,” he said lightly. “Are you seeing anyone?”

She glanced up. “No. Why?”

He didn’t answer right away, instead offering a crooked smile. “Because I can’t stop thinking about you lately.”

Kelly exhaled, long and slow, like she’d been holding it in for years. “Keaton, we’ve been down this road,” she said, already shaking her head. “I agreed to lunch. As friends. That’s it.”

He nodded, unoffended. “I know. I hear you.”

She studied him. “And?”

“And I also know you still think about me.”

“Yes,” she said quietly. “I do. But it never worked before. Your career was always the priority. It wasn’t just important to you… it was everything. Like an obsession.”

Keaton didn’t argue. “That’s fair.” He leaned forward. “But I’ve changed.”

Kelly gave a small, skeptical smile. “People always say that.”

“My therapist says I’m doing better,” he added, half-joking, half-earnest. “Which I realize is not the most romantic endorsement.”

She laughed despite herself. “Wow. A glowing review.”

“I’m serious,” he said. “I slowed down. I’m trying to show up differently.”

She was about to respond when her phone buzzed on the table. She glanced at the screen and froze. “Oh no,” she said softly.

Keaton’s smile faded. “What?”

She didn’t answer right away, her thumb hovering as she read the message again. “It’s about Riley,” she said finally.

And just like that, the easy flirtation evaporated, replaced by the familiar weight of reality pressing back in.

* * *

Brett arrived at Mickey’s office overlooking the marina and was shown in by one of his henchmen. He stood before him at his desk, arms folded tightly over his chest. 

“You don’t seem to get that I don’t appreciate unannounced drop-ins, Mr. Armstrong,” Mickey said without looking up.

Brett exhaled. “I would have called first, but I was busy picking my daughter up from the hospital.  She was admitted to the E.R. last night after she took something at a party that turned out to be laced with fentanyl.” 

Mickey didn’t react. “That’s unfortunate,” he said evenly. “Street drugs are dangerous. Kids don’t realize how much garbage is out there now. You should caution her to stay away from anything she doesn’t know the source of.”

Brett nodded once, then leaned forward. “Funny thing is… I was thinking the same. If that stuff’s so dangerous,” Brett continued, his voice calm but laced with rage, “why are you putting it out there?”

Mickey folded his hands together. “That’s business.”

Brett held his gaze. “My daughter almost died.”

Mickey waited. “And I’m sorry that happened. Truly.”

Brett shook his head incredulously. “So it doesn’t bother you at all you’re having punks like Seth Orr sell drugs to kids that might kill them? 

Mickey’s expression didn’t change. “What bothers me,” he said quietly, “is people who don’t understand the world they’re operating in. You don’t like it? Teach your daughter to stay away from it. That’s how you protect her. That’s your job. My job is my business.”  

Brett blinked, realizing again how morally bankrupt the man was. He turned to leave, then paused and thought about lunging at him and getting in as many blows to his face that he could before Bruno came in. But he restrained himself. No good would come of it, and if he was dead, he wouldn’t be around to protect his daughter. 

Again, he turned to leave. Halfway to the door, his gaze snagged on something resting near the edge of Mickey’s desk. A book with a cover he was all too familiar with.

Mickey noticed immediately. He reached out, picked up the book, and turned it in his hands. “Oh, I ran into your ex–mother-in-law today,” he said. “We chatted for a few minutes. She’s a very striking woman. I picked up her first book. It’s quite good. Have you read it?”

“I’m familiar with it,” Brett replied. 

“Valley of Temptation,” Mickey read from the cover. “You know, it didn’t take me long to identify the two main characters. A bored housewife and her daughter’s husband. You had quite the sex drive in your younger days, Brett. I mean, assuming it’s based on fact. I guess you could have been lousy in bed, but it’s hard to fake this kind of detail.” 

Brett’s face reddened. 

Mickey thumbed the book open with deliberate slowness, as if he were savoring Brett’s silence. He cleared his throat, then read aloud, amused. “His fingers traced the curve of her waist as though he already knew it by heart, drawing her closer until the space between them dissolved. She tilted her face up, and when his lips met hers it was like an unspoken promise, a kiss that lingered, deepened, and left her trembling with the knowledge that she was no longer alone in her wanting.”

“Very evocative,” he said lightly.  

Without another word, Brett walked out, the image of that book burning itself into his mind as the door closed behind him.

* * *

Alex was halfway down the staircase when the doorbell chimed. Jordan had just left for a meeting, and the staff was scattered somewhere so she continued toward the foyer herself. The doorbell rang again, impatient this time. She smoothed her robe and opened the door. 

“Hey, baby,” Nico said from the porch. “Miss me?” 

For a split second, Alex’s body forgot how to move.

He stood there in a Gucci polo that hugged his torso, his posture relaxed, and that familiar, infuriating confidence curving his mouth. His eyes flicked over her, slow and appreciative.

“Wow,” he said softly. “Still gorgeous.”

“Nico,” she finally said in shock, then recovered just enough to lie. “My husband’s upstairs.” 

Nico smiled. “No, he isn’t.” He stepped inside without waiting for permission. “I watched him leave five minutes ago.”

Alex followed him as he strolled into the living room. “You really shouldn’t be here.” 

“Is that all you’ve got for me after twenty-five years?” Nico said, turning back to her. “Not even a compliment?” He flexed one arm, the muscle tightening beneath the fabric. “Prison was very… motivating. Not bad for forty-seven, right?”

Backing up toward a desk across the room, Alex searched blindly for something to defend herself with should it come down to it. 

“Twenty-five years,” Nico repeated. “That’s a long time to think. To remember. To rewatch things in your head.”

Alex’s voice stayed steady. “You need to leave.”

He cocked his head. “Funny thing about memories,” he said. “They change when new information comes along.”

She froze.

“You see that video?” Nico continued, almost conversational now. “The one that surfaced from that party. Heather Rydell, all wide-eyed and honest. Talking about how she wasn’t sure what she saw. How none of them really were.”

Alex swallowed.

“And Miranda,” Nico added, watching her closely. “So certain back then. So convincing.” He paused. “Turns out she might’ve been lying.”

“That’s not true,” Alex said quickly.

Nico smiled. “Isn’t it?”

Alex tried making her way to the doorway. “Please just go.”

He stepped in front of her, amused. “I’m sorry. That’s not the only reason I came by.”  He leered at her, taking her in. “I’ve been thinking about how good it used to be.”

“I said leave.”

“We could go upstairs,” he said suggestively, then sat on the sofa and patted the cushion beside him. Then, almost as an afterthought, “Or we could just stay here.” He tilted his head. “You were never very particular about location.”

Her breath stalled—not from desire, but from the weight of the past settling in.

He rose, closing the distance, his voice lowering. “Remember how we always had to wait for James to leave the house? All those stolen minutes.”

He leaned in just close enough that she felt his presence at her back, his breath warm against her neck, his body pressing against hers. The memory was deliberate and weaponized.

“That’s enough,” Alex said sharply. She turned, putting space between them. “You are not welcome here. You will leave. And you will not come back.”

For a moment, Nico studied her. Then the smirk faded into something colder, more assessing. Then he smiled again. “As you wish,” he said, stepping back. “For now.”

He headed for the door, pausing only once.

“You were always better at pretending you didn’t want what you wanted,” he said quietly.

The door shut behind him.

Alex stood perfectly still until she heard his footsteps fade. Only then did she let herself exhale.