Previously on L.A. Connections…

Detectives investigating the murders of Zoanne and Ty arrived at Riley’s doorstep and revealed that Ty himself had leaked the humiliating Noir Companions video that nearly destroyed Riley’s career. Bennett Crowe’s scathing Substack thinkpiece dredged up fresh doubts about Nico’s trial, casting a shadow over Miranda’s testimony, and when Courtney admitted she shared those doubts, Miranda fired her. Alex watched happily as Stormy and Keaton inched closer to sealing the American Star deal. Blake quietly enlisted Eddie to investigate Sadie’s suspicious cancer diagnosis. Vaughan circled Siobahn with promises of greener pastures as whispers about Miranda’s moral compass spread like wildfire, and Sheldon blasted his father for exploiting the chaos. Sharon agreed to complete Brett’s redecorating as long as he stayed professional. Brett spotted Suzanne growing dangerously close to Mickey at a fundraiser, his warning falling on deaf ears. Kelly and Keaton gave in to desire. Phoebe agreed to temporarily fill in as M.B.A.’s receptionist. And just when Courtney thought her world couldn’t spin further off its axis… Nico emerged from her back seat, gun in hand.

* * *

Courtney’s hands were locked around the steering wheel, her knuckles white and her breath coming in shallow bursts as she stared at the darkened façade in front of them.

The building looked abandoned from the outside—former restaurant signage faded from the sun, windows tinted, a curved porte cochère leading to the entrance. 

“Turn it off,” Nico said from the backseat, gesturing to the ignition with his gun.

“Please,” Courtney whispered as she did as he was told. “Don’t kill me.”

He chuckled. “Courtney,” he said, leaning forward so his reflection appeared beside hers in the rearview mirror. “If I wanted you dead, you’d already be dead.”

She swallowed hard. “Then what do you want?”

His head nodded toward the building. “Inside.”

Courtney trembled. “Where are we?” 

“Move,” he said, firmer this time.

Her hands shook as she opened the car door and stepped out into the sunlight. The quiet of the hills felt suffocating. No traffic. No witnesses. Just the faint rustle of palm fronds in the breeze. 

She took one step away from the car, then another, and then she ran. It was pure instinct—heels scraping against pavement as she bolted down the long hill toward the street.

She didn’t make it five feet. Nico shot out of the backseat and caught a fistful of her hair, yanking her backward with brutal precision. She gasped as her body snapped against his chest.

She struggled, clawing at his wrist. “Let me go!”

He dragged her to the porte cochère where he unlocked the glass doors and ushered her inside. Dust sheets had been pulled off tables, new lighting fixtures hung unfinished from the ceiling. The curved leather booths were intact, a bar stretched along one wall, and there was the faint scent of fresh paint mixed with wood varnish.

Courtney stopped just inside. “What is this place?”

Nico looked around. “My future,” he said.

She let out a broken breath. “Why am I here?”

He leaned closer, the barrel of the gun drifting casually but never fully lowering. “Heard through the grapevine Miranda fired you.” He chuckled. “How long were you even there? A few weeks?”

Her mind raced as she looked around in terror.

“It wouldn’t be because you started having doubts too, would it?” Nico asked, circling her like she was his prey. 

She froze.

“You know,” he continued. “At the trial, out of the five of you, you were the one who I always thought the jury didn’t believe. I could tell they had doubts that you saw what you said you did.”  

“I—I told the truth,” she managed.

Nico stopped behind her. “Did you?” he asked softly. “I remember your face when you were on the stand. You wouldn’t look at me.”

Her throat tightened. “Because you killed that girl.”

After a moment, he laughed. “See? That’s interesting.” He stepped closer. “You don’t even sound convinced.”

She folded her arms around herself. “I don’t know what you want from me.”

“The truth,” he said simply.

She shook her head. “I told the truth.”

He grabbed her hair again, fingers fisting at the base of her scalp, yanking her head back just enough to expose her throat. 

“Don’t,” she gasped.

He leaned down so his mouth hovered near her ear. “You testified,” he murmured. “You looked at twelve strangers and you said you saw me push her.”

“I—”

His grip tightened. “Say it again,” he ordered quietly. “Say you saw me push her.”

She winced, tears spilling down her cheeks. “I… I saw… I saw you arguing,” she cried. “She was too close to the edge—”

He yanked her head back harder. “Did. You. See. Me. Push. Her.”

Her composure shattered. “No!” she sobbed. “No, I didn’t see you push her!”

He didn’t release her yet. “What did you see?” he asked, his voice almost gentle now.

“I didn’t see anything,” Courtney choked out. “One minute she was there and the next she was gone. I don’t know how it happened.”

“And the push?”

She squeezed her eyes shut. “Miranda said it.”

His grip loosened slightly.

“She kept saying it,” Courtney went on, desperate. “Right after it happened. ‘He pushed her. He pushed her.’ Over and over. She was so sure.”

Nico’s expression shifted. “And you?”

“I believed her,” Courtney whispered. “I thought she must have seen something I didn’t. And then when we went to the police…” Her voice broke. “It was already decided.”

He finally released her and she stumbled forward, catching herself on one of the curved leather booths.

He reached into his pocket with his free hand and pulled out a small folded piece of paper. He walked toward her and handed it to her. 

She stared down at it. “Bennett Crowe,” she read, voice trembling.

“You’re going to call him,” Nico said. 

“You want me to say you’re innocent?”

He laughed with amusement. “Innocent?” he echoed. “No. I don’t need exoneration. I just need public doubt.”

She stared at him, not understanding.

“Say you’re not sure,” he explained. “Say memories are tricky. Say Miranda was very persuasive. Say you were young or confused or impressionable. Or just tell the truth like you should have done at my trial.” 

Her breathing quickened.

“I don’t want justice, Courtney.” He smiled, slow and predatory. “I want Miranda waking up every morning wondering who believes her. I want her life to erode.” 

Courtney’s hands trembled at her sides. “She’ll destroy me,” she said, shaking her head in protest. “What if I won’t do it?”

He gestured with the gun. “Then I’ll assume you prefer a shorter future.”

Her eyes stung with tears.

He pointed to the door. “Your choice,” he said simply. “I’ll give you twenty-four hours.” 

Slowly, she backed toward the door, unsure at first if he was really letting her go. When he didn’t move to stop her, she turned and walked faster.

“Oh,” he added, almost as an afterthought. “And Courtney?”

She stopped and turned back, eyes wide and glassy.

“If you go to the police…” he said pleasantly, then simply raised the gun and smiled.

Courtney stood frozen for a moment, the words echoing in her head, before she turned and raced out of the building. 

* * *

The front door shut behind Miranda as she stepped into the marble foyer of the Blackthorne mansion, keys still in her hand, her heels echoing through the foyer. She barely had time to take a breath before she saw movement above.

Stormy was coming down the staircase two steps at a time, his jacket slung over his shoulder. They both stopped when they saw each other.

“What are you doing here?” he asked.

“I came to check on Daddy.”

Stormy exhaled. “Me too. Ruthie said he went to see Lara at the rehab center.” 

They stood in the middle of the foyer for a moment, the house stretching wide and quiet around them. 

Stormy studied her. “You okay?”

“Define okay,” she replied, slipping her phone into her bag as she walked inside the parlor room.

Stormy followed her. “I saw the Crowe piece.”

Her jaw tensed. “Of course you did. The entire internet did.”

“I’m sorry,” he said simply. “First Heather, then that article, and now Courtney.”

Miranda’s gaze met his. “You heard about that.”

“Jane told me,” he admitted. “Sounds like it was pretty brutal.”

Miranda let out a breath that was almost a laugh. “That’s one word for it.”

Stormy stepped closer, lowering his voice. “She’s saying she’s not sure anymore?”

“She’s saying,” Miranda replied carefully, “that I was very adamant about what we saw.” 

Stormy frowned. “I never doubted it,” he said.

“That he pushed her?”

“Yeah,” he replied. “We saw them arguing, he slapped her, she ran, and he went after her. It’s not difficult to figure out what happened next.” 

Miranda nodded once, sharp and emphatic. “Exactly,” she said.

Stormy exhaled. “So why are they backing away from it now? Courtney said you pressured her.”

Miranda’s eyes flashed. “Pressured her?” She let out a humorless laugh. “I was a fourteen-year-old girl who had just watched a woman fall to her death. If I sounded adamant, it’s because I was terrified and trying to make sense of what I’d just seen.”

Stormy studied her carefully. “Heather feels the same way as Court.”

“Heather’s been trained by her past to distrust her own perceptions.” 

Stormy frowned. “You don’t think you influenced them at all?”

Miranda’s gaze hardened. “I told the truth. I didn’t script their testimony. I didn’t whisper in their ears what to say.”  Her voice lowered. “And I won’t apologize for being certain when everyone else was scared to be.”

Stormy nodded slowly. “You’re not alone in this, Miranda.”

She gave a tight smile. “I know. I just wish the people who were standing next to me that night remembered that.”

Stormy could see what this was doing to his sister, and wished the whole ordeal hadn’t reared its head again after all this time.

* * *

The M.B.A. conference room was unusually quiet for midday. Takeout containers were spread across the table—Thai noodles for Kelly and a chopped salad for Phoebe.

Kelly was leaning back in her chair, chopsticks idle in her hand. “Sometimes,” she said thoughtfully, almost to herself, “I think about how different my life would be if Dad had made one different decision.”

Phoebe didn’t look up from carefully arranging her salad. “I think about that too,” she said softly.

Kelly smiled faintly. “Yeah?”

Phoebe nodded. “One decision can erase an entire person.” She speared a tomato and examined it. “It’s kind of terrifying how fragile we are. One wrong turn, one storm cloud, one mechanical failure… and someone just stops existing.”

Kelly gave a small, uneasy laugh. “That’s a cheerful way to look at it.”

Phoebe finally glanced up, her expression apologetic. “Sorry. Occupational hazard. Working in hospitals makes you think about mortality a lot.”

“Right,” Kelly said, shaking it off. “I guess they would.”

Phoebe smiled again. “I just mean… it’s amazing any of us are still here.”

Before Kelly could respond, there was a knock on the glass door. Keaton stood there in a brown tweed jacket with elbow patches, flashing that effortless grin.

“Am I interrupting?” he asked.

“Only our existential spiral,” Kelly said wryly, rising and meeting him halfway with a kiss.

Keaton didn’t acknowledge the remark. “I thought I’d surprise you and take you to lunch, but it looks like I’m too late.” 

“Actually, we just sat down,” Kelly said and gestured to her takeout container. “I haven’t even started eating.”

Phoebe stood quickly. “I’ll just put your lunch in the fridge if you guys want to go.”

“Are you sure you don’t mind?” Kelly asked. “I promised you lunch on your first day.” 

“I don’t mind,” Phoebe insisted, already gathering the containers with careful hands.

Kelly grabbed her purse and gave Phoebe a quick hug. “Jane can help with any phone questions if I’m not back in time.”

“I’ll be fine,” Phoebe said sweetly. “Go enjoy yourselves.” 

Kelly left with Keaton, their laughter fading down the hall.

When the door shut behind them, Phoebe stood alone in the quiet conference room, holding Kelly’s untouched noodles. Her smile faded.

“One decision,” she murmured to herself.

Then she carried the food to the kitchen and neatly placed it in the fridge before brushing her hands on her sweater. 

* * *

Renee leaned back in her chair on the patio at Spago, sunglasses perched perfectly in her hair as she looked across the table at her oldest and dearest friend.

“I’m so happy you’re thinking about staying in town,” she said. “It’s about time. You’ve spent the last ten years on book tours.”

Suzanne smiled, stirring her iced tea. “And it was fun while it lasted. I loved it. Helping people overcome, listening to their stories. But now I’m feeling selfish. I want something…” She paused while trying to think of the right word.

“You want something for yourself,” Renee finished for her with a smile. “Honey, there’s nothing wrong with that. You’ve earned it.” 

“Maybe.”

“Well, I have a realtor for you,” Renee said. “She’s discreet. Handles all the quiet celebrity relocations. You’ll love her.”

“Great. Send me her number,” Suzanne said.

“I’m sure Heather will love having you around full time.” 

“I hope so,” Suzanne said distantly, her eyes fixed on her glass in a daze.  “We have come a long way since… well, since my affair with Brett. There was a time I thought she’d never forgive me.”  

“But she has,” Renee reminded her. “You’ve put all that behind you.”

Suzanne offered a thin smile.  “I guess you’re right.” 

“I hope you don’t mind me being nosy,” Renee began after a moment of quiet. “But I’ve heard you’ve been seen around town with Mickey Donovan.”

Suzanne didn’t flinch. “Oh, have you?”

“What’s the story there?” Renee pried.

“No story,” Suzanne admitted. “We’ve been on a couple of dates. He’s very charming.”

Renee arched an eyebrow. “Do you know who he is?”

Suzanne shrugged. “Somewhat.”

“And that doesn’t concern you?”

She folded her napkin carefully in her lap. “I’m not dating his family,” she said calmly. “I’m dating him.”

Renee’s expression didn’t soften. “Families like that don’t really separate the two.”

Suzanne met her friend’s gaze steadily. “I’m not concerned with what his family does—or did—in the past.”

A waiter approached with fresh bread, interrupting the tension just long enough for Suzanne to look away.

Renee sighed. “I don’t think he’s the one or two,” she said with a side eye. “But promise me you’ll be careful.”

Suzanne gave a small, enigmatic smile. “When have I ever not been?”

Renee didn’t answer.

* * *

The apartment gym was nearly empty, midday sun pouring through the windows and reflecting off chrome machines and mirrored walls.

Steve was at the bench press, finishing a slow set, his chest slick with sweat, earbuds in. He racked the bar with a controlled clang and sat up just as the door opened. Riley stepped inside and froze when he saw Steve. He turned on his heel like he was going to walk right back out.

“Hey,” Steve called, pulling out one earbud. “Don’t leave on my account. I’m done anyway.”

Riley didn’t answer.

Steve grabbed his towel, standing and stretching casually. “Natalie already gave me a workout this morning,” he added with a smug half-smile. “Still recovering.”

The words hung in the air like a slap. Riley turned slowly. “Fuck you, asshole,” he said evenly.

Steve didn’t flinch. If anything, he seemed amused. “Just stating facts.”

Two strides and Riley was on him, shoving him back against the mirrored wall. The glass rattled as Steve’s shoulders hit it.

“Say it again,” Riley hissed, fist clenching Steve’s shirt.

Steve just held Riley’s gaze and cracked a grin. “You’re not going to hit me,” he said calmly. “Not with detectives already sniffing around your door.”

Riley’s jaw tightened and his fist trembled. Then, with visible effort, he released him and stepped back.

Steve straightened his shirt like nothing had happened. “Good workout, though,” he added lightly. He clapped Riley once on the shoulder and walked toward the door.

After he left, Riley stood alone in the gym, chest heaving, staring at his own reflection in the mirror. He couldn’t let him get to him the way he did. He had to stay focused. Tonight he had dinner at Kelly’s. A chance to refocus their eyes on his career. That’s all he could handle right now.

* * *

Back at the Miranda Blackthorne Agency, Heather was at her desk, pretending to review contracts but mostly staring at the same paragraph for the third time, when the elevator doors chimed open and Brett stepped inside.

Heather rose to her feet. “What are you doing here?”

“Good to see you too,” he replied lightly and kissed her on the cheek.  “I just… wanted to check in.”

She folded her arms. “About what?”

“About everything,” he said, gesturing wide. “Our daughter, that video from the party, the trial you were a witness in that I never knew about. Pick your favorite.”

“Well, Violet is good,” Heather said firmly. “Which you would know if you tried to see her more often.”  

Brett sighed ruefully.  “Come on, that’s not fair. I see her whenever I can. And she’s got a lot going on academically.”

Heather seemed to give up the argument quickly. “She’s fine physically. Emotionally… she’s beating herself up. She keeps saying she ruined everything. Like she disappointed us.”

Brett exhaled. “She’s a kid. She made a mistake.”

Heather looked at him. “She could’ve died.”

“At least she’s taking it seriously.” 

“I can’t believe Stormy’s being prosecuted for beating up that punk drug dealer,” Heather said after a pause. “As far as I’m concerned, he should be in jail and so should whoever he’s getting the stuff from.”  

The remark made Brett realize he’d opened up a can of worms he didn’t want to. If Heather knew Mickey was Seth’s supplier, and how deep he was in with him, she’d never forgive him.

“And how are you?” he asked, swiftly changing subjects.

Her posture softened slightly. “I’m fine.”

“Are you?” he pressed. 

Heather clenched her jaw. “I mean, things are unpleasant at the moment,” she admitted. “But I’ve dealt with worse.”

They were both silent for a moment, then Brett shifted again, more cautiously. “Can I ask you something?”

She narrowed her eyes. “That depends.”

“In all the years we’ve known each other—married, divorced, married again, raising a daughter—why didn’t you ever mention the trial?”

Heather blinked, surprised. “Because it was awful,” she said simply. “Because it was confusing and scary and I didn’t want to relive it. I blocked it out. That’s what people do with things they don’t want to carry forever.”

“I’m sure it was hard,” Brett said.  “I imagine if it was Violet and how much I’d just want to make it all go away.” 

“That’s exactly how I feel,” Heather agreed. “I wouldn’t want her to go through that for anything.”

After another pause, Brett lowered voice. “Do you know your mother’s dating someone?”

Heather’s expression changed instantly. “What?”

“You didn’t know.”

“No.” Her tone sharpened. “Why are you asking me that?”

“I just thought you should know,” he said carefully. “He’s someone you’re probably familiar with since it was his brother’s trial you testified in. Mickey Donovan.” 

“What does this have to do with anything?”

Brett hesitated, choosing his words carefully. “It doesn’t concern you at all?”

Heather’s eyes narrowed further. “Why would I care who my mother dates?”

“I just know he’s a bad guy,” Brett said. “And I don’t want Suzanne getting caught up in something she doesn’t understand.”

Heather stood back a step. “Or is this about you not liking that she’s dating someone?”

“That’s not fair.”

“Then what is it?”

Before he could answer, Miranda’s office door opened. She stepped out, cool and perfectly composed, having clearly clocked Brett’s presence for longer than either of them realized.

“Well,” she drawled, crossing her arms, “isn’t this nostalgic?”

Heather stiffened. “Miranda—”

Miranda ignored her. “If you’re done distracting the staff, Brett, I’d appreciate you saying your goodbyes so we can get some work done.” 

Brett turned toward her slowly. “I just came to check on Heather.”

“Well, do the caring ex-husband routine on your own time. She’s distracted enough as it is.”

Heather frowned. “I’m not distracted.”

Miranda’s gaze flicked between them, cool and assessing. “Sure.”

“That’s enough,” Brett said sharply.

Miranda’s eyebrows lifted. “Excuse me?”

He stepped forward, his jaw clenched. “Back the fuck off, Miranda. You’re out of line. Whatever’s going on in your life, don’t take it out on her.”

Miranda’s expression hardened. “You don’t get to tell me how to run my agency.”

“And you don’t get to take cheap shots at her because you’re having a bad week,” Brett shot back.

Miranda’s voice turned icy. “This isn’t your battlefield, Brett.”

He held her stare for a long beat, then turned back to Heather, softer. “Just… think about what I said. About Mickey.”

He left without another word. Heather and Miranda held each other’s gaze until Miranda retreated into the conference room.

* * *

Blake and Iris walked barefoot along the waterline, Betsy trotting ahead of them, occasionally darting toward the surf.

“You hear back from any agents?” Blake asked casually, hands in the pockets of his rolled-up linen pants, button down shirt open and revealing his muscular chest.

Iris shrugged. “No.”

“You want me to talk to Heather? I know I could get her to reconsider.”

She stopped walking. “No.”

Blake blinked. “No?”

“I can’t think about work right now,” Iris said. “My sister is about to start chemo.”

Blake exhaled slowly. “Iris…”

“Don’t.”

“I asked Eddie to look into Sadie’s story. Her diagnosis.”

She spun toward him. “You what?”

“Just to verify—”

“You don’t verify cancer, Blake!” she snapped. “You don’t hire a private investigator because you think your friend’s sister might be lying about a tumor.”

“I don’t think she’s lying,” he said carefully. “I think something feels off. I just want you to ask her for details. A doctor’s name. A treatment schedule. Anything. Please. I don’t want to get in the middle of your relationship. I just don’t want you to be taken advantage of.”

Iris’s eyes flashed. “Sadie would never fake something like this. She’s getting ready to do chemo.”

“Then there should be paperwork,” Blake said quietly. “Appointments. Prescriptions.”

Before Iris could respond, a voice floated down the shoreline.

“Honey bunny!”

They both turned to see Sadie walking toward them barefoot, long printed caftan flowing around her ankles, a wide-brimmed sunhat on her head that she had to hold in place from the wind. 

Iris frowned. “Sadie? What are you doing here? You should be home resting.”

Sadie smiled softly. “I felt the pull of the ocean,” she said. “I needed to cleanse my energy before treatment begins. The body listens to intention.”

Blake stared at her.

Sadie’s gaze went to him, icy for half a second before she softened it. “I heard you leaving for the beach and I thought maybe we could get smoothies,” she added lightly. “Something alkaline.”

Iris hesitated. “You shouldn’t be exerting yourself.”

“I’m fine,” Sadie said. “I promise.”

After a beat, Iris turned to Blake. “Stay with her. I’ll grab smoothies from the stand up the path.”

Once she was out of earshot, the air shifted and Sadie’s frail smile vanished.

“You’re spending a lot of time with my sister, Blake,” she said evenly. “I don’t like it.”

Blake let out a quiet scoff. “I don’t care.”

“She’s vulnerable right now,” Sadie continued. “We both are. We’ve been through trauma. Family is what keeps us steady.” Her gaze sharpened. “We don’t need outsiders complicating that.”

“I’m not complicating anything,” Blake replied. “I care about Iris. I just don’t want her taken advantage of.”

Sadie stepped closer, her voice dropping to a near whisper. “I hope you’re not implying that I would ever take advantage of my own sister.”

Blake held her stare but refrained from firing back at her.

“You’re an outsider,” she said coolly. “All pretty face, swollen pecs, and a misplaced hero complex.” She tilted her head. “Do yourself a favor and step back. The universe has a way of correcting people who interfere with karmic bonds.”

“That sounds like a threat.”

“Call it… energetic consequence,” Sadie replied lightly.

Footsteps crunched on gravel up the path.

Instantly, Sadie’s shoulders slumped again. Her breath grew shallow. She wrapped her arms around herself as if the breeze alone might knock her over. By the time Iris reappeared with the smoothies, Sadie looked pale and trembling.

Blake watched the transformation in silence. And for the first time, he wasn’t suspicious. He was certain.

* * *

A sleek black banner now stretched across the porte cochère: CORSO—minimalist gold lettering against a matte background. Workers moved in and out of the entrance carrying boxes of glassware and lighting rigs while a folding table near the front doors served as makeshift intake for walk-in interviews.

Nico stood in the center of it all, sleeves pushed up, sunglasses tucked into the open collar of his Prada shirt. He looked less like a felon fresh out of prison and more like a visionary founder pitching a startup.

“Next,” he called lazily.

A nervous twenty-something California blonde stepped forward with a résumé. Nico skimmed it for less than three seconds. “Can you carry three martinis without spilling?” he asked.

“Yes,” she replied.

“Can you smile while someone insults you?”

A beat. “Yes.”

“Good. You’ll start training next week.”

From the bar, Mickey watched with open skepticism. He wore a tailored navy suit, hands in his pockets, expression permanently unimpressed.

“This is stupid,” Mickey said quietly when the next applicant stepped away. “A nightclub? You’re not twenty-two.”

Nico didn’t look at him. “It’s not a nightclub. It’s a hub.”

“For what, exactly?”

“For proximity,” Nico replied smoothly. “Writers. Producers. Actors. Politicians. Security contractors. People talk when they drink. They loosen when they dance. They forget who’s listening.”

Mickey exhaled. “You sound like Papà.”

“Papà likes it.”

“Papà is on cloud nine because he hasn’t seen his wife in months and she’s finally back on his arm,” Mickey muttered. “He’d approve of a circus right now.”

Nico didn’t bother arguing. “Corso,” he said instead, gesturing to the banner. “Italian for a social promenade. People flow through it. They see and are seen.”

Before Mickey could respond, Steve stepped up to the table. A white tee stretched across his chest, his dark hair neatly styled, résumé in hand. 

Nico’s eyes lit up immediately. “You’re not here for barback,” he said, studying him.

“No,” Steve replied evenly. “Valet. Or security. Whatever you need.”

“You work at a country club,” Nico said, glancing at the résumé. “Why leave?”

Steve shrugged. “Looking for something better. More opportunities.”

“You Italian?” Nico asked casually.

“Yeah. Sicilian, technically.”

Nico’s smile widened. “Me too.”

Mickey gave his brother a look.

Steve shifted slightly. “I’ve got a girlfriend at home. Trying to build something real.”

“Of course you do,” Nico murmured, his eyes darting up to meet his. “Loyalty is important.”

Steve flashed his charming smile.

Nico leaned back. “I have plans for you.”

“For valet?” Steve asked.

“For the front of the house,” Nico replied. “You’re the first face people see. You decide who waits, who gets priority, who we want to make feel important.”

Steve nodded slowly, grinning. “I can do that.”

“Oh, I know you can,” Nico said with a confident smile.

Behind them, the front doors opened again and Detective Carver stepped inside, sunglasses on despite the dim interior. Detective Morales followed a step behind, taking in the space with observant eyes.

Nico didn’t turn immediately. “Detective,” he said pleasantly. “Looking for a job?”

Carver walked forward slowly. “Hello Nico. Long time no see.”  

“Oh, it hasn’t been that long,” Nico replied knowingly. “You have been following me, haven’t you?” 

“Now and then,” the detective said. “Just curious what you’re up to. Then an alert came through about a liquor license your father applied for. Nice place.” 

“Great, isn’t it?” Nico asked and gestured with wide arms. “Opening night’s just a few weeks away.”

Carver stopped a few feet from him. “You understand we’ll be keeping an eye on this place.”

“Good,” Nico said calmly. “Tell your friends. We need all the word of mouth we can get.”

Steve’s stomach tightened. He recognized the detectives from outside Riley’s apartment the day they’d questioned him about those murders.

“Let me be clearer,” Carver said to Nico. “If you so much as step an inch out of line, I’ll know about it.”

Nico tilted his head. “That’s impressive. You must not sleep much.”

Carver continued, his voice calm. “And if you’ve got revenge on your mind? Against any of the witnesses from your trial?” He paused. “Who do you think I’m going to suspect first?”

Steve shifted his weight, eyes darting between them.

Nico finally gave Carver his full attention. He gave an amused smile. “Revenge?” he echoed. “Detective, I just got out. I’m focused on growth. Community. Hospitality.”

Carver didn’t blink. “If anything happens to any of them—a break-in, a fender bender, a stubbed toe that feels suspicious—I’m knocking on your door.”

Nico stepped a fraction closer, lowering his voice just enough. “You give me too much credit. I lost twenty-five years. I’d be foolish to risk another twenty-five.”

Carver held his stare.

“You were foolish once,” he said quietly. “People don’t usually evolve that much.”

Then Nico’s smile widened again, easy and unbothered. “Detective, I appreciate the concern. But I’m building something legitimate here. You’ll see.”

Morales shifted slightly beside Carver. “We will,” he said.

Carver gave Nico one last look before he turned toward the exit. Steve exhaled slowly.

Mickey studied his brother. “You’re playing with fire,” he observed.

Nico rolled his shoulders once, loosely and almost buoyant. “I like things hot.”

* * *

Servants moved briskly through the marble foyer, hauling Louis Vuitton trunks and garment bags up the sweeping staircase. Fresh flowers had been placed on every surface, the chandeliers were lit, and windows thrown open to let in the canyon air. 

Sharon Dyer stood in the center of the master bedroom suite, watching two housekeepers hang her dresses in a closet large enough to be its own apartment. Silk. Linen. Black evening gowns that had seen premieres and funerals alike.

From behind her, Carlo stepped close, resting his hands lightly at her waist. “Listen,” he said softly.

Below them were sounds of footsteps, voices, and the thud of furniture being adjusted.

“Our home is alive again.”

She smiled faintly. “It does feel different.”

“It feels complete,” he corrected gently. “You and I, my sons…”

He turned her toward him. Carlo Bravetti looked restored—color back in his face, posture strong, eyes clear. Being back in Los Angeles suited him. 

“No more long flights back and forth to Sicily,” he said and brushed a knuckle along her cheek. “Both of us here together at last.”

“I have missed you, Carlo,” Sharon said.

He leaned in and kissed her. His hands slid down her back. “I’ve thought about this moment,” he murmured against her lips. There was warmth in his voice, but also a hint of possession. He kissed her again, guiding her toward the massive carved bed.

Sharon responded as she always did. She knew the choreography. The soft sigh, the receptive hands, the slow yielding. But even as she let him unfasten the zipper of her dress, another image intruded.

Carlo lifted her easily, laying her back against the cool linen sheets. He hovered over her, reverent and hungry all at once. But as his mouth traced down her neck and his weight settled over her, Sharon closed her eyes and envisioned Brett making love to her. 

* * *

Alex was midway down the stairs, teetering on impossibly high heels when the front door opened and Jordan entered. A driver followed behind with an armful of luggage. 

“Is that my husband?” she called down to the foyer. “It looks like him but he didn’t tell me he was coming home today.”  

“In the flesh,” he replied as the butler hurried over to help carry suitcases up the stairs. 

The tension Alex hadn’t realized she was holding dissolved instantly. She crossed the room and he pulled her into an embrace that was solid and familiar.

“I missed you,” she said against his chest.

“I missed you too,” he murmured. “These board meetings are time consuming, especially when they’re halfway around the world.”

“How is Beau Soleil?” Alex asked.  

“Outfitted with a state-of-the-art VR lab thanks to the Benji Rydell Foundation,” he replied and kissed her again.   

They pulled apart, smiling. He cupped her face briefly, studying her. “You look tired.”

“It’s been a week,” she replied. “Stormy’s case, Jane’s scare with the baby, Violet’s overdose. I feel like we’re back in crisis management mode.”

Jordan loosened his tie, moving toward the sofa. “I spoke to Larrabee from the airport. He’s cautious about Stormy’s defense.”

“That attorney of yours is all doom and gloom.”

“How’s Violet?”

“Heather said she’s doing good.” She exhaled. “It could have been so much worse.”

Jordan nodded once. “It usually is.”

There was a pause—comfortable at first. Then something shifted. He reached into his briefcase and withdrew a thin manila envelope.

“And now,” he said evenly, “all that’s left is for you to tell me what Nico Bravetti was doing here the other day.”

Alex’s blood ran cold. “I don’t know what you’re—”

He slid a time-stamped security camera still from the envelope and handed it to her.

Alex stared at the photo of Nico standing on their front steps, sunglasses on and his mouth drawn to a smirk. The frame caught the moment just before she opened the door.

“You’re spying on me?” she asked, her voice sharpening.

Jordan’s expression didn’t change. “We upgraded the exterior cameras after the trial started trending again. It’s not spying, it’s security.”

“You didn’t tell me.”

“I didn’t think I needed to,” he replied calmly. “Not until this. What is your connection to him?”

She let out a small, incredulous laugh. “Connection? He’s the man our children testified against.”

“That’s not what I asked,” Jordan said quietly. “There were rumors around the time of the trial. About you. About an affair.”

Alex went still. “So now you’re digging up twenty-five-year-old gossip?”

“I’m asking why he feels comfortable showing up here when I’m out of town.”

She crossed her arms. “Why do you care? I was married to James then. Not you.”

“It’s not jealousy,” Jordan replied evenly. “But when a convicted killer shows up at my house, I get to ask questions.”

“You don’t get to interrogate me about something that happened before we were together,” she shot back.

“Then tell me there was nothing.”

“There was nothing that concerns you now,” she said firmly.

Jordan held her gaze. “Are you sure about that?”

A flicker of hesitation in her eyes was enough to keep the doubt alive.

* * *

The yacht rocked gently in the marina, the city lights of Marina del Rey shimmering across the dark water. Candles flickered between them on the table, their reflections dancing in Suzanne’s wine glass.

Mickey had insisted on cooking himself. Grilled sea bass, lemon butter, something deceptively simple that tasted anything but.

“I didn’t anticipate you being this domestic,” Suzanne said lightly, setting down her fork.

“I have hidden talents,” Mickey replied, pouring her another splash of wine. “Most people don’t stick around long enough to find them.”

She studied him over the rim of her glass. “My ex-husband had a yacht,” she said casually. “He adored it.”

Mickey’s brow lifted. “Rydell, right?”

She nodded. “Jordan.”

“I met him once. Briefly.” Mickey’s tone was neutral. “Sharp guy.”

“You actually lived here full time?”

“I did. I just moved back into our family home.” He gave her a crooked grin. “Though it doesn’t exactly bode well to bring a date home right now.”

She laughed. “Intimidating relatives?”

“You could say that.”

A breeze swept across the deck, lifting a strand of her hair. Mickey reached out and tucked it behind her ear with surprising gentleness.

“What are you thinking about?” he asked.

“You,” she admitted. “I don’t understand why some people think you’re… dangerous.”

His smile didn’t quite fade, but it shifted. “Who’s been filling your head with lies?”

She didn’t answer directly. “Well, your father used to be in the news quite a bit. And your brother just got out of prison.”

Mickey leaned back in his chair, unbothered. “Families collect headlines. That doesn’t make every story true.”

“Doesn’t make them all false either.”

He reached across the table, taking her hand. “Suzanne, don’t let old ghosts stand in the way of something that feels good.” His thumb brushed her knuckles. “You think I’m a bad man?”

She hesitated, then shook her head. “No. I think you’re… reserved about your life and how you live it.”

He smiled, that easy, disarming smile that made it hard to remember why she’d been wary at all.

“Reserved can be interesting,” he said. Then, with a playful gleam in his eye, he caressed her hand. “But tonight I feel the need to be more direct.”  

“Why’s that?” Suzanne asked.  

He grew serious, his voice low.  “Because I really want to ask if I can take you downstairs and make love to you.” 

She let him pull her to her feet. He led her toward the companionway, one hand at the small of her back, guiding gently. The cabin lights below deck were dimmed low, the yacht rocking gently against the marina’s dark water. Candlelight from the table above still flickered faintly through the stairwell as Mickey guided Suzanne down the narrow steps, his hand steady at her waist.

She hesitated only for a second at the bottom.

“Still time to run,” he teased softly.

She looked up at him. “You don’t seem like the type who lets people run.”

His mouth curved. “Only if they really want to.”

He brushed his thumb along her jaw, studying her as if memorizing the shape of her face. 

For a moment, she thought about Brett and Renee and their warnings. Then Mickey kissed her. His hands slid along her back, drawing her closer until there was no space left between them. The yacht shifted gently, the water tapping against the hull in a rhythm.

Suzanne let herself melt into it, and suddenly all doubts were cast aside.

He untied the thin strap at her shoulder, pressing his lips to the exposed skin there, slow and unhurried. She closed her eyes, fingers knotting through his hair, grounding herself in the sensation.

He lifted her, carrying her toward the bed, laying her back with surprising tenderness. Suzanne let herself surrender to him. When their naked bodies joined, they fell into a rhythm that felt familiar despite its newness. He made love to her gently, staring into her eyes with every thrust.

Later, as she lay against his chest, listening to his heartbeat beneath her ear, she drifted off to a peaceful sleep. 

* * *

Courtney sat cross-legged on the floor of her den, surrounded by banker boxes she hadn’t touched since Clark disappeared. Manilla folders spilled around her—tax returns, investment summaries, real estate contracts, wire confirmations with numbers that still made her stomach turn.

Nothing led her to anything she didn’t already know or that Eddie hadn’t uncovered. Just Clark’s neat, smug handwriting and the steady trail of money that had vanished with him.

“Come on,” she muttered, yanking open another drawer in the file cabinet. She pulled out a thick binder and dropped it on the floor with a thud. Tabs fanned out—Venture Partners, Private Equity, Carrick Bay Consulting, LLC.

She skimmed line after line before tossing the binder aside in frustration. Papers scattered across the rug.

Her phone buzzed beside her on the floor. She stared at it for a second, heart hammering. Unknown number.

She swallowed and answered. “Hello?”

A young man responded. “Courtney DeLoache? This is Bennett Crowe.”

Her fingers tightened around the phone. “Yes.”

“I got your message,” he said. “You mentioned you wanted to clarify something regarding the Nico Bravetti trial.”

She looked at the chaos around her—the shredded illusion of her marriage, her job gone, her certainty eroding by the hour.

“Yes,” she said quietly.

* * *

Leilani moved around the kitchen, sauté pans hissing softly, jasmine rice steaming on the stove. The scent of garlic and ginger filled the air. Phoebe stood beside her, her sleeves rolled up, carefully slicing scallions with almost surgical precision.

“You cut like a professional,” Leilani observed.

“I am a professional,” Phoebe replied lightly. “Just… different body parts.”

Leilani gave her a sideways look, not entirely sure how to take that, then called into the living room. “Kelly, what time did you tell Riley to be here?”

In the living room, Kelly sat on the floor in front of the sofa while Keaton massaged her shoulders from behind. “Any minute now,” she called back between groans of pleasure. “Don’t stop or I’ll kill you.”

Before he could respond, the front door opened and Stormy stepped in, tension trailing him like a shadow.

“Hey,” he called.

Kelly stood immediately. “Hi,” she said, approaching him. “Listen, we haven’t talked much lately. You okay?”

He gave her a look that was between exhaustion and stubborn resolve. “I’m fine.”

“Stormy—”

“I said I’m fine.”

She left it at that, instead gesturing into the kitchen to Phoebe.  “Well, I wanted you to meet my half-sister, Phoebe.”

“Hi, Phoebe,” Stormy said. “I’ve heard a lot about you.”  

“All good, I hope,” Phoebe mused. 

R.J. thundered down the hall, backpack slung over one shoulder. “Hey Dad, I’m ready!”

Stormy’s expression shifted instantly, softening. “Hey, buddy.”  Then his eyes drifted to Keaton. They sized each other up in that old, unspoken rivalry. “So,” he said evenly, “we doing this again?”

Keaton didn’t flinch. “We’re having dinner.”

“That wasn’t my question.”

Kelly cut in quickly. “We’re taking it slow.”

Stormy gave her a look that said he didn’t entirely believe in slow, then pivoted. “How’s the script rewrites going?”

Keaton gave a slight sigh. “Getting stronger. I’ve tightened the second act. Nathan’s fall feels… inevitable now.”

Stormy nodded, professional for the moment. “If we do it, I want grit. Not hero worship.”

“You’ll get grit,” Keaton said. “He was complicated.”

The doorbell rang and Stormy chuckled. “It’s like grand central here tonight.” 

“That’ll be Riley,” Kelly said and crossed the room to open the door.

Riley stood there looking handsome despite the bruised ego—dark jeans, fitted tee, hair slightly mussed. He managed a tentative smile. “Hope I’m not too early.”

“Perfect timing,” Kelly said warmly, ushering him inside.

Stormy and Keaton both turned.

Riley laughed nervously as he noticed them. “Wow. Full house.”

Stormy’s eyes narrowed on him. Keaton tilted his head slightly, studying Riley’s face, his posture, the natural magnetism he carried even when he looked wrecked.

Stormy leaned subtly toward Keaton. “You see it?” he murmured.

Keaton didn’t take his eyes off Riley. “Oh yeah.”

Stormy’s mouth curved faintly. “We just found our young Nathan Blackthorne.”

Keaton’s grin was slow and satisfied.

Across the room, Riley had no idea his career might have just resurrected itself.