Nico made it crystal clear to Courtney—either she gives Bennett Crowe a follow-up interview to his Miranda piece, or she would suffer the consequences. Renee cautioned Suzanne from playing with fire by getting involved with Mickey, and Brett warned Heather that Suzanne dating Mickey felt like a disaster waiting to happen. Later, Suzanne went to bed with Mickey. Brett defended Heather when he caught Miranda giving her grief. Iris spiraled when Blake admitted he’d asked Eddie to dig into Sadie’s cancer diagnosis, insisting Iris press Sadie for details, only for a furious Sadie to corner Blake later and threaten him to stay away from Iris. And as Corso prepared to open, Nico hired Steve to run front of the house. Sharon fantasized about Brett while she and Carlo made love. Meanwhile, Jordan put a defiant Alex on the spot about her connection to Nico. Stormy and Keaton sealed their own little alliance by agreeing they could both see Riley playing Nathan in American Star.

* * *

Sharon had her tablet open on Brett’s kitchen island, swatches and printouts spread in a tidy fan. She tapped through options—armchairs, sconces, a walnut dining table Brett kept circling like a fixed point.

“You have expensive taste,” she said, impressed.

Brett leaned over her shoulder, close enough that she could smell his cologne. “The company I keep must be having an effect on me,” he said with a wink.

A faint smile tugged at Sharon’s mouth. “Noted.”

Violet sat at the breakfast nook in a hoodie, a worksheet in front of her. She looked better than she had a few days ago but there was still a quietness to her, like she was trying to take up as little space as possible.

Brett glanced over. “You doing okay?”

Violet nodded quickly. “Yeah. Just… tired.”

Sharon’s expression softened. “I drink ginseng tea when I’m feeling fatigued. Give it a try.”

Violet shrugged, eyes on the paper. “I’m fine.”

Sharon didn’t push. She closed her folder and checked her watch. “I should go,” she said lightly. “I have another appointment.”

Brett’s face flickered with disappointment. “Already?”

“I promised,” she replied, keeping it professional. “I’ll email you the final board tonight.”

He walked her to the front door anyway. “Thank you for coming.”

“Of course.”

Outside, the day was bright and breezy. Sharon crossed the driveway to her car, slid into the driver’s seat, and turned the key. Nothing. She tried again. A useless click.

Her mouth tightened. “Of course,” she muttered, then pulled out her phone and dialed.

A minute later, Brett stepped onto the driveway. “Car trouble?”

“Yeah, it won’t start,” she said. “I’m calling the auto club.”

Violet wandered to the doorway but stayed there, arms folded around herself, watching without much interest.

Sharon spoke to the dispatcher, gave her location, then ended the call. “They said about an hour.”

Brett exhaled. “Predictable.”

Sharon shut the hood. “It’s fine. I can wait.”

“You don’t have to wait out here,” Brett said. “Stay for lunch.”

Sharon hesitated. “Brett—”

“It’s just lunch,” he added quickly, as if he’d caught himself. “You’re already here, and you aren’t going to make your appointment.”

Violet lifted her eyes briefly. “I can make sandwiches,” she offered in a small voice, then looked back down again.

Sharon’s gaze went to her, something tender passing across her face. She nodded once. “That’s really sweet of you.”

“Come on,” Brett pressed. “What do you say?”

Sharon looked back at him still uncertain, but now it had an easier excuse. “All right,” she said. “Lunch sounds great.”

Brett’s shoulders loosened. “Good. Come on. You can tell me again why my curtain choices are tragic.”

Sharon followed them inside, telling herself it was just an hour. Just lunch. Just waiting for a tow, and nothing more.

* * *

The poolhouse was dim, curtains half drawn against the glare off the water. A salt lamp glowed on the side table beside a scatter of crystals and half-burned incense. Sadie lay curled on the sofa in a gauzy robe, one arm draped over her forehead. 

Iris stood at the little kitchenette, absently rinsing a mug she hadn’t used. Her mind kept looping—not around work, not around agents, not around what she’d lost—but around Blake’s voice on the beach. Ask her for details. Anything.

She tried to keep her tone gentle. “Can we talk about your appointment?” she asked.

Sadie’s lashes fluttered. “What appointment?”

“The chemo,” Iris said, watching her carefully. “You said you were starting soon.”

Sadie shifted slightly, as if even the word exhausted her. “Soon,” she repeated vaguely.

Iris nodded. “Okay. When?”

Sadie’s gaze slid away. “It’s… this week.”

“What day?”

Sadie exhaled. “I don’t know. They move things around. It depends on… labs. And my energy.”

Iris held her gaze. “Sadie.”

Her sister’s expression tightened. “What?”

“Where is it?” Iris asked, still calm, but speaking firmer now. “What clinic?”

Sadie sat up slowly, her robe sliding off one shoulder. “It’s a place in Santa Monica.”

“A place,” Iris repeated. “What’s it called?”

Sadie blinked like she hadn’t anticipated needing a name. “It’s… integrative.”

Iris stared at her. “Integrative chemo?”

Sadie’s eyes flashed. “There are different kinds of treatment, Iris.”

“Fine,” Iris said quickly, forcing herself to stay composed. “Then tell me which one. I want to be there. I want to drive you. I want to sit with you. I’m not letting you do this alone.”

Sadie’s mouth parted, then closed again. “It’s not necessary,” she said finally. “I’ll have a driver.”

“A driver,” Iris echoed.

Sadie gave a soft shrug. “I don’t want you hovering. It’s… humiliating.”

Iris narrowed her eyes on her. “Humiliating?”

“Yes,” Sadie said. “Being sick. Being seen like that.”

Iris leaned forward. “Sadie, I’m your sister. I’m not judging you. I’m trying to support you during this crisis.”

“I know,” Sadie whispered. “And I appreciate it.”

“Then tell me the details,” Iris insisted, the frustration finally leaking through. “Just give me something.”

Sadie didn’t.

Iris felt her stomach sink with a cold, ugly realization she didn’t want. Blake’s words came back again, clearer this time. Ask her for details. Anything.  She swallowed and muttered, almost to herself, “Blake was right.”

Sadie’s head snapped up. “What did you say?”

Iris froze. “Nothing.”

“No,” Sadie said sharply, sitting upright now. “You said Blake was right.”

Iris exhaled, tired. “I’m just… trying to understand why you can’t tell me where you’re going.”

Sadie’s eyes filled instantly, outrage and hurt mixing in a way that felt practiced and real at the same time. “So that’s what this is,” she whispered. “You’re asking all these questions because of Blake.”

“That’s not—”

“How could you,” Sadie cut in, voice trembling. “How could you even think that about me? About your own sister?”

Iris stood, overwhelmed. “I’m not thinking anything. I’m saying you’re being very secretive.”

Sadie rose too, unsteady on her feet, pressing a hand to her chest. “Because I’m terrified,” she said, tears spilling. “Because I’m trying to hold myself together and you’re interrogating me like I’m some stranger off the street!”

“I’m not interrogating you,” Iris said. “I’m just asking where chemo is, Sadie! Mommy’s been asking me too. Saying you won’t tell her anything. Why are you keeping us in the dark?”

Sadie stared at her, devastated. “You’re choosing him over me,” she whispered. “Which I could almost understand if there was any chance of anything romantic happening between you…” 

Iris stood there for a moment, watching Sadie’s hands tremble as she pressed them to her robe like she was holding herself together by force. “Okay,” she said, calmer. “Okay. I’m sorry.”

Sadie’s eyes glistened. She looked away, wounded and proud all at once.

“I didn’t mean—” Iris started, then stopped herself. There was no winning this sentence. No version that didn’t become another accusation. She swallowed. “I’m scared.”

Sadie’s gaze flicked back to her. “So am I.”

Iris stepped forward carefully as if Sadie might shatter. “I don’t want to fight,” she said. “Not like this. Not right now.”

Sadie’s lower lip trembled. “Then don’t doubt me.”

Iris hesitated and then nodded anyway. “I won’t,” she said softly. “I’m here. I’m with you.”

Sadie’s shoulders sagged in relief, and she let Iris pull her into a hug. 

* * *

On the terrace of Blake’s house in Santa Monica’s Gold Coast, he leaned back in a lounge chair, his head thrown back, eyes half-closed as Sheldon knelt between his legs. His hand slid into Sheldon’s hair as he guided him up and down his swollen shaft. A few minutes later, Sheldon rose, wiping the corner of his mouth with the back of his hand, looking entirely too pleased with himself.

Blake let out a breathy laugh and grinned. “Okay,” he said with amusement, his cock still twitching from waves of pleasure. “What has gotten into you?”

Sheldon shrugged like it was nothing, settling onto the chair beside him and stealing Blake’s drink for a sip. “Oh, nothing,” he said casually. “Just had a craving.”

Blake turned his head, eyeing him. “A craving.”

“Mm-hmm.”

“For me.”

Sheldon’s mouth curved. “Don’t make it weird.”

Blake laughed, the sound carried off by the breeze. He sat up a little, elbows on his knees, looking out over the water.

“You hungry?” Sheldon asked.

“For food?” Blake replied with a wink.

Sheldon nudged his knee with his.

Blake gave him a long look, then nodded toward the horizon. “So, about Iris.”

Sheldon’s expression sobered just enough to signal a gear shift. “And we’re back to that. Do I need to blow you again?”

“I’m sorry, I can’t help it. It’s just bugging me. I asked her for one thing—just one detail about Sadie’s chemo appointment. She couldn’t give me a clinic name, a date, nothing. And Iris acted like I was the monster for asking.”

Sheldon exhaled slowly. “Because Sadie knows exactly which buttons to push.”

“That’s what scares me,” Blake muttered. “It isn’t just lying. It’s control. She’s isolating her. The other day at the beach she… threatened me. I mean, not in so many words. She hid it behind her new agey mumbo jumbo.”

Sheldon leaned back. “And what are you going to do about it?”

Blake’s mouth tightened. “Eddie’s digging into it, and I’m trying not to bulldoze Iris, because then Sadie wins.”

Sheldon nodded. “Right. If you come in too hard, Iris doubles down. She’ll defend Sadie just to prove she’s not being manipulated.”

Blake looked at him, surprised. “Since when are you the reasonable one?”

Sheldon smirked. “Since I’m fully satisfied.”

Blake huffed a laugh, then turned serious again. “I’m not trying to steal Iris away from her sister,” he said. “I just—if Sadie’s faking cancer, that’s not quirky. That’s… sick.”

Sheldon’s eyes narrowed slightly. “And if she’s willing to fake something like that to keep Iris close, what else is she willing to do when she feels cornered?”

Blake stared out at the water, the grin gone now. “Exactly,” he said quietly. “That’s what I can’t stop thinking about.”

* * *

Brett’s dining table had never felt like a dining table before. It had mostly been a landing pad for scripts, mail, and whatever takeout he’d abandoned halfway through because work had called.

Now it held three plates with the remnants of lunch—sandwich crusts, a salad half-eaten, Violet’s fries lined up in tidy little rows.

Sharon dabbed the corner of her mouth with her napkin, smiling despite herself. “I have to admit,” she said, “I didn’t expect you to be… hospitable.”

Brett leaned back in his chair, pleased. “I have many talents.”

Violet looked up, deadpan. “None of which are modesty.”

Brett pressed a hand to his chest like she’d wounded him. “Wow. The disrespect by my own flesh and blood.”

Sharon’s laugh was soft and jubilant. “She’s not wrong.”

“Et tu, Sharon?” Brett asked, mock heartbroken.

Violet’s expression turned to a smile as she reached for her soda and took a sip.

Brett nodded toward her plate. “You actually ate. That’s a victory.”

Violet shrugged. “I was hungry.”

Sharon watched the exchange, charmed by how natural it was. How Brett’s usual sharpness softened around his daughter without him even realizing. It wasn’t for show. It was just… him.

Brett caught her looking and lifted an eyebrow. “What?”

Sharon hesitated, then said lightly, “You’re different than I expected.”

He smirked. “Oh god, this could go either way.”

Sharon laughed again. “No, I mean it as a compliment. You’re… present. With her.”

Brett’s expression shifted, then he waved it off with practiced humor. “Well, don’t tell anyone. I have a reputation to maintain.”

Sharon felt something warm settle in her chest. Not just attraction, but a kind of reluctant fondness. The dangerous kind.

Brett stood and began gathering plates. “I’m making coffee. Anyone want?”

Violet shook her head. “I’m good.”

Sharon started to rise. “I can help—”

He cut her off gently. “You’re a guest.”

Violet pushed her chair back. “I’m going to my room.”

Brett nodded. “Okay.”

When the hallway was clear, Sharon looked at Brett. “She’s doing better.”

Brett’s face softened in admiration. “Yeah,” he said quietly. “She’s brave.”

Sharon smiled. “I think she gets it from you.”

He glanced at her over the plates, eyes holding hers a beat longer than necessary. “That’s what I’m afraid of.”

Sharon’s breath stalled slightly, and then she realized with dread, that lunch had done more damage to her good sense than she wanted to admit.

* * *

Riley stood near the window of Stormy’s office at Sunset Studios with a marked-up script in his hands, posture straight, trying not to look as nervous as he felt. Kelly sat in a chair off to the side, legs crossed. Keaton leaned against the desk, arms folded while Stormy sat behind it, leaning back in his leather chair. 

“All right,” Keaton said. “From the top of the scene. Nathan’s on the verge of breaking after he finds Jackie and Royce in bed together, but he refuses to let anyone see it.”

Riley nodded, swallowed, and began. At first, his voice was controlled, then it deepened into wounded anger. He hit the emotional turn without warning, his eyes flashing and his voice cracking just as he’d observed Nathan do in the marathon of movies he’d watched in preparation.

Stormy didn’t interrupt. Keaton didn’t either. Kelly watched with excitement. 

Riley finished the last line and let the silence envelop the room, breathing hard, the script hanging at his side.

For a beat, no one moved, then Stormy stood. He walked around the desk slowly, studying Riley as if he were looking at a problem he’d just found the solution to.

Keaton’s grin spread first. “Jesus,” he said quietly. “That’s… him.”

Stormy nodded once. “Yeah.”

Riley blinked. “Yeah… what?”

Stormy glanced at Keaton, and for once there was no rivalry in the look—just agreement.

“You’re perfect,” Keaton said, his voice blunt with certainty. “You are our young Nathan. Well, technically the pre-1980 Nathan.”

Riley stared at them. “Are you serious?”

Stormy’s mouth curved into the faintest smile. “You think we brought you onto the lot to do table reads for fun?”

Riley let out a disbelieving laugh, almost breathless. “A lead role at Sunset Studios? I can’t believe this is happening.” 

Stormy looked at Kelly, already shifting into business. “I’ll send the contracts over to you tomorrow,” he told her. “Standard studio terms, plus we’ll work in some protection given everything that’s happened.”

Kelly nodded quickly. “Great.”

Riley looked between them, still stunned. “I don’t even know what to say.”

Stormy clapped him once on the shoulder. “Say you’re ready to work. This is going to be the story nobody in Hollywood wanted retold, but it was inevitable.”

Riley swallowed, then nodded aggressively. “I’m ready.”

Keaton stepped forward, satisfied. “Good,” he said. “Because we start rehearsals next month.”

Riley took a deep breath. For the first time in days, something had gone right.

* * *

The Eastland Prep parking lot was a slow-moving parade of SUVs and distracted parents, brake lights blinking beneath the late afternoon sun. Phoebe waited near the curb by the drama building, one hand on the strap of her tote bag, the other scrolling through her phone.

R.J. burst through the doors with his backpack slung over his shoulder and bounded toward her. “Thank god,” he said. “I thought Jane forgot again.”

Phoebe smiled lightly. “She didn’t forget. She’s stuck in a meeting in Culver City, and your mom and dad are doing an audition.”

R.J. fell into step beside her as they crossed toward the car. “So you get to be on kid duty.”

Phoebe unlocked the passenger door. “Hey, I don’t mind.”

R.J. climbed in and immediately started talking as if he’d been holding it in all day.

“Okay, so there’s this kid in drama class. Miles. He’s like… nice? Too nice. He volunteers to do everything, he’s always ‘no worries’ about stuff, and then today he totally told the teacher I skipped rehearsal last week.”

Phoebe slid into the driver’s seat and started the engine. “Did you skip rehearsal?”

“No,” R.J. insisted. “I was there. I was literally there. But he said I wasn’t, like he was doing it all innocent, and everyone just believed him.”

Phoebe eased the car out of the lot, listening without interrupting.

“And then I look like the screwup. And it’s always the same people who get away with stuff because they act all quiet and harmless. It makes me insane.”

Phoebe’s eyes stayed on the road. “Quiet isn’t always harmless.”

R.J. scoffed. “Tell me about it.”

“You know,” Phoebe said when they stopped at a light, “the people who seem harmless are usually the ones who surprise you.”

R.J. laughed a quick burst of disbelief. “What does that mean?”

Phoebe glanced at him briefly, her expression gentle—almost sisterly. “Just…” she said, choosing her words like she was laying something delicate on a table, “never underestimate quiet people.”

R.J. stared at her for a second, then snorted. “So basically… everyone’s a snake.”

Phoebe smiled faintly. “Well…. not everyone.”

R.J. leaned back, looking out the window. “Miles is still a snake.”

Phoebe’s gaze stayed fixed ahead as if her mind had briefly wandered somewhere darker than high school drama. “Then be smart,” she said softly. “And don’t give him the chance.”

“Good advice,” R.J. said with a smile.

Phoebe continued when the light turned green, aiming the car through busy afternoon traffic.

* * *

Courtney was boxing up clothes to sell when the doorbell rang. She didn’t have to guess who it was. When she opened the door, Nico stood there in sunglasses and wearing an easy smile, that calm confidence that made her skin crawl.

“Afternoon,” he said. “Just thought I’d stop by and tell you I saw Bennett Crowe’s follow-up to his substack piece.”

Courtney instinctively backed into the foyer as he stepped inside. He glanced around the foyer at the boxes of designer clothes, jewelry, and art pieces gathered on the round table in the center. 

“Moving?” he asked.

She shook her head. “Just selling some things I don’t need anymore.”  

“Money tight, Courtney?”

She didn’t answer, instead folded her arms across her chest and looked away with humiliation.

Nico pulled out his phone, thumb scrolling. “It’s a very good article. You saved yourself.”

“I did what you told me,” she hissed.

“And you sounded honest,” he said lightly, then read in that smooth, aggravating voice:

“‘Miranda was adamant. She repeated it with such certainty that it shaped how the rest of us processed the moment.’”

Courtney flinched.

Nico scrolled again. “‘I can’t say with complete honesty that I saw a definitive push.’”

He looked up over the phone. “That’s the clincher. That’s the one that sticks.”

“Stop,” Courtney said.

He pocketed the phone, satisfied. “Relax. You can’t be charged with perjury for a twenty-five-year-old trial,” he said, then added with a sharper tone to his voice: “which is a pity, because you deserve to rot in prison like I did.”

Courtney’s stomach twisted. “Why are you here?”

“To make sure you understand,” Nico said softly. “This isn’t a one-time favor. If Crowe calls again, you pick up.”

“And if I don’t?”

Before he could speak again, the doorbell rang. Both of them froze. It rang again—impatient and insistent.

Courtney’s hand fumbled for her phone. She opened the door-cam app with shaking fingers. Miranda stood on her front step in a cream blazer, hair perfect, posture rigid with rage. Even through the grainy little screen, Courtney could feel the heat coming off her. She read it. Of course she read it.

Nico glanced at the phone and something hungry ignited behind his eyes. “Well,” he murmured, almost pleased. “Would you look at that?”

Courtney backed away from the door as if Miranda could see through the wood. “No,” she whispered. “No, no—”

Nico’s grin widened at the prospect of it. “Tell her hello,” he said lightly.

Courtney shot him a frantic look. “You can’t be here.”

“Relax,” he echoed in amusement. “I’m not here.” He moved past her with lazy confidence, heading toward the back of the house. He glanced back with a wink before he slipped through the rear door and left quietly.

The doorbell rang a third time. Courtney swallowed hard, forced her legs to move, and opened the front door.

Miranda didn’t wait for a word. The slap cracked across Courtney’s cheek so sharply her head snapped to the side. Heat erupted instantly on her skin.

“Are you out of your mind?” Miranda screamed.

Courtney staggered back, hand flying to her face. “Miranda, please—”

“Please?” Miranda’s eyes were wild with fury. “You went on record. You let that little vulture quote you. You handed him exactly what he wanted!”

“I didn’t—”

“You didn’t what?” Miranda cut in, stepping forward. “You didn’t mean to blow up my life? You didn’t mean to turn me into a headline? You didn’t mean to imply I coerced you into lying under oath?”

Courtney’s throat tightened. “I said I wasn’t sure.”

Miranda offered a short, ugly laugh. “Oh, don’t you dare hide behind that.”

Courtney tried to steady her breathing. “You fired me.”

Miranda’s expression sharpened. “Because you stood in my office and tried to humiliate me.”

“I wasn’t trying to humiliate you.”

Miranda surged closer, invading her space. “Do you know what you just did to me?” she hissed. “To my reputation? Not to mention your own.”

Courtney’s voice broke. “Miranda, I’m scared.”

Miranda’s smile turned cold. “Good.” She leaned in, her words precise and venomous. “Because Clark leaving you will look like a picnic compared to what I’m going to do to you.”

Courtney stood trembling in her own doorway, cheek stinging, arm throbbing in Miranda’s grip, realizing in horror that she’d traded one predator for another.

* * *

Iris lounged on a chaise beneath the late afternoon sun, sunglasses pushed up into her hair. Sadie sat nearby under a wide umbrella, a gauzy cover-up tied at her waist, one hand resting lightly on her chest.

For a while, neither of them spoke, then came the distant sounds of their landlady walking down the path to the pool from the main house.

“Hello ladies!” Mrs. Tremond called as she neared. She was an elegant woman in her seventies—silver hair swept into a low twist, linen slacks, pearls at her throat. She carried a small glass of iced tea as though it were an accessory. “Good afternoon,” she said with bright politeness as she approached.

Iris sat up a little. “Hi, Mrs. Tremond.”

Sadie offered a soft smile. “Hello.”

Mrs. Tremond paused near the edge of the pool deck, then her gaze moved toward Sadie’s hand resting at her chest. “How are you feeling today, dear?”

Sadie sat up a fraction. “I’m… managing,” she said softly. “Taking it one day at a time.”

Mrs. Tremond nodded sympathetically. “That’s all any of us can do.” She sipped her tea. “Poor dear.”

“Thank you,” Sadie said weakly.

“I’m just out enjoying the afternoon,” the woman said. “Oh, by the way, I hope my piano playing hasn’t disturbed you.”

Iris blinked. “Piano playing?”

“I dabble now and then,” Mrs. Tremond said with a modest little laugh.

“We didn’t even know you played,” Iris admitted.

Mrs. Tremond smiled, pleased by the surprise. “Well, thankfully the conservatory is soundproof. Otherwise you’d hear everything.” She lowered her voice conspiratorially. “My poor late husband played the trumpet.”

Sadie’s brows lifted. “Oh.”

“And not very well,” Mrs. Tremond added with a delicate grimace. “Bless him. He believed he had talent. The neighbors… did not.”

Iris laughed despite herself. “That’s… tragic.”

“It was,” Mrs. Tremond said with a sigh. “Well. I won’t keep you. Enjoy the sun while it’s kind enough to show up.”

As she turned to go, Iris watched her walk back toward the house. Her eyes stayed on the doors Mrs. Tremond disappeared through thinking about how many things people kept hidden behind beautiful walls.

* * *

Stormy and Jane’s living room was the latest spot for a strategy session in Stormy’s impending trial. James stood near the fireplace with a file folder in his hand, his posture rigid. Alex sat on the sofa, her legs crossed perfectly like she was waiting for a camera to start rolling. Jordan occupied the armchair opposite her, and Stormy paced near the windows while Jane sat at the end of the couch, one hand resting protectively over her stomach.

Michael Larrabee’s notes were spread across the coffee table, but he wasn’t there. James had insisted this part stay “in the family.”

“We got the judge assignment,” James said finally.

Stormy stopped pacing. “And?”

James tossed the folder onto the table. “Judge Halvorsen.”

Jordan’s mouth tightened. “Jesus.”

Alex’s brows lifted. “I take it he’s not one of your golfing buddies.”

“He’s nobody’s buddy,” Jordan replied flatly.

Jane looked between them. “What does that mean?”

“It means,” James said, choosing his words carefully, “he’s tough. By the book. No patience for theatrics. And he hates anything that smells like privilege.”

Stormy let out a sharp, humorless laugh. “Great. So I’m exactly his favorite type of defendant.”

Jordan leaned forward. “Halvorsen is known for setting hard boundaries. He’ll shut down grandstanding, he’ll limit side arguments, and he won’t tolerate anyone trying to bully the courtroom.”

Alex’s gaze darted to James. “Including the D.A.”

“Especially the D.A.,” James said. “Which could help us. But it also means we can’t rely on sympathy, including the fact that Jane nearly lost the baby.”

Jane’s fingers tightened over her stomach. “So what do we rely on?”

“Discipline,” Jordan answered. “A clean narrative. No surprises.”

Stormy’s jaw clenched. “And no Bravetti tangents.”

James nodded once. “Exactly.”

Alex looked at Stormy, her voice softening. “We can handle tough.”

Jane exhaled slowly, trying to steady herself. “Yes, we can.”

James closed the folder with a decisive snap. “From this moment on,” he said, “we assume every move we make is being watched.”

“Especially after that follow up to Bennett Crowe’s article came out today,” Jordan mused  with a shake of his head. “It’s not going to look good that two of the witnesses in Nico Bravetti’s trial—that Stormy also testified in—have publicly stated that they don’t stand by their testimony.”

“Courtney DeLoache definitely didn’t do us any favors,” James agreed, then looked at Stormy. “Son, are you having any doubts about what you said on the witness stand?”

“No,” he said simply.

“No what?” James pressed. “I need you to say it like you mean it.”

Stormy held his gaze. “I’m saying I remember enough,” he replied evenly. “Enough to know that night wasn’t an accident.”

Alex’s voice came carefully. “Do you remember seeing him push her?”

Stormy’s eyes darted away. “I remember him going after her,” he said. “I remember thinking ‘oh god, he’s going to—’” He cut himself off.

James leaned in, lowering his voice. “That doesn’t sound like certainty.”

Stormy gave a small, humorless smile. “Certainty was a luxury,” he said. “We had fear. We made sense of what we could.”

Jane’s hand found his. “Stormy…”

He squeezed back, then looked at all of them. “I’m not changing my story,” he said. “I’m just not giving Nico or Bennett Crowe the satisfaction of watching me unravel.”

James held his stare, then nodded once. “Then we proceed like everyone in this family is a target,” he said quietly. “Because if doubt is spreading… it isn’t spreading by accident.”

* * *

Steve was in high spirits when he got home, tossing his keys into the bowl, humming under his breath, energy spilling off him. The apartment smelled like garlic and onions. Natalie was at the stove in leggings and an oversized tee, stirring a pan with one hand while she checked something on her phone with the other.

“You sound like you’re in a good mood,” she said, glancing over her shoulder.

Steve grinned. “Because I am.”  He crossed behind her and kissed the side of her neck. “I gave my notice.”

Natalie turned, surprised. “At the country club?”

“Mm-hmm. I’m done parking cars for rich guys and their egos.”

Natalie laughed softly. “So Corso is official.”

“It’s official,” Steve confirmed, leaning his elbows on the counter and watching her. “It’s going to be insane.”

“How long until it opens?”

“A week,” he said. Then, after a beat: “Maybe two. Nico wants it perfect.”

Natalie’s brows lifted. “Nico,” she repeated cautiously. “Doesn’t it concern you that he just got out of prison for murder?”

Steve waved it off. “He likes me,” he said with easy confidence. “He wants me working the front of house. We’re talking real money, Nat.”

Natalie turned the burner down and set the spoon aside. “That’s so awesome. I’m really glad you’re excited.”

Steve stepped closer, hands sliding around her waist. “I’m more than excited.”

“Steve,” she laughed, half-protesting.

He kissed her again—deeper this time—pulling her against him until she forgot about the pan on the stove. “We can eat later,” he murmured against her mouth.

Natalie hesitated a fraction of a second, then nodded.

He took her hand and led her down the hall to the bedroom. Kissing her urgently with his hands on her hips, he laid her back against the mattress. He stripped her of her clothes, pulling his shirt off over his head and easing his throbbing cock inside of her hairless pussy. Staring down at her taut body, he fucked her slowly, grinning as thoughts of the future filled his head.

“God, baby, you’re so hot,” he said, leaning in and kissing her neck. “You know what I’m gonna do,” he said suddenly.

“What?”

“With the money I’m about to be making?” He grinned. “I’m gonna get you a boob job.”

Natalie laughed reflexively, her tone a little too high-pitched. “A… boob job?”

“Yeah,” Steve said, entirely pleased with himself as he teased her by pulling out and rubbing the head of his cock on her breasts. “You’ve talked about it before, haven’t you? And now we can actually do it. We’ll get the best surgeon in Beverly Hills. You’ll look insane.”

Natalie’s stomach tightened, but she let her smile stay. “Wow,” she said, forcing brightness into her voice. “That’s… really sweet.”

Steve kissed her cheek. “I take care of what’s mine.”

Natalie’s smile didn’t slip. “Okay,” she said softly. “Yeah. Maybe.”

Steve grinned, satisfied, already imagining it. He inserted himself inside her again, his cock throbbing even harder at the prospect of their future. They were going to be L.A. royalty.

* * *

Carver and Morales had claimed a corner table near the copy machine at the police station. Two styrofoam takeout containers sat open between case files: half-eaten lo mein, a pile of cold fries, packets of soy sauce smeared across a legal pad.

Morales flicked through a folder while Carver worked his way down a printed bank statement with a pen in his hand, circling numbers with stark red ink.

“Zoanne Voss was in financial trouble,” Carver said quietly.

Morales snorted. “That checks out. Her security company cut her off for nonpayment. Cameras were down. The gate barely functioned. For Bel Air, that’s basically leaving your front door wide open.”

Carver didn’t look up. “And yet she was an executive at FlickFix.”

“Yeah,” Morales said, popping a fry in his mouth. “Which means she made good money. Just… not good choices maybe.”

Carver lifted an eyebrow.

Morales shrugged. “Cothes, cars, jewelry. And the male escorts.” He tapped the file. “Riley Weir and Ty Stratton. That Noir Companions stuff wasn’t a hobby. It was a lifestyle.”

Carver’s pen paused. “Or a coping mechanism.”

Morales leaned forward. “Either way, it’s expensive.”

Carver slid the bank statement across the table. “Look at this.”

Morales took it and scanned it. His expression shifted. “Multiple large cash deposits,” he murmured. 

Carver nodded. “All within the last couple of months.”

Morales sat back, chewing slowly now. “$100,000, $150,000, another $100,000. That’s not FlickFix payroll.”

“No,” Carver agreed. “That’s someone keeping her afloat.”

Morales tapped the circled amounts with his finger. “And these aren’t random. They’re very rounded and clean. If she was that deep in the hole, someone either paid her… or bought her.”

Carver’s gaze stayed fixed on the paper. “And people don’t hand over cash like this out of kindness.”

Morales nodded grimly. “They do it to shut someone up.”

Carver reached for his takeout though his appetite was gone. “So,” he said quietly, “who was Zoanne Voss threatening?”

* * *

Nico’s bedroom at the Bravetti estate was masculine, adorned with dark leather furniture and abstract wall art. It was understated glamour and opulence—the complete opposite of his dingey cell in prison.   

The curtains were drawn and one lamp glowed softly. On the far wall, a collage of clipped photos stared back at him. Miranda caught in a flash of camera light, Stormy in a suit outside a courthouse, Eddie half-turned near his office door, Heather smiling for charity photographers, Courtney and Clark arm-in-arm and polished in a society-page spread.

Nico stood there a moment, studying them with quiet satisfaction. Faces he’d carried with him for twenty-five years. 

“Who’s going to cave next?” he murmured, more to himself than to the wall.

He turned away and reached into a drawer, pulling out the handgun he’d stolen from Zoanne’s house. He sat on the edge of the bed and began cleaning it with practiced care, cloth sliding along steel in slow, methodical strokes. The motion calmed and focused him. And then without warning, a memory flashed in his mind.

A driveway. A broken gate. The patio door. A smell like copper. Two bodies on the floor.

His hands slowed as he polished. For half a second, his fingers flexed as if expecting the familiar resistance of a trigger, but there was nothing. The flash was gone as quickly as it had arrived.

Nico blinked, breath steady, and kept polishing the gun until it shone brightly.

* * *

The house had gone quiet. No music, no guests, no Mei Lin clattering around in the kitchen. Just the soft sound of jazz and the distant hiss of the pool filter outside.

Miranda sat on the edge of the sectional, phone in hand, thumb scrolling with the same compulsive rhythm she’d had all day. Headlines, clips, commentary—the Bennett Crowe follow-up repackaged into a dozen different takes.

Eddie stood at the bar pouring two glasses of wine. He watched her over his shoulder. “Miranda,” he said gently, “put it down.”

She didn’t look up. “I can’t.”

“You can,” he insisted. He crossed the room and held a glass out to her. “It’s just going to make you miserable.”

She finally took it but didn’t drink. Her eyes were still fixed on the screen. “They’re calling me a liar,” she said. 

Eddie sat beside her. “People say things online that they forget about a week later.”

Miranda let out a laugh. “No, Eddie. Not this.” She turned the phone so he could see a screenshot—Courtney’s quotes reposted again, this time with a smug podcast caption underneath.

Eddie rubbed his temples. “Courtney’s scared.”

“I don’t care,” Miranda snapped. “I’m going to destroy her.”

Eddie went still. “Miranda.”

She turned to him, eyes flashing major danger signals. “What? You think she gets to do this to me and just… walk away?”

Eddie lowered his voice. “And Heather?” he asked carefully. “Are you going to destroy Heather too? Your own stepsister?”

Miranda’s mouth opened, then closed. She didn’t answer.

Before Eddie could press, footsteps sounded on the stairs. Tiger descended in a hoodie, messy hair, and a glare sharp enough to cut glass. She paused at the bottom step and stared at them like they were both strangers in her house.

Miranda’s jaw tightened. “What are you doing up?”

Tiger didn’t answer. She walked into the room, arms crossed. “You lied,” she said flatly.

Eddie blinked. “Excuse me?”

Tiger’s eyes stayed on her mother. “About that man. Nico Bragelli or whatever. Everyone’s talking about it.”

Miranda’s face went hard. “Tiger—”

“No,” Tiger cut in, voice rising with that teenage mix of fury and righteousness. “At school. Online. On podcasts. People are literally making clips of it like it’s some reality show. They’re saying you lied, got everyone else to lie, and ruined his life.”

Miranda surged to her feet. “You have no idea what you’re talking about.”

Tiger’s chin lifted. “Then why did Courtney say she didn’t even see him push that girl? Why did Heather say she wasn’t sure? Why does it sound like you convinced everyone what to say?”

Eddie stood too, stepping forward. “That’s enough.”

Tiger ignored him. Her eyes were bright, angry, daring Miranda to deny it. “How can you live with yourself?” she demanded. “How do you just sit here knowing you might’ve—”

Miranda’s voice cracked like a whip. “Stop.”

Tiger flinched, simply folded her arms and glared at her mother.

Eddie’s tone sharpened. “Tiger, go upstairs. Now.”

Tiger’s gaze flicked to him. “Don’t tell me what to do.”

Miranda’s temper finally snapped. “Upstairs,” she shouted, pointing to the staircase. “Right now!”

Tiger stared at her for one last second, then spun on her heel and bolted up the stairs, furious tears threatening at the corners of her eyes. Moments later, a bedroom door slammed. The sound echoed through the house like a gunshot.

Miranda stood frozen, breathing hard, her wine still untouched in her hand.

Eddie looked at her and sighed heavily. “She’s a kid.”

Miranda’s eyes were glassy with rage and something more vulnerable underneath. “So was I,” she whispered. Then she turned away, jaw set again, and picked up her phone—already returning to doom scrolling.

* * *

The courtyard was quiet. Most lights were off, most curtains drawn, the pool lit from beneath so the water glowed an eerie shade of blue. The only sound was the soft lap of ripples against tile.

Riley surfaced at the far end, hair plastered to his forehead, breathing hard. He’d been swimming laps for thirty minutes, the way he did when he couldn’t shut his mind off. When he reached the steps, he climbed out slowly, water streaming down his torso, goosebumps rising in the night air. He grabbed his towel and was rubbing it over his hair when he noticed Natalie.

She’d come out onto the walkway with a cardigan wrapped around her like armor, her face turned toward the sky. She hadn’t seen him at first.

When she did, her gaze snapped to him—shirtless, wet, all sharp angles and familiar muscle memory—and something flashed across her expression. Instinctively, she turned as if to go back inside.

“Natalie,” Riley called. “Wait, don’t go.”

She stood still for a beat, then faced him again, keeping a careful distance. “It’s late.”

“I know,” he said. He took a step toward the lounge chairs, towel slung low around his hips. “I was just too wired to sleep.”

Natalie nodded once, guarded. Her mind wasn’t on him until she heard Steve’s voice again in her head, bright and smug: I’m gonna get you a boob job. Like it was a gift. Like her body was an upgrade package.

Riley watched her for a moment, then his mouth curved with a kind of boyish disbelief. “I have news,” he said.

Natalie blinked. “What kind of news?”

He couldn’t hide his pride as he grinned. “I got a part in a movie,” he said. “And the best part, it’s a Sunset Studios production.”

Natalie’s stomach tightened before she could stop it. “That’s…” she started, then forced a smile into place. “That’s great.”

“It is,” Riley said, letting himself enjoy the words. “I didn’t think it would happen this fast. Kelly worked some miracle. Stormy and Keaton—” He shook his head, laughing under his breath. “It’s insane.”

Natalie nodded again, her smile fixed but jealousy burning quiet underneath it. Of course he gets a comeback, her mind whispered. Of course he gets to be rescued by opportunity.

“What about you?” Riley asked. “How are things going with you?”

Natalie’s smile sharpened. “Great.”

Riley’s brows lifted slightly, like he didn’t believe her but didn’t want to fight. “Good,” he said carefully. “I’m glad.”

He started toward his door. Natalie watched his back, the water still dripping from his shoulders, the easy way he moved like he’d already stepped back into his life.

At the last second, she called out. “Riley.”

He turned.

She held his gaze, and for a moment the mask slipped. “I really am happy for you,” she said quietly. “You deserve it.”

Riley’s expression softened. “Thanks,” he said before going inside. 

Natalie stayed where she was. The pool light shimmered across her face as she stared at the water, blinking hard until the first tear slid down anyway. She wiped it away quickly, like it was a weakness she couldn’t afford.

Standing there, she thought about how easily other people got to move forward while she kept being reshaped by someone else’s idea of what she should be.

* * *

The next morning, Kelly made her way from her bedroom down the hall to Phoebe’s room. She knocked lightly, then pushed the door open with her hip.

“Phoebe?” she called softly, already stepping inside. “You awake?”

Phoebe’s room was neat with a suitcase tucked in a corner, a folded sweater on the chair, the curtains pulled halfway to let in morning light, and the bed was made.

“I got you a bottle of that body lotion of mine you said you liked,” she said, thinking she must be in the bathroom, smiling as she crossed to the dresser. “So I—”

She stopped mid-step when she saw a stack of documents amongst the bottles of perfume, makeup, and scattered jewelry. There were tabs and clear plastic sleeves as if someone had laid out a case file.

Kelly’s smile faded. The first page she saw had a header with bold, clinical lettering:

TSA — INCIDENT SUMMARY. Below it, another: NTSB PRELIMINARY REPORT

Her fingers tightened around the lotion bottle.

She didn’t touch the papers. She didn’t have to. The words were loud enough on their own. Then her eyes snagged on a line halfway down a page: Flight 108

The next document—clipped neatly behind the report—made her stomach drop:

COCKPIT VOICE RECORDER TRANSCRIPT (PRELIMINARY). Beneath it: a chart of weather pattern data, highlighted in pale yellow, and a stapled packet labeled TOXICOLOGY RESULTS.

Kelly’s pulse thudded in her ears. Why does she have this? She stared at the flight number again, the ink crisp and undeniable. 108. The flight her father—their father—perished on over a year ago.

Kelly backed away from the dresser, her heart racing with the sensation of a door opening somewhere deep inside her that she’d spent months of her life keeping shut.