Last time on L.A. Connections...

Nico’s prison psychiatrist put words to the darkness inside him, revealing that “The Beast” was really a coping mechanism he created whenever he needed to feel in control. Carlo extended an invitation to James for the opening of Corso. Suzanne grew suspicious of Mickey after she noticed a tense exchange between him and a frightened man in a restaurant, only to be further unnerved later when she overheard him taking a cryptic phone call. Elsewhere, Nico turned up the heat by seducing Alex in a sauna, though she resisted him in the moment before later seeking out Jordan to satisfy her own desires. Stormy learned his trial date had officially been set. Sadie quietly prepared the conservatory at Mrs. Tremond’s house, fastening a chain and leg clamp to a support beam for her sinister plans.

* * *

The late morning fog still hung over the coastline, softening the horizon where the ocean met the sky. Waves rolled in steady, rhythmic lines, the sound blending with the faint thud of Blake’s footsteps against the packed sand.

He ran at a steady pace, shirtless, skin already damp with sweat, headphones in as music pulsed just loud enough to keep everything else at bay. Beside him, Betsy trotted along, her leash loose and her tail wagging about as she darted slightly ahead and then back again, always circling to stay with him.

Blake barely noticed the other runners or the early beachgoers scattered along the shore. His focus was elsewhere. He glanced briefly at his watch as he ran, then back out at the water. Sadie had told Iris her chemo appointment was today. He wondered what her plan was. It didn’t seem as though she’d thought too much about optics. 

He pictured Iris realizing she’d been lied to. Manipulated and played. The thought should have felt satisfying but it didn’t. It just made him run harder. Because once that happened, there was no telling how bad it would get.

Beside him, Betsy barked once, snapping him out of it as she veered toward the edge of the surf, chasing the retreat of a wave before circling back.

Blake let out a breath, reaching down briefly to steady her pace without breaking stride. “Hey,” he muttered, half to her, half to himself. “Stay with me.”

Betsy fell back into step, loyal as ever, while Blake stared straight ahead, the coastline stretching out in front of him.

One way or another, he thought, it ends today.

* * *

Iris stood at the small kitchen counter in the pool house, her phone propped against the coffee maker as she squinted at the directions. “Carson?” she muttered while scrolling. “Of course it’s in Carson.” She glanced at the estimated arrival time, then at the clock on the wall. “Ugh. I’m going to hit so much traffic.”

Behind her, Sadie sat curled on the sofa as she watched with quiet patience.

Iris turned slightly. “What did you say Mrs. Tremond’s package was again?”

“A bird bath,” Sadie said lightly.

Iris blinked. “Of course it is.” She grabbed her keys from the counter, already half-annoyed. 

Sadie gave an apologetic smile. “I’m sorry, honey. This is my fault.”

Iris exhaled, then glanced back at her, her tone softening. “It’s ok. You’ll be okay while I’m gone?”

Sadie nodded gently. “Yes, of course. I’ll just rest.”

Iris hesitated, shifting her weight. “Okay… and… good luck at your chemo appointment, I guess. I mean, if I’m not back by the time your ride comes.”

Sadie’s smile didn’t falter. “Thank you,” she said with a tilt of her head.

Iris studied her for just a second longer, then brushed the moment aside. “Alright. I’ll try to be quick, but no promises.”

“Drive safe,” Sadie called after her.

The door shut, and a moment later the faint sound of Iris’s car starting carried through the air.

Sadie didn’t move until the sound faded. Then she reached for her phone.

* * *

Blake slowed to a jog along the shoreline, pulling one earbud out as his phone buzzed in his hand. Betsy stayed close, trotting beside him as he answered.

“Yeah?”

“Blake,” Sadie said. Her voice seemed urgent in a way he hadn’t heard before.

He frowned, immediately alert. “What is it?”

She paused, and then, carefully: “I need to talk to you. About Iris.”

Blake stopped walking altogether now. “What about her?”

“I can’t say over the phone,” Sadie replied. “It’s important.”

His grip tightened on the phone. “Sadie, just tell me. Is Iris okay?”

“I’m worried about her.”

That did it. Blake ran a hand through his hair, already turning back up the beach. “Alright. I’ll be right there.”

“I’m at the main house,” Sadie added. “House-sitting for Mrs. Tremond. Come to the front door.”

“Yeah,” Blake said, already moving. “I’m on my way.”

He ended the call, shoved the phone into his pocket, and picked up his pace.

“Come on, Betsy,” he muttered.

The dog bounded forward beside him as he broke into a run, the ocean stretching behind them as he headed straight toward whatever Sadie had waiting.

* * *

Once Blake was on his way, Sadie moved quickly. She crossed the yard and headed straight for the main house, her pace no longer slow or fragile, but purposeful and urgent. Once inside, she went directly to the kitchen.

Quickly, she filled the kettle and set it on the stove before turning the burner on. While the water began to heat, she reached into a cabinet and pulled out two ceramic mugs, placing them side by side on the counter. She slipped a hand into the pocket of her robe and removed a small prescription bottle. She turned it over once, reading the label: Muffy Tremond.

Sadie’s lips curved faintly as she twisted the cap off, tapped a single pill into her hand, and set the bottle aside. Taking a spoon from the counter, she pressed down on the tablet, crushing it slowly against the surface until it broke apart into a fine powder.

She gathered the fragments carefully and scooped them into one of the mugs, watching as the powder settled into the bottom, nearly invisible against the ceramic.

* * *

Brett stood in the middle of the living room, turning slowly as he took it all in. The harsh edges were gone. The space felt warmer now with layered textures, softer lighting, clean lines that somehow still felt lived-in. It didn’t look like a bachelor’s crash pad anymore. It looked like a home.

Sharon watched him from near the fireplace. “Well?” she asked. “Are you pleased?”

Brett let out a breath, a faint smile tugging at his mouth. “Yeah,” he said. “I am.”

She nodded, as if she’d expected nothing less, and began to move through the room, her hand trailing lightly over the back of a chair. “The tones you chose here were the right call,” she said. “And the art placement—it draws the eye exactly where it should.”

Brett followed her, watching her more than the room. “You’re giving me too much credit,” he said. “You were the real artist.”

She glanced back at him, amused. “I guided,” she corrected. “You decided.”

They drifted into the adjoining space, the afternoon light spilling in through the windows, catching in her hair. For a moment, neither of them spoke.

Brett slipped his hands into his pockets, then took them out again restlessly. “I guess this is it,” he said. “No more daily walkthroughs. No more you stopping by with last minute changes.”

Sharon smiled faintly. “I guess it is.”

“I’m going to miss it,” he said. “Seeing you every day.”

She looked away. “Every project comes to an end,” she said, keeping her tone light. 

He stared into her eyes. It felt like he was letting an opportunity go. Like he was about to say goodbye to her forever. 

She turned toward the front door, gathering her bag. “I should go.”

He followed her across the room, the distance between them closing again, but when she reached for the handle, he stopped just short. “Sharon.”

She turned back. “What?”

“Don’t go.”

Her expression shifted, searching his face. “Why?”

Brett didn’t answer. He stepped forward and kissed her. For a fraction of a second, it felt like a mistake. But she didn’t pull away. If anything, she leaned into it, her hand finding his arm as if she’d been waiting for him to make the first move.

Brett’s hand slid to her waist, drawing her closer. He pulled back just enough to look at her, as if giving her one last chance to stop it.

He led her back toward the living room, the newly finished space suddenly feeling charged with something entirely different. His hands moved to her shoulders, then lower, slow and deliberate as he began to ease her jacket off, his focus entirely on her now.

Sharon held his gaze as he stripped off her clothes. She lay there on the sofa, exposed, one arm covering her breasts as she watched him undress. The sight of his toned muscular frame and rigid penis made her shiver from head to toe. 

Standing over her, Brett gazed down at her body and her soft, porcelain skin. He was reminded of the first time he ever saw her—a vision on the street before disappearing like a puff of smoke. In that instant, he’d swore he’d find her.

Now he was about to make love to her.

Slowly, he brought his lips to her neck and worked his way down, first to her shoulders and then her breasts. He lowered himself on top of her, suspending himself with his arms as he kissed her, his cock instinctively finding its way to the wet, inviting space between her legs. He started to enter her, his hands not even needed to help guide their union.

And then she pushed him away.

“I can’t,” she said, panic flashing across her face.

“Sharon—” Brett rose, confusion replacing everything else as he stepped back. “What’s wrong?”

She was already pulling away, turning from him as she grabbed for her clothes, covering herself as she dressed quickly, like distance alone might fix what had just almost happened.

“I’m sorry, Brett,” she said, her voice unsteady now. “I can’t go through with this. I thought I could. I thought I—” She stopped, shaking her head, unable to finish the thought.

Brett stood there, watching her in disbelief.  “Look, we can slow it down. We don’t have to—”

“I let it go too far,” she said. “I shouldn’t have.”

Brett took a step toward her. “You didn’t do anything alone. I was right there.”

“That doesn’t make it better,” she said quickly, finally looking at him. There was something conflicted in her eyes—desire and guilt tangled together. “I have a life, Brett. A complicated one. And this…” She gestured faintly between them. “This doesn’t fit into it.”

Silence settled between them again, but it felt completely different now.

Brett’s jaw tightened slightly. “Because of him? Is that really what this is about?”

Sharon hesitated briefly. “Whether either of us want to accept it or not, I’m married,” she said finally. She grabbed her bag, moving toward the door again, this time not stopping. “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have blurred the lines.”

Brett didn’t follow her this time. He just stood there as she opened the door and stepped out, the sound of it closing behind her echoing through the newly finished house.

A house that, suddenly, didn’t feel quite as complete as it had a few minutes ago.

* * *

The car slowed as it curved along Mulholland, the city stretching out below them in a hazy midday glow. Sunlight washed over the hills, the skyline softened in the distance. Mickey pulled off onto a narrow overlook and cut the engine.

Suzanne glanced out the window, surprised. “You just… come up here in the middle of the day?”

“Sometimes,” Mickey said, already stepping out.

She followed, watching curiously as he opened the trunk and pulled out a folded blanket and a small bag. She laughed. “What is this?”

“Lunch,” he said simply.

He spread the blanket out near the edge of the overlook, far enough from the road to feel private. Suzanne walked over and sat, the breeze lifting a strand of her chestnut hair as she looked out over the city. From the bag, Mickey pulled out a small container and two glasses, pouring something pale and chilled.

She took a sip, then smiled. “You’re full of surprises.”

He shrugged slightly. “I try.”

They sat in a comfortable silence for a moment as Suzanne watched him from the corner of her eye, something thoughtful settling over her expression. Thoughts of the strange phone call he’d received the night before resurfaced, then the man in the restaurant. 

“You know,” she said, turning toward him, “I feel like I only know… pieces of you.”

Mickey glanced at her. “Pieces?”

“You’re careful,” she said. “You give just enough, but never the whole thing. I want to know everything.”

He didn’t answer right away. For a moment, he just looked out at the city, his expression shifting subtly. “That’s a dangerous request,” he said lightly.

“I’m serious,” Suzanne replied. “If I’m going to ignore everyone warning me about you, I feel like I’ve earned the right to understand you.”

That got the faintest hint of a smile out of him. “Fair enough,” he said and leaned back slightly, bracing himself on one arm, his gaze drifting somewhere past the horizon. “I was about twelve,” he began.  “Living with my mother. Small place. Nothing special.” He paused briefly. “It was just us. It was always just us.”

Suzanne stayed quiet, letting him continue.

“She sat me down one day,” he said. “And out of nowhere told me she’d been keeping something from me. She said my father wasn’t who I thought he was.” A beat. “That he was someone else. Someone… important.”

Suzanne’s expression softened. “Carlo.”

Mickey nodded. “She said his name like it was supposed to mean something to me,” he went on. “Like I was supposed to feel… lucky.” A faint, humorless smile crossed his face. “Then she told me I was going to live with him. Just like that. No discussion. No build-up. One day it’s just you and your mother. Next, you’re being dropped into a house full of people who already belong to each other.”

Suzanne watched him carefully now. “What was that like?” she asked softly.

Mickey shrugged. “You learn quickly,” he said. “Where you fit. Where you don’t.”

“And Carlo?” she asked.

Mickey’s gaze darted back to her. “He wasn’t unkind,” he said. “But he wasn’t… warm, either.” A small pause. “With him, everything had a purpose. You either had value or you didn’t. His wife, Destiny—she hated me from the beginning. No one was as perfect as her precious Nico. To her, I was always an outsider.” 

Suzanne shifted slightly closer without thinking, her hand brushing against his. “That must have been hard,” she said quietly. 

Mickey looked at her for a long moment. “It was.” 

Suzanne studied him, something in her expression softening. “See?” she said gently. “That’s what I mean. There’s more to you than you let on.”

Mickey’s thumb brushed lightly against her hand. “Careful,” he said. “You might not like everything you find.”

Suzanne held his gaze. “I don’t believe that.”

He leaned in and kissed her softly, then pulled back and stared into her eyes for a long moment before kissing her again.

* * *

The elevator doors slid open at M.B.A. and Miranda stepped out, already mid-thought, sunglasses in hand as she moved into the bullpen. 

She stopped when she spotted Kelly, Jane, and Heather gathered around the television mounted on the wall, their attention fixed on the screen. No one noticed her at first.

“What are we watching?” Miranda asked, setting her bag down on the nearest desk.

They exchanged glances, Kelly quickly taking the remote from Jane and pausing the footage. 

When no one said anything, Miranda frowned and stepped forward, taking the remote and pressing play again. 

“It’s really nothing all that interesting,” Jane said, attempting to stop her.  

The footage was unmistakably old—grainy, slightly washed out, the colors off, placing it firmly in another era. The camera showed a hallway outside a courtroom, crowded with reporters. Then Courtney appeared, younger, visibly shaken, her arms folded tightly across her chest as she spoke to someone just out of frame.

Miranda’s expression was one of disbelief. 

“Miranda,” Heather said, her voice full of warning. 

The footage cut, and suddenly Miranda herself was on the screen—twenty-five years younger, but unmistakable. For a moment it looked like she was looking at Tiger—their features almost identical. Her posture was rigid, her expression firm as she spoke to Courtney in low, controlled bursts. Even without hearing every word, the dynamic was clear, and the intensity was impossible to miss.

Kelly reached for the remote and lowered the volume, as if that might soften what they were all watching. “It’s been circulating on TMZ all morning,” she said carefully, her eyes moving toward Miranda’s back.

The footage shifted again. Courtney was on the stand now, answering questions with a hesitation that hadn’t existed in memory. There were pauses where there shouldn’t have been, small cracks of uncertainty that felt louder than anything she actually said. Then the video cut to Heather.

Present-day Heather shifted uncomfortably where she stood, her arms folding across her chest as she watched a younger version of herself struggle for certainty on the witness stand.

“We can turn it off,” Jane offered.

Miranda didn’t look at any of them. She stood there a moment, watching the past play out in front of her, taking in every detail.

Then, with a shake of her head, she turned away. “I have calls,” she said evenly, as if nothing about this had touched her at all.

No one moved to stop her. They all knew better.

Miranda walked to her office and closed the door, leaving the three of them standing by the television, the old footage still flickering across the screen, none of them quite willing to turn it off and none of them comfortable continuing to watch.

* * *

Meanwhile, inside Eddie’s office, the television mounted across from his desk played the same segment, the grainy courtroom footage flickering across the screen.

Stormy stood with his arms crossed, his weight shifted slightly to one side as he watched, his jaw tightening with each cut. Eddie leaned against the edge of his desk, remote in hand, eyes fixed on the screen with intensity.

Stormy exhaled under his breath, shaking his head slightly as Courtney hesitated through her testimony. “Jesus,” he muttered. “She’s all over the place.”

Eddie didn’t disagree. He watched the clip play out, his eyes narrowing just slightly as Courtney faltered, searching for words that used to come easily. “Didn’t seem like it sounded this bad back then,” he said.

The footage cut to Heather and Stormy let out a humorless breath. He pushed off the back of a chair as if he couldn’t stay still. 

Eddie clicked the volume down a notch, though neither of them stopped watching. “People are going to have a field day with this,” he said. 

Stormy dragged a hand over his mouth, eyes still locked on the screen. “It makes it look like neither of them knew what they saw.”

The footage shifted again. Now Stormy—years younger—sat on the stand, his voice firm, his answers direct, with none of the hesitation that had colored the others.

Stormy watched himself  for a moment. “At least I didn’t sound like that,” he said, though there was no real comfort in it.

Eddie’s younger self followed, equally composed, answering with a certainty that now felt almost foreign compared to what they’d just seen.

Eddie exhaled slowly. “We held the line,” he said. “Back then, anyway.”

Stormy didn’t take his eyes off the screen. “Yeah,” he said quietly. “We did.”

There was a beat where neither of them spoke, the footage continuing to play out in front of them.

Stormy shifted his weight, his brow furrowing slightly. “You ever think about that?” he asked. “Why we were so sure that Nico had pushed her?”

Eddie glanced at him briefly, then back at the screen. “At the time, it didn’t feel like a question,” he said. “It felt… obvious.”

“That’s just it,” Stormy replied. “It felt obvious.” He let out a short breath. “But look at them. Heather, Courtney—they’re up there second-guessing everything. Like they’re not even sure what they remember anymore.”

“The trial was almost a year after Patty’s death,” Eddie said. “Maybe details got blurred in their minds.”

Stormy shook his head. “This isn’t just details. They’re not even sure about the big picture. How come we were?”

Eddie lowered the volume another notch, the voices on the screen dropping into a dull murmur. “Because once you say something out loud—once you put it on record—you tend to stick to it,” he said. “You convince yourself that’s exactly how it happened.”

Stormy frowned. “You think we convinced ourselves?”

Eddie didn’t answer immediately. He looked back at the screen, at the younger version of himself speaking with unwavering certainty.

“I think,” he said slowly, “we believed what we said.”

Stormy studied him. “That’s not the same thing.”

“No,” Eddie agreed quietly. “It’s not.”

The footage continued to play, but neither of them was really watching it anymore. The certainty they’d once had now for the first time felt like it could break.

* * *

Blake took the steps to Mrs. Tremond’s front door two at a time, Betsy pacing beside him, her leash in his hand. He hadn’t even bothered to change—still shirtless from his run, running shorts clinging slightly with sweat, his shoes dusted with sand. He knocked once impatiently, then again. The door opened almost immediately.

Sadie stood there, composed but fragile in that way she seemed to slip into so easily, her robe wrapped loosely around her. Her eyes moved over him quickly—taking in the bare chest, the urgency—and then dropping to Betsy.

“Oh. You brought Betsy,” she said.

Blake glanced down at the golden retriever. “She was with me when you called,” he said. “You sounded urgent so I didn’t want to take the time to bring her home.”  

Betsy stepped forward, sniffing past Sadie’s legs, curious about the unfamiliar house.

Sadie forced a smile, stepping back to let them in. “Of course,” she said. “Come on in.”

“Be a good girl, Betsy,” Blake said as they entered.

Sadie pursed her lips. “I understand not wanting to take time to take Betsy home, but you couldn’t even take time to finish getting dressed before you came over?”

Blake waived it off. “I was running when you called,” he said, already moving further inside. “I grabbed an Uber. What’s going on?”

Sadie’s gaze swept over him again, slower this time. “That’s right— the meaty pecs are just… part of the brand,” she said, faint amusement in her voice.

“Sadie.” The edge in his tone cut through it.

She let it go immediately, her expression softening. “Right. Sorry.”

Blake turned to face her fully. “You said it was about Iris. What’s so important?”

Sadie hesitated briefly. “We had a fight,” she told him. “This morning.”

Blake’s brow furrowed. “About what?”

Sadie looked away, as if steadying herself. “She doesn’t understand what I’m going through,” she said. “Not really.”

Blake let out a deep breath. “You mean the cancer that you’re faking?”

Sadie’s eyes snapped back to his, a flash of something sharper breaking through. “I am not faking.”

“Right,” Blake said, “you’re just intentionally vague about literally every detail surrounding it.”

Sadie held his gaze, then let the tension dissolve from her face, slipping back into something softer and more composed. “This is exactly what I mean,” she said quietly. “You’ve already decided what’s true.”

Betsy padded further into the room, her nails clicking softly, then circled back toward Blake, settling near his leg.

“I just needed someone who could see things more clearly,” Sadie continued. “Someone who isn’t… emotionally entangled.”

Blake gave a faint, disbelieving shake of his head. “And that’s me?”

“For this,” she said simply. Then she turned and gestured down the hall. “Come on. I put some water on for tea.”

Blake hesitated, then followed, Betsy falling into step beside him.

They moved down the corridor, the house growing quieter the farther they went. Sadie led him into a room just off the hall where a small table had been set with two mugs, tea diffusers already in place.

She moved toward it, keeping her back to him as she reached for the handle. “Do you want some?” she asked. “It’s camomile. I need it to calm my nerves.”

“No,” Blake said immediately.

Sadie nodded and poured water into one mug anyway, letting the steam rise between them.

Blake stayed standing. “Sadie, what exactly happened?”

She wrapped her hands around the mug, grounding herself before turning back. “She’s starting to doubt me,” she said. 

“Maybe because things don’t add up,” Blake replied.

Sadie’s expression flickered, but she held it together. “There are things happening to me that don’t fit into neat explanations,” she said. “That doesn’t make them untrue.”

Betsy wandered the edge of the room, sniffing, then paused near the doorway, as if uncertain about going further.

Sadie tracked her movement without turning her head. “I know you’ve been planting doubts in her head. I know you’re trying to protect her, to be her hero, but you don’t understand what’s at play.”

Blake let out a breath, his patience thinning. “Or I understand exactly what’s at play.”

Sadie stepped closer, lowering her voice. “You don’t see what I see,” she said. “The way things are aligning. The timing. The energy around her lately—”

Blake cut her off with a look. “Sadie.”

She stopped, letting the silence stretch just enough. “Just sit for a minute. Please.”

He hesitated, then finally dropped into the chair across from her, more to get through this than because he was convinced.

Sadie watched him, then gently slid the second mug closer to his side of the table. “You don’t have to believe me,” she said. “But just… stay grounded for a second. It helps.”

Blake glanced at the cup, unimpressed. “I said I didn’t want any.”

“I know,” she said calmly. “Just a sip. Humor me.”

He stared at her for a second longer, then reached for the mug, taking a quick drink before setting it back down.

“Happy?” he muttered.

Sadie’s lips curved faintly, but her eyes flicked briefly toward Betsy—still hovering near the doorway, still watching.

“For now,” she said quietly.

* * *

Brett stood behind his desk at Rydell Productions when Sam stepped in, a folder in her hands and a look on her face that told him everything he needed to know.

“These just came back from accounting,” she said, setting the file on his desk.

Brett didn’t touch it right away. He just looked at it, his jaw clenching. “Returned?” 

Sam nodded. “Flagged. They said there were… discrepancies.”

Brett finally reached for the folder and flipped it open. Carrick Bay. Line after line. The same vague descriptors Jim had already called out—operational support, contingency staffing, special services. It all looked even worse now, sitting there under fresh scrutiny.

“Did Jim Morton send these back?” Brett asked.

“Accounting said they were instructed to hold anything tied to your approvals,” Sam replied.

Brett closed the folder and reached for his phone and dialed Jim’s number without hesitation, pressing it to his ear as he paced once behind his desk. It went straight to voicemail. He hung up and immediately tried again with the same result.

He let out a slow breath, lowering the phone. He didn’t need to hear Jim’s voice to know what this was. “Jordan,” he said quietly.

Sam watched him without saying anything.

Brett nodded to himself, the decision already made. He snapped the folder shut, grabbed his jacket from the back of his chair, and shrugged it on in one quick motion.

“Where are you going?” Sam asked.

“To fix this,” he said.

He didn’t wait for a response. He was already moving, already out the door, the file tucked under his arm as he headed straight for the elevator.

* * *

The parking garage at Sunset Studios was dim and echoing, the late afternoon light barely filtering in from the open levels above. Stormy walked toward his car with his keys in hand, his mind still stuck on the footage he’d watched at Eddie’s office, the past feeling a little too close for comfort.

He rounded a concrete pillar and slowed when he saw three men standing near his car. His eyes moved over them quickly—two he clocked immediately as muscle, positioned just slightly behind the third, an older man who stood at ease in a tailored suit, hands loosely clasped in front of him. 

“Something I can do for you?” Stormy asked, approaching his car without breaking stride. 

The man smiled faintly. “You must be Stormy.”

Stormy stopped a few feet away. “Depends who’s asking.”

The man took a step forward, extending a hand with practiced ease. “Carlo Bravetti.”

Stormy didn’t take it right away. Carlo didn’t seem to mind. He lowered his hand naturally, like the moment had gone exactly as expected.

“I imagine you don’t recognize me,” Carlo continued. “We’ve never formally met. But I know who you are.” He gave a brief, courteous nod.. “You were one of the five who testified at my son’s trial. Twenty-five years ago.”

Stormy held his gaze, his expression tightening just slightly. “Yeah,” he said. “I was.”

There was no bitterness in Carlo’s face, no visible resentment—just acknowledgement, as if they were discussing a fact rather than something personal.

“A long time ago,” Carlo said. “A different set of circumstances.”

Stormy shifted his weight, keys still in his hand. “So what is this?”

Carlo gestured lightly, as if the setting were incidental. “I wanted to extend an invitation. Nico has a new venture—a club called Corso. The opening is next week. It would be… appropriate for you to attend.”

Stormy frowned. “You tracked me down in a parking garage to invite me to a nightclub?”

Carlo’s smile remained, but it sharpened slightly at the edges. “Not entirely.”

Stormy waited.

“I understand you’ve had some difficulty recently,” Carlo went on, his tone calm, almost conversational. “An assault charge. A trial approaching.”

Stormy’s expression hardened. “You’ve been doing your homework.”

“I like to stay informed,” Carlo said simply. “Especially when it concerns people whose paths have crossed mine in the past.”

There was a brief pause, then he continued, just a touch quieter.

“Legal matters like that can become… complicated. Outcomes hinge on small things. Interpretation. Timing. Discretion.”

Stormy’s eyes narrowed. “Get to the point.”

Carlo inclined his head slightly. “There are ways to simplify a situation like yours. To ensure it doesn’t become more serious than it needs to be.”

Stormy let out a short breath. “You’re offering to make it go away.”

Carlo didn’t confirm it directly. “I’m suggesting that not every problem needs to be allowed to reach its worst possible outcome.”

Stormy studied him for a moment, then gave a small shake of his head. “No,” he said.

Carlo watched him carefully. “You don’t want to consider it?”

“I already did,” Stormy replied. “Answer’s still no.”

A flicker of something passed through Carlo’s expression before it settled again into composure. “That’s a principled position,” he said. “I respect that.”

Stormy didn’t respond. “You done?”

Carlo stepped back slightly, signaling the conversation was over. “For now.”

Stormy moved past them toward his car, but he felt their presence behind him all the same—calm, patient, and far too deliberate to be accidental.

* * *

The sun hung high over the course, the fairway stretching out in clean, manicured lines of green. Jordan stood just off the tee box, lining up his shot with quiet focus, one hand resting lightly on the club as he studied the distance.

Brett came striding up from the cart path, the tension in his movement cutting sharply against the calm of the setting. “Jordan.”

Jordan didn’t look up right away. “Timing’s good,” he said casually. “Give me a second.”

He took the shot, sending the ball arcing high against the blue sky before disappearing down the fairway. Only then did he straighten and turn.

“Alright,” he said. “What’s on your mind?”

Brett didn’t bother easing into it. “You cut my approval authority.”

Jordan’s expression didn’t change. “I adjusted it,” he said. “There’s a difference.”

Brett let out a short breath. “Without telling me.”

Jordan handed the club back to his caddie. “Considering the meeting the other day with Jim Morton,” he said, “I wouldn’t think this would come as much of a surprise.”

Brett stepped closer, lowering his voice. “I got you the backup Jim asked for,” he said. “Every invoice, every line item—I had procurement break it all down. So, what’s the problem?”

Jordan waved it off lightly, like the details weren’t the point. “There isn’t one,” he said. “Not anymore.”

Brett stared at him. “Then why am I suddenly sidelined?”

“You’re not sidelined,” Jordan replied evenly. “This is temporary.”

He started walking toward the cart, expecting Brett to follow. “I’ll be approving invoices from now on,” Jordan continued. “Everything else runs exactly as it has been. Your projects, your team, your day-to-day—none of that changes.”

Brett didn’t move at first. “Except the part where I can’t sign off on anything.”

Jordan stopped and looked back at him. “It’s a safeguard,” he said. “For the studio.”

Brett held his gaze, frustration building. “You don’t trust me.”

Jordan didn’t flinch. “I trust that you’re under pressure,” he said. “And pressure leads to mistakes. This just keeps us out of trouble while things settle down.”

There wasn’t much Brett could push back on without making it worse. He nodded. “Right.”

Jordan studied him for a moment, then gave a reassuring nod. “It’s not permanent.”

Brett forced a faint smile. “That’s good to hear.”

Jordan turned back toward the cart, the conversation over in his mind. “We’re fine, Brett,” he said. “Just keep things moving.”

Brett watched him go for a second, the file still tucked under his arm, the words temporary and safeguard echoing loudly.

He turned away a moment later, jaw clenching, knowing exactly what this was—even if Jordan wasn’t saying it outright.

And knowing he didn’t have a move to counter it.

* * *

Blake came to slowly. His head throbbed, a dull pressure behind his eyes, and for a few seconds he couldn’t place where he was or how he’d gotten there. The last thing he remembered was the tea… sitting across from Sadie… 

Then the smell hit him. It was sharp and earthy. Smoke curling through the air. He blinked hard, his eyes struggling to focus, and turned his head.

Sadie stood a few feet away, calm and composed, a bundle of burning sage in her hand as she moved it in slow, deliberate circles through the room. The faint trail of smoke drifted upward, catching in the light filtering through the glass.

“There you are,” she said softly, as if he’d just woken up from a nap. “I was wondering when you’d come around.”

Blake pushed himself up onto his elbows, his movements sluggish.. “What… what is this?” he muttered, his throat dry.

Sadie didn’t stop what she was doing. “Just clearing the energy,” she said. “There was a lot of… interference in here.”

Blake looked around, trying to get his bearings. The room was unfamiliar. There was a grand piano across the room, a shelf of records on the far wall, and a few horn instruments scattered about. 

 Then Sadie added, almost casually, “You’re heavier than you look, by the way. Had a hard time getting you in here. You’re solid.”

Blake’s brow furrowed, confusion slowly turning to panic. He looked down and saw a metal cuff clamped around his ankle, a heavy chain extending from it to a support beam bolted into the floor.

“What the hell—” He jerked instinctively, the chain snapping taut with a harsh metallic sound. “Sadie, what is this?”

She turned to face him, still holding the smoldering sage, completely at ease.

“I can’t have you interfering,” she said simply. “I can’t have you playing the hero to Iris.”

Blake stared at her. “Let me go.”

“No,” she said, almost gently. “I can’t do that.”

His pulse spiked, adrenaline cutting through the lingering haze. He pulled again, harder this time, testing the restraint. It didn’t budge.

“You’ve lost your mind,” he said, his voice rising. “Do you hear yourself right now?”

Sadie tilted her head slightly, studying him. “You’ve been filling my sister’s head with your theories,” she said. “About my illness. About what you think is real and what isn’t.” A faint smile touched her lips. “I don’t want that to continue.”

Blake shook his head in disbelief. “Your illness?” he said. “Sadie, there is no—”

He stopped and his eyes moved quickly around the room.

“Where’s Betsy?”

Sadie’s expression didn’t change. “Relax,” she said. “You think I’d hurt an innocent dog?”

Blake held her gaze, searching for any crack.

“She’s at the pool house,” Sadie went on calmly. “Safe. I’ll make sure she’s taken care of. You don’t need to worry about her.”

Blake’s jaw tightened. “You touch her, I swear to God—”

“I won’t,” Sadie said, cutting him off, still calm. “That’s not what this is about.”

She stepped toward the door, setting the smoldering sage down in a small dish as she passed.

“This is about clarity,” she added. “For both of you.”

Blake pulled at the chain again, harder now, the metal rattling loudly against the beam. “Sadie, you open that door right now.”

She didn’t stop. At the threshold, she turned back once, her expression composed, almost reassuring. “Try to rest,” she said. “You’ll think more clearly once you stop fighting it.”

Then she stepped out and pulled the door closed behind her. The click of the lock echoed in the quiet room.

Blake stared at it for half a second, then surged forward again, yanking hard against the chain, testing every inch of slack, every possible angle.

Nothing. 

And for the first time, the reality of it settled in. He wasn’t getting out of there. 

* * *

It was late enough that the agency had gone quiet, the usual daytime energy replaced by the low buzz of lights overhead. Miranda stepped out of her office, slipping her jacket on as she crossed the reception area, already mentally shifting toward the end of the day.

She pressed the elevator button and waited. When the doors opened, Siobahn stepped out.

Miranda’s eyebrows lifted slightly, caught off guard by her sudden appearance. “Siobahn,” she said, a note of surprise slipping through. “I didn’t expect to see you here this late.”

Siobahn stepped fully into the space, composed, direct, her expression giving nothing away. “I need to talk to you, Miranda.”

Miranda studied her for a beat, then gave a small nod, adjusting easily. “I was just on my way out,” she said. “But if you want, we can go somewhere and have a drink.”

Siobahn didn’t move. “I don’t need a discussion.”

Miranda’s posture shifted, her attention sharpening as she really looked at her now.

“I’ve thought very carefully about this,” Siobahn continued, her tone calm and collected. “And I’m not going to continue as your client.”

The words hung in the space between them. For a moment, Miranda didn’t respond. She just took it in, her expression still, her eyes steady on Siobahn’s face as if searching for something behind the decision.

“There’s just too much talk out there,” Siobahn went on. “About the trial. I can’t have my career affected by this, Miranda. I won’t.”

Miranda gave a faint, almost resigned nod. “Alright,” she said quietly.

Siobahn watched her, perhaps expecting more, but Miranda didn’t give it.

“I assume this isn’t impulsive,” Miranda added after a moment.

“It isn’t,” Siobahn replied.

Miranda let out a shallow breath. “I can’t say I’m surprised,” she said, her tone even, though there was something resigned beneath it.

Siobahn didn’t soften. “You shouldn’t be.”

Miranda nodded. “No,” she said. “I shouldn’t be.”

The elevator doors were still open behind Siobahn, waiting.

Miranda stepped past her, then paused just inside, turning slightly back toward her. “Good luck,” she said, not unkindly.

Siobahn met her gaze, giving a small, decisive nod.

Miranda didn’t say anything else. She pressed the button, and the doors slid closed between them, leaving Siobahn standing alone in the quiet of the agency as the elevator carried Miranda down.

* * *

They met in the lower level of a parking structure off a side street in Century City. Brett stepped out of his car and spotted Mickey leaning casually against the hood of a black sedan a few spaces over, hands in his pockets.

Mickey didn’t bother with greetings. “What’s the holdup with the payments?”

Brett exhaled, already knowing how this would go. “Jordan cut off my approval authority,” he said. “Anything tied to invoices goes through him now.”

Mickey’s expression didn’t change right away, but something in his eyes sharpened. “He did what?”

“They’re suspicious,” Brett said evenly. “And rightly so. Jordan stepped in. Says it’s temporary, but right now I can’t move anything.”

Mickey pushed off the car slowly, closing a bit of the distance between them. “Temporary doesn’t help me,” he said. “We have a lot of product that needs to move very soon, and it needs somewhere to land.” He held Brett’s gaze. “That system of yours was working.”

Brett didn’t look away. “It’s not my system anymore. My hands are tied. I can’t approve what I don’t control.”

Mickey studied him for a moment, then gave a nod like he’d accepted the explanation—at least on the surface. “Then untie them,” he said.

Brett let out a deep breath. “It doesn’t work like that. Jordan’s not going to just hand it back because I ask nicely.”

“Then don’t ask nicely.”

Brett clenched his jaw. “You’re asking me to push the guy who owns the company into reversing a financial control decision he just made because accounting got nervous.”

“I’m asking you to fix a problem,” Mickey replied. “However you need to do that.”

Brett shook his head slightly. “You’re underestimating how locked down this is.”

Mickey’s expression shifted. “No,” he said quietly. “I think you’re underestimating how important this is.”

There was a beat where neither of them moved, the air between them tightening.

“We have commitments,” Mickey continued. “Timelines. People who expect things to move when I say they’re going to move. And right now, everything is sitting still because Jordan Rydell decided to get cautious.”

Brett held his ground. “I told you—I’ll figure something out. But it’s not going to be immediate.”

Mickey stepped a fraction closer, lowering his voice just enough to make it feel more personal. “You don’t have the luxury of taking your time on this, Brett. Get him to reconsider. However that conversation needs to go.”

Brett didn’t respond.

Mickey turned toward his car, pausing just long enough to add, “Or we’ll have to start thinking about other ways to solve the problem.”

Brett stood there as Mickey got into the car and drove off, the sound of the engine fading quickly into the open street above, leaving him alone in the dim, echoing space.

* * *

When Brett got home, he tossed his keys onto the table without looking and moved straight to the bar. He grabbed a glass, poured a drink heavier than usual, and knocked back a quick swallow before even setting the bottle down. The burn barely registered. His thoughts raced—Jordan cutting him off, Mickey tightening the pressure, everything closing in at once.

“Temporary,” he muttered under his breath.

It didn’t feel temporary. It felt like the beginning of the end.

He took another drink, then set the glass down hard. It wobbled slightly on the counter.

For a second, he just stood there, staring at it. Then, with a sudden, sharp motion, he grabbed it and hurled it across the room. It shattered against the wall, glass exploding outward, the sound cracking through the house and leaving a ringing silence in its wake.

Brett stood there, breathing hard, his hands braced against the counter. Then a knock at the door cut through the moment. He straightened slowly, dragging a hand through his hair before crossing the room. He pulled the door open—

Sharon stood there.

For a second, neither of them spoke.

She took him in—the tension in his face, the edge still lingering in his posture—and whatever she saw there, she didn’t question it.

“Hi,” she said quietly.

“Hi,” he replied.

He stepped back, and she walked inside. The door closed behind her, shutting out everything else.

They stood facing each other for a brief moment, the air between them already charged with everything they hadn’t said earlier. Whatever hesitation had stopped her before was gone now, replaced by something more immediate, more necessary.

Brett reached for her, pulling her closer, and this time she didn’t pull away. Her hands came up to him just as quickly, meeting him halfway, the connection immediate and unspoken.

They didn’t rush, but there was a quiet urgency, like both of them needed this for reasons they didn’t want to put into words. He guided her back toward the living room, toward the sofa, the space around them falling away as they made love.

Whatever lines had existed before blurred completely.

And for the moment, at least, everything else—the pressure, the decisions, the consequences waiting just outside that door—faded into the background.