A blurry photo from the night Zoanne and Ty were murdered sent detectives circling back to Jason Merrick — until his father, Franklin, stunned everyone by confessing to the crimes himself, claiming Zoanne had discovered his affair and spent months blackmailing him. Nico relived finding the bodies that night and leaving with Zoanne’s guns. Kelly lashed out at Phoebe for questioning R.J. about Matthew’s final moments, only for Phoebe to later break down in Keaton’s arms. Lara’s suspicions about James and Suzanne exploded when she found lipstick on one of James’s shirts, leading to an accusation that rattled him, and left Suzanne unsettled after an awkward encounter with Lara. Sheldon opened his heart to Iris, confessing that Blake’s abrupt departure told him everything he needed to know about where their relationship truly stood. Sadie, spiraling over her predicament with holding Blake hostage, suggested to Iris that they leave town.

* * *

Morning light streamed through the windows of Keaton’s Silver Lake townhouse, washing over the bedroom while the city slowly came alive outside. The sheets were tangled around Kelly’s bare legs as she lay against him breathlessly, her fingertips tracing slowly across the hard lines of his stomach while he kissed along her shoulder and neck. Her skin carried that intoxicating coconut-papaya scent he had already started associating entirely with her, and every time he pulled her closer, it lingered against him.

By the time they finally collapsed back against the pillows, both laughing softly and trying to catch their breath, the tension of the outside world felt very far away.

“Okay,” Kelly murmured eventually, brushing hair from her face. “Now I actually have to go to work.”

Keaton groaned dramatically. “Cruel.”

A little while later, they emerged from the bedroom dressed and halfway functional again. Keaton headed toward the kitchen while Kelly slipped on her heels near the sofa.

As the coffee machine gurgled, Kelly’s expression shifted slightly. “I still can’t believe Phoebe broke down in front of you like that.”

Keaton glanced back at her. She’d told him everything the night before after getting home from dinner out.

“Yeah,” he admitted quietly. “It was pretty bad.”

Kelly folded her arms loosely. “She’s struggling way more than she admits.”

“With your dad?”

Kelly nodded. “Not even just that he’s gone. The crash itself.” She shook her head faintly. “She fixates on every detail.”

Keaton leaned against the counter thoughtfully. “I’ve actually read about that before. Some people get trapped in invasive thoughts after trauma. They obsess over the morbid specifics because their brain keeps trying to process it.”

Kelly sighed. “I told her she needs to see a therapist.”

“I agree with you.”

A brief silence settled between them before Kelly frowned suddenly. “Crap. I forgot my phone.”

She turned and headed back toward the bedroom while Keaton busied himself pouring coffee.

Inside, Kelly scanned the dresser and nightstands until she spotted her phone partially tucked beside the bed. As she reached for it, her attention caught on a slightly open drawer in Keaton’s nightstand.

Without thinking much about it, she pulled it open. Inside sat a small black velvet box.

Kelly froze. Slowly, she lifted it and opened the lid. An engagement ring gleamed back at her beneath the morning light.

For a second, she simply stared at it, her breath stalling slightly as realization swept across her face.

“Oh my god,” she whispered.

Keaton was going to propose. But were they even ready? They hadn’t gotten back together that long ago, and with work busy for both of them, Phoebe showing up out of the blue, and R.J. needing a lot of her attention, they hadn’t gotten to spend a lot of time together.

Still, he did seem more committed this time, something that the ring only proved. Maybe they weren’t destined to break up again like the last two times. Still, even if so, marriage was a big step.  

Carefully, she closed the box and slid it back exactly where she’d found it, nudging the drawer shut to the same slight opening it had before. She grabbed her phone from the nightstand and took a steadying breath, trying to compose herself before heading back out into the kitchen.

Keaton glanced up from the coffee machine as she returned. “Find it?”

“Yep,” Kelly said casually, though her voice came out a touch too bright.

He narrowed his eyes slightly. “Why do you suddenly look so happy?”

Kelly immediately busied herself fixing her blazer sleeve. “I had sex this morning. I’m glowing.”

Keaton laughed under his breath. “Fair.”

She walked over and accepted the coffee he handed her, determined to act normal despite the fact that her entire brain was suddenly racing ahead weeks, months, years into the future.

* * *

Sadie emerged from the kitchenette of the pool house carrying a tray loaded with food, fruit, and bottled water. Betsy lay curled near the sofa at first, watching her quietly.

Then, the second Sadie stepped out the door, the dog lifted her head. Something about Sadie’s movements immediately caught her attention. Focused entirely on not spilling anything, Sadie never noticed the dog slipping out behind her.

The back door of the main house opened with a soft creak as Sadie nudged it inward using her hip. And just before it closed again, Betsy darted inside unnoticed.

The dog paused in the hallway immediately, nose twitching hard now as Blake’s scent hit her stronger than it had in days. 

* * *

Blake paced the length of the conservatory as far as the shackle around his ankle would allow, the chain scraping softly across the floor every few steps. Sunlight filtered weakly through the glass walls overhead, but it did nothing to ease the claustrophobic feeling that had settled over the room after days trapped inside it.

His mind kept circling back to Sheldon. The frustration in his voice the last time they’d spoken. The progress they’d finally been making together before all of this happened. Blake could practically picture him now—angry, confused, probably assuming Blake had simply disappeared without explanation. That bothered him more than anything.

“Damn it,” he muttered under his breath, dragging a hand through his hair.

Eventually, exhausted from pacing and getting nowhere, he dropped heavily onto the cot. The chain clinked sharply with the movement. He sat there for a moment in nothing but his running shorts, sweaty and restless, trying unsuccessfully to quiet his thoughts.

With no distraction and nowhere to go, he finally leaned back, closing his eyes as he pulled the front of his shorts down with one hand and clasped the other around his dick. He stroked it slowly a few times, then faster, letting his thumb tease the head as his hips thrusted slightly. A few more slow tugs and he was already there. He picked up the pace, moaning with pleasure as he jolted and twitched, cum shooting onto his stomach and chest, pooling in the ridges of his abs as they tensed and relaxed.  

He had barely caught his breath when the conservatory door suddenly opened.

He jolted upright instantly, grabbing a pillow and yanking it across his lap as Sadie wandered inside carrying a tray loaded with supplies.

“Jesus!” he snapped, still flushed and breathing unevenly. “You ever heard of knocking?”

Sadie paused near the door, frowning at him with mild surprise beneath the flowing layers of scarves and loose fabric draped around her. “Sorry,” she said dismissively. “Your energy felt calmer today.”

Blake stared at her in disbelief.

She crossed the room like nothing was unusual and set the tray down beside the cot. “I brought extra water this time,” she said cheerfully. “You’re going through it like crazy. Trauma is very dehydrating.”

Blake shifted awkwardly beneath the pillow. “Has anybody been looking for me?” he asked quickly. “Sheldon? Iris? Eddie?”

Sadie unscrewed one of the water bottles and handed it to him. “Not really.”

Blake frowned immediately. “What do you mean, not really?”

She shrugged vaguely. “Everybody’s very peaceful about it now.”

That immediately set off alarms in his head. “Why?”

Sadie smiled faintly but avoided answering directly. “People adapt very quickly once they accept a new reality.”

Blake stared at her harder now. “What did you do?”

“I didn’t do anything,” she replied calmly. “I just helped redirect some emotional pathways.”

“That doesn’t mean anything.”

“It means nobody’s panicking anymore.”

Blake clenched his jaw.. “Sadie—”

“I’ve actually been thinking a lot about the future,” she interrupted gently. “I think Iris and I may leave town soon.”

He blinked. “What?”

“You know, start over somewhere with less… psychic toxicity.” She gave a thoughtful nod to herself. “Los Angeles has become very spiritually noisy.”

Blake stared at her in disbelief. “And what about me?”

Sadie tilted her head slightly, considering it with unsettling calm. “Well, I haven’t fully worked out those logistics yet,” she admitted. 

Dropping back onto the cot, Blake let out an exhaustive breath. “I’m gonna fucking be in this room forever.” 

* * *

Betsy moved cautiously down the hallway, nails clicking softly against the hardwood floors as her nose worked furiously. The closer she got to the conservatory, the more agitated she became.

By the time she reached the wall adjoining the hidden room, her entire body had gone alert. She whined sharply and pressed her nose against the baseboard, tail stiffening as she sniffed harder.

Then she started scratching.

Frantically.

Her paws clawed at the wall as though she were trying to dig straight through it. She barked once, then again, louder this time, circling tightly before returning to the exact same spot.

Inside the conservatory, Blake remained completely unaware, still sitting on the cot across the room while Sadie calmly unpacked the tray of food.

Outside in the hallway, Betsy’s scratching intensified. She began whining loudly now, pawing harder and harder at the wall with growing desperation as if she knew Blake was somewhere beyond it and simply couldn’t reach him.

* * *

The marina was gray and overcast when Brett arrived at Mickey’s office overlooking the slips in Marina del Rey. He found Bruno and Dennis standing outside the office doors like hired muscle.

Dennis opened the door without a word, and Brett stepped inside adjusting the cuffs of his jacket, projecting far more confidence than he actually felt.

Mickey sat behind the desk near the windows, an open laptop glowing beside several neat stacks of cash. He didn’t get up. “Thanks for coming, Brett.”

“Mickey.”

Bruno quietly shut the door behind him, leaving the two men alone.

Brett slipped his hands into his pockets casually. “If this is about the invoices again, I don’t know what you expect me to tell you. Jordan locked me out.” He shrugged. “My hands are tied.”

Mickey said nothing.

Brett continued, unable to hide a trace of satisfaction now that the balance of power had finally shifted slightly in his favor. “I can’t approve anything without Jordan restoring my authority, and since he clearly has no intention of doing that…” He spread his hands. “That’s kind of the end of the conversation.”

Still, Mickey remained silent. Brett’s smugness faded slightly as he studied him more carefully. Mickey looked different today—colder somehow. No charm or performative calm. Just a man thinking through logistics.

Finally, Mickey spoke. “I’ve been considering the problem.”

Brett frowned faintly. “Okay…”

“And I think I’ve found a solution.”

Something about the way he said it made Brett uneasy instantly.

Mickey folded his hands together on the desk. “I’m going to have Jordan Rydell killed.”

The words echoed with horrifying simplicity.

Brett stared at him. “What?”

“With Rydell dead,” Mickey continued evenly, “you’ll regain approval authority over the studio accounts. Which means the invoices move through.” He tilted his head slightly. “Problem solved.”

Brett’s entire posture changed. “What the hell are you talking about?” he demanded. “You can’t be serious.”

Mickey’s expression didn’t move at all. “I’m very serious.”

“No.” Brett shook his head immediately. “No, absolutely not.”

“You said yourself there’s no other way.”

“That doesn’t mean murdering him.”

Mickey leaned back slightly in his chair, calm in a way that made the conversation infinitely worse. “Jordan’s become an obstacle. Obstacles get removed.”

Brett felt genuine panic beginning to rise now. “You’re insane.”

That finally drew the faintest flicker of irritation from Mickey. “No,” he said quietly. “I’m practical.”

The room fell silent except for the distant creaking of boats outside the marina.

Then Mickey added, almost conversationally: “You should prepare yourself, Brett. Because once this happens, there’s no more hesitation. The money moves immediately.”

* * *

The backlot at Sunset Studios buzzed with a swirl of activity as crew members hurried between golf carts, costume racks, and half-finished set pieces under the warm afternoon sun. Construction crews hammered away at a massive recreation of a 1980s Hollywood restaurant facade while nearby production assistants shuffled binders and coffee trays through the confusion of pre-production. A large sign outside stage 12 read: AMERICAN STAR.

Keaton stepped out of a golf cart carrying rolls of storyboards under one arm and an iced coffee in the other. Sunglasses tucked into the collar of his shirt, he paused briefly to watch grips rigging lights across the faux restaurant exterior before spotting Stormy near a row of production trailers reviewing costume sketches with a designer.

Stormy looked up as Keaton approached. “Tell me that isn’t another rewrite.”

Keaton held up the pages defensively. “Relax. It’s just adjustments to the Chateau Marmont sequence.”

Stormy sighed dramatically. “You and your ‘adjustments.’”

Keaton grinned. “Perfection takes time.”

The designer excused herself, leaving the two men alone amid the movement of the lot.

Stormy glanced toward the giant American Star signage again before folding his arms. “You know,” he said, “I still have to ask.”

Keaton already looked amused. “Oh god, what?”

“No, seriously.” Stormy shook his head slightly. “What is it with your infatuation with my Uncle Nathan?”

Keaton’s expression shifted faintly at the mention of Nathan Blackthorne.

Stormy continued. “You show up in town one day fifteen years ago with a Nathan Blackthorne scrapbook in your briefcase, somehow get hired into directing my father’s remake of The Benefactor—one of his biggest movies—use him to get close to Alex Reynolds because you found out she was your mother…”  He gestured broadly around the backlot. “And now we’re making a giant biopic about him.”

Keaton laughed under his breath. “When you say it out loud like that, it does sound a little serial killer-ish.”

“A little?”

Keaton leaned against the golf cart beside him, looking out across the soundstage for a moment before answering more seriously. “There’s nothing nefarious about it,” he said. “I grew up idolizing him.”

Stormy studied him carefully.

“Not the bad parts,” Keaton clarified quietly. “Not the young girls he took advantage of.” His eyes drifted toward one of the enormous production paintings depicting Nathan in his prime. “The good parts.”

“The good parts,” Stormy repeated skeptically.

“He made people feel something,” Keaton said simply. “He was old Hollywood. He walked into a room and suddenly life looked bigger, more cinematic, like maybe you could become somebody extraordinary too.”

Stormy’s expression eased slightly.

Keaton smiled faintly now. “This movie…” He looked back toward the massive American Star banner hanging outside the stage. “It’s my love letter to him.”

For a moment, even Stormy couldn’t entirely argue with that. Then he smirked slightly. “Still think the scrapbook thing was weird.”

Keaton laughed softly. “I’ll give you that.”

The noise of the backlot swelled around them again for a moment before Keaton’s expression shifted slightly more serious. “When’s the trial start?”

Stormy’s smirk faded. “Two weeks.”

Keaton nodded slowly. “And Jane’s due when?”

“Eight weeks,” Stormy replied. “Assuming the baby sticks to schedule.”

Keaton let out a low whistle. “That’s… a lot all at once.”

“You’re telling me.”

Keaton studied him for a moment. “You okay?”

Stormy gave a dry laugh under his breath. “Ask me again in about seven weeks.”

* * *

Lunch service was in full swing on the patio of The Ivy, where white roses lined the tables and a parade of stylists, actresses, and studio executives drifted in and out beneath oversized umbrellas. Renee sat across from Lara nursing a glass of iced tea while servers moved elegantly through the crowded patio around them.

Lara had barely touched her salad.

Renee noticed immediately. “Alright,” she said, setting down her fork. “What’s really going on with you?”

Lara hesitated before finally asking, “How did you forgive Kenny after he cheated on you?”

The question caught Renee slightly off guard. After a moment, she gave a faint, humorless smile. “Honestly?” She leaned back in her chair. “I never really did.”

Lara looked at her quietly.

“We tried making it work during the second marriage,” Renee continued. “Therapy. Vacations. Grand romantic gestures.” She shook her head lightly. “But a leopard doesn’t change its spots.”

Lara lowered her eyes toward her iced tea.

Renee studied her more carefully now. “Why are we suddenly talking about infidelity?”

Lara was quiet for a beat too long. Then finally: “Do you think men ever really change?”

Renee almost laughed. “That depends. Are we talking about ordinary men or powerful men?”

Lara looked back up at her.

“Because powerful men,” Renee said knowingly, “usually just get better at hiding things.”

That only deepened the unease already sitting inside Lara’s chest.

As their lunches were cleared away, Renee’s attention drifted past Lara toward the opposite side of the patio.

“Oh look,” she said lightly. “There’s Suzanne.”

Lara’s body tensed immediately before she even turned and saw her. Suzanne stood near the hostess stand in a cream blouse and sunglasses, scanning the patio as though realizing the person she was meeting still hadn’t arrived. The moment Renee waved, Suzanne spotted them and smiled politely before making her way over.

“Renee,” she said warmly as Renee rose to greet her with a quick embrace.

“What are you doing here?”

“I was supposed to meet Heather for lunch,” Suzanne explained. “But apparently there’s some emergency happening at the agency.”

Renee rolled her eyes knowingly. “There’s always an emergency at that agency.”

Suzanne laughed softly.

Then Renee gestured toward the empty chair at their table. “Well, sit down with us.”

Across from her, Lara visibly stiffened. Suzanne noticed it immediately.

Very gently, she shook her head. “No, that’s alright. I should probably head out anyway.”

There was a brief, awkward pause.

“It was nice seeing you both,” Suzanne said politely.

“You too, sweetheart,” Renee replied. “I’ll call you this week.” 

Lara managed a restrained smile. “Take care.”

Suzanne gave a final nod before turning and disappearing back through the crowded patio toward the valet area.

The second she was gone, Renee slowly looked back at Lara. “Ok, now I get it.”

“What?” Lara asked.

“Those questions about Kenny’s affairs. You don’t seriously think James is having an affair with Suzanne, do you?”

Lara’s eyes remained fixed on her water glass. “That’s not what I said.”

“But you’re thinking it.”

Lara exhaled quietly, unsettled by how obvious she apparently was. “I don’t know,” she admitted. “Maybe.”

Renee stared at her in disbelief. “Lara, that’s crazy.”

“Is it?”

“Yes,” Renee said firmly. “Suzanne’s been around this family forever.”

Lara gave a faint shrug, though the insecurity beneath it was obvious now. “Could just be my imagination.”

But even as she said it, she didn’t sound convinced.

* * *

Just outside, valets moved between luxury cars while afternoon traffic crawled steadily along the street. Suzanne had just handed her ticket to the driver and was searching through her purse for her phone when someone suddenly caught her arm.

She turned sharply and found Mickey standing there. He looked exhausted beneath the surface composure he usually carried so effortlessly, like he hadn’t slept properly in days.

“Mickey,” she said stiffly.

“Just listen to me for a second.”

Suzanne immediately tried pulling away. “Leave me alone.”

“I’m trying to explain what happened.”

“There’s nothing to explain.”

His grip tightened slightly as she tried stepping away, not enough to hurt her but enough to stop her movement. Around them, people drifted in and out of the restaurant completely unaware of the intensity building between them only feet away.

“Suzanne, please,” he said quietly. “You saw one moment. One situation.”

“I saw enough.”

“No, you didn’t.”

The frustration beneath his calm was becoming more visible now, but Suzanne wasn’t wavering. The image of that back room at Corso—the violence, the blood, Mickey simply standing there watching—still turned her stomach every time she thought about it.

“I don’t even know who you are anymore,” she told him.

For a moment, real hurt flickered across his face before he stepped closer again, lowering his voice. “Just let me talk to you. Five minutes. ”

“No.”

“Suzanne—”

“I said no.”

Finally wrenching her arm free completely, she hurried to the driver’s side door just as her car arrived, and climbed inside before he could stop her again.

Mickey immediately moved toward the window. “Suzanne, I don’t want to lose you.”

But the car already lurched hard away from the curb. Mickey had to jump backward as Suzanne sped off so quickly the bumper nearly clipped him. Tires screeched briefly against the pavement before she disappeared into Beverly Hills traffic without looking back.

Left standing alone in the street, Mickey watched the space where the car had vanished, breathing hard now, his expression darkening.

A few yards away at the main entrance, Lara and Renee had stepped outside and paused mid-conversation after noticing the tension unfolding at the curb. From where they stood, they caught only the tail end of it—Mickey grabbing Suzanne’s arm, Suzanne pulling free, the obvious desperation in Mickey’s posture as he leaned toward the driver’s side window trying to stop her from leaving. 

“What was that all about?” Lara asked. 

“Mickey isn’t taking their breakup so well,” Renee told her.  “See? You think she’s in any condition to sleep with another woman’s husband while she has this to deal with?” 

Lara said nothing after that, but her eyes lingered in the direction Suzanne had gone.  

* * *

The elevator doors slid open on the executive floor of Rydell Productions, and Jordan stepped out carrying a leather portfolio tucked neatly beneath one arm. His arrival immediately shifted the atmosphere of the reception area, assistants subtly straightening as he crossed toward the front desk with quiet authority.

Sam looked up from her computer and smiled politely. “Mr. Rydell.”

“Sam.” Jordan slowed briefly at the desk, offering a faint nod. “Is Brett in?”

“Yes.” She reached for the security button beside her monitor. “Go right in.”

Jordan waited as the door unlocked with a soft buzz, then continued inside.

* * *

The mood at the Miranda Blackthorne Agency had grown noticeably heavier over the past few weeks, and that day’s meeting only accentuated it.  

Miranda stood near the end of the conference table while Kelly, Jane, and Heather sat watching her closely. Nobody looked particularly optimistic anymore.

“We lost two more clients this morning,” Miranda said quietly.

The silence that followed told her none of them were surprised.

She set her tablet own on the table. “At this point, we’re bleeding faster than we can replace the losses. The overhead on this place alone is astronomical.”

Jane folded her arms tightly. “How bad is it?”

Miranda exhaled slowly before answering. “Bad enough that we’re officially in survival mode.” She looked between them evenly. “We’ll keep the lights on as long as we can.”

Kelly looked stricken. Heather simply lowered her gaze.

“The situation is dire,” Miranda admitted. “Unfortunately, we’re going to have to let Phoebe go.”

Kelly looked up immediately, though not angrily. Just sad.

Miranda’s voice softened. “Kelly, I’m sorry.”

Kelly shook her head faintly. “It’s okay.” A small shrug followed. “Honestly, she only started working here so we could get to know each other as sisters anyway. I know she’ll understand.”

Still, the reality of it settled heavily over the room. Jane stared down at the conference table while Heather leaned back silently in her chair, tension lingering across her face.

Eventually Miranda let out a deep breath. “That’s all for now.”

The others slowly began filing back out into the bullpen. Kelly and Jane headed for the door together, but before Heather could follow, Miranda spoke again.

“Heather. Hold back a second.”

Heather paused. Once the others were gone, the room fell quiet.

Miranda crossed her arms loosely. “You must be dying to say ‘I told you so.’”

Heather frowned slightly. “What do you mean?”

“The trial.” Miranda’s voice remained calm but edged now with exhaustion more than anger. “Our testimony. You said you were unsure about it from the beginning, and now look what’s happening.” She gestured vaguely toward the office outside. “My reputation is sullied. The agency’s collapsing.”

Heather took a breath. “I would never say I told you so. You didn’t ask for this.”

Miranda looked down briefly at the conference table before speaking again, quieter this time. “I still stand by my testimony,” she said. “Everything we said at that trial.” Her eyes lifted back to Heather’s. “I know you don’t believe that, but it’s true.”

Heather’s expression softened slightly.

“I didn’t lie,” Miranda continued firmly. “Not about what I saw. Not about any of it.”

Heather nodded faintly. “Maybe we remember parts of that night differently,” she admitted carefully. “But I never thought you lied intentionally.”

That seemed to surprise Miranda more than she expected.

Heather picked up her folder from the table and moved toward the door, pausing before she left. “We’re still sisters,” she said quietly. “Even after everything.”

Then she walked out, leaving Miranda alone in the suddenly silent conference room, surrounded by the slow collapse of the empire she had spent years building.

* * *

Phoebe stood near the pickup counter at Joan’s on Third balancing a cardboard drink tray while checking the large paper bag Miranda had sent her to retrieve for the office.

“Phoebe?”

She turned in surprise and found Keaton walking in from the sidewalk, sunglasses pushed up into his hair.

“Oh,” she said, visibly caught off guard. “Hi.”

Keaton smiled warmly. “Small world.”

Phoebe immediately looked slightly embarrassed. “I was actually hoping I’d run into you at some point so I could apologize.”

“For what?”

“The other day.” She shifted awkwardly against the counter. “At Kelly’s house.” A faint flush crept into her face. “You must think I’m completely insane.”

Keaton’s expression softened instantly. “No,” he said gently. “Not at all.”

Phoebe looked down.

“I think you’re struggling,” he continued carefully. “There’s a difference.”

Something about the tenderness in his voice immediately threatened her composure again, though she managed to keep herself together this time.

“Kelly mentioned she thought maybe you should see a therapist,” he added.

Phoebe nodded faintly. “I was seeing one back in Santa Barbara.” She shrugged. “I guess being here… around my father’s other family… has brought a lot of those feelings back up again.”

Keaton leaned lightly against the counter beside her. “That makes sense.”

Phoebe laughed weakly under her breath. “Does it? Because it feels ridiculous sometimes.”

“It’s not ridiculous.”

She glanced over at him quietly.

“You lost someone suddenly and in a very tragic way,” he said. “And not just someone. Your father.” His voice remained calm and reassuring. “People process grief in strange ways.”

Phoebe looked visibly relieved hearing someone say it that plainly.

Keaton offered her a reassuring smile. “Don’t worry. We’ll get you through it.”

The choice of we lingered in Phoebe’s head for a second longer than she expected.

Then the cashier called her order number, breaking the moment.

* * *

The gates of Jordan’s Beverly Hills estate swung open as James’s car pulled into the circular drive. Inside, the butler showed James into the foyer just as Alex descended the staircase.

“James.” She smiled warmly and crossed to him, greeting him with a brief embrace before he kissed her lightly on the cheek.

“You look good,” Alex said.

“So do you.”

There was a brief pause before her expression eased slightly. “Have you talked to Miranda?”

James nodded faintly. “Yeah.”

“She’s devastated,” Alex admitted quietly. “This agency situation… the clients pulling out…” She shook her head. “I’ve never seen her this discouraged.”

James didn’t seem nearly as worried. “Miranda’s tougher than she realizes. She’ll get through it.”

“Let’s hope so,” she said, then added after a moment, “Anyway, Jordan’s in his study.” 

James thanked her before heading deeper into the house. He found Jordan inside the study near the fireplace, sleeves rolled up, reading glasses low on his nose while several folders sat spread across the desk.

Jordan looked up as James entered. “Thanks for coming by.”

James closed the door behind him. “What did you want to talk about?”

Jordan removed his glasses and gestured toward the chair across from the desk. A faint smile crossed his face. “Actually, I wanted to get your help on a project.”

“I’m all ears,” James said as he sat down. 

* * *

The executive floor of Rydell Productions had mostly emptied out for the day when Mickey stepped off the elevator and crossed the reception area with quiet purpose. Sam didn’t even bother trying to stop him. She’d learned it was a fruitless effort, so she buzzed the door open without saying a word.  Mickey pushed through the heavy doors into Brett’s office.

Brett looked up instantly, already on edge. “Jesus Christ.”

Mickey closed the door behind himself calmly while Brett rose from behind the desk. “Listen, Mickey, I’ve thought about what you said earlier,” he said quickly. “And it can’t happen. You cannot kill Jordan. I mean, it’s nuts.” 

Mickey remained expressionless. “It’s too late for that now.”

A wave of panic crossed Brett’s face. “What does that mean?”

“It means the situation is already moving.” Mickey loosened the cuffs of his jacket slightly, disturbingly calm for the conversation they were having. “You can either help or get in the way.”

“Help how?”

“You know Jordan’s schedule,” Mickey replied evenly. “When he’s home. When he’s golfing. When he’s alone.”

“I’m not doing this.”

“You already are!” Mickey yelled in a rage. 

Brett turned away, dragging a hand across his mouth as he tried unsuccessfully to steady himself. “This has gone way too far.”

Mickey’s expression hardened. “It went too far the second Jordan started interfering in my business. I’ve got money I need to get clean. Now talk.” 

The room fell silent. Brett knew exactly what Mickey was waiting for, and he also knew refusing outright might only make things worse. 

Finally, reluctantly, he gave in. “He’s going to be at stage 18 tonight,” he muttered. “He’s trying to get more involved in day-to-day production again. He’s supposed to walk the soundstage this evening.”

Mickey gave a slow nod. “What time?”

Brett swallowed hard. “He has an seven o’clock dinner reservation at CUT. I’m guessing nine.”  He stepped toward him again. “Mickey, listen to me. Don’t do this.”

But Mickey was already heading for the door.

“You still have a chance to stop this,” Brett warned desperately.

Mickey paused only briefly with one hand on the door before answering without looking back. “No,” he said coldly. “You did.”

* * *

Betsy remained planted outside the conservatory, whining softly as she continued scratching furiously at the wall. The dog had worn herself into near obsession at this point, claws repeatedly tearing at the baseboard and drywall as though instinct alone told her Blake was somewhere beyond it. Bits of paint and plaster littered the hardwood floor beneath her paws.

Then the back door opened.

“Betsy?” Sadie’s voice called from the kitchen. “Where did you disappear to?”

The dog immediately stopped scratching and turned toward the sound.

A moment later, Sadie appeared in the hallway carrying folded linens against her chest. The second she spotted Betsy near the wall, she frowned lightly.

“There you are, you bad girl,” she scolded gently. “How did you get in here?”

Betsy immediately bounded toward her, tail wagging now, and slipped past Sadie toward the open back door.

Still distracted by the linens and eager to get the dog back outside before Iris noticed she’d wandered off, Sadie followed after her without ever really looking at the wall or the deep gouges carved through the drywall near the baseboard.

* * *

James was alone in his study at the Blackthorne mansion when his cell phone suddenly lit up across the desk.

Suzanne.

The moment he saw the name, his expression shifted. He answered immediately. “Hi, I was just thinking about you.”

Her voice came through shaky and uneven. “Hi.”

James sat forward at once. “Are you okay?”

Outside the partially closed study doors, Lara had just started down the hallway when she heard his tone change. Something about the concern in his voice made her slow instinctively, then stop.

“I saw Mickey today. Outside The Ivy,” Suzanne admitted quietly on the other end of the line. “It was awful.”

James rose from behind the desk immediately and crossed toward the windows overlooking the dark grounds. “What happened?”

Out in the hallway, Lara moved silently closer to the study doors without realizing she was doing it.

“He grabbed my arm,” Suzanne continued. “Not hard, but…” Her voice trembled slightly. “He was like a man possessed.”

James’s face darkened instantly. “Did he hurt you?”

“No.” A pause followed. “But I’m afraid of what he might do next, James.”

James lowered his voice instinctively now. “Where are you?”

“At my condo.”

“Lock your doors and don’t let anyone in.”

“I already did. I just…” Suzanne hesitated. “I really don’t want to be alone right now.”

James closed his eyes briefly, conflicted. “I have an appointment tonight I can’t get out of,” he told her.. “And I honestly don’t know how long it’ll take.”

Suzanne fell quiet.

“Can you call Heather?” he suggested gently. “Or Renee? Just until I’m done?”

There was another pause before she replied softly, “okay.”

“I’ll come by afterward if you still want me to.”

“Okay,” Suzanne repeated, though disappointment lingered beneath it now.

James softened his voice further. “You did the right thing calling me.”

“I’m glad you answered.”

After the call ended, James remained standing there for a moment staring out into the darkness, still unsettled by the fear in Suzanne’s voice. Then the study doors quietly opened behind him. James turned sharply as Lara stood there.

“Who was on the phone?” she asked casually.

James answered too quickly. “Miranda.”

Lara held his gaze steadily, and James immediately realized she knew he was lying.

“Oh,” she said softly.

But the look in her eyes said something entirely different.

* * *

The Killers’ Cody drifted from the jukebox at the Rack & Tap. Kelly sat in a booth with a beer in front of her while Heather slowly sipped a glass of wine across from her. Beside them, Jane leaned carefully against the booth cushions with a club soda and lime resting near her hands.

For once, none of them seemed particularly interested in pretending things were fine.

“I still can’t believe how bad this has gotten,” Kelly muttered, staring down into her beer. “The agency can’t close. It just can’t.”

Heather exhaled quietly. “Twelve clients in what? A couple weeks?”

Jane shook her head slowly. “People are scared to be associated with controversy. Especially in this town.”

Kelly looked miserable. “Miranda’s trying so hard to hold it together.”

“She will,” Heather said, though even she didn’t sound fully convinced.

Jane reached across the table and touched Kelly’s hand lightly. “And if the worst happens, you’ll survive it.”

Kelly frowned faintly. “How?”

Jane gave her a look. “Kelly, your father left you a literal fortune in oceanfront land.”

“That’s not the point.”

“I know it’s not,” Jane admitted gently. “I’m just saying you’re not going to end up homeless on Sunset Boulevard.”

After a moment, Heather narrowed her eyes slightly. “Okay, enough depressing topics. You clearly have something else on your mind.”

Kelly immediately looked guilty.

Jane noticed too. “What?”

Kelly took another sip of beer before lowering her voice slightly. “I found an engagement ring in Keaton’s nightstand.”

Heather nearly choked on her wine. “Excuse me?”

Jane grinned instantly. “Oh my god.”

Kelly laughed nervously. “I don’t think I was supposed to find it.”

Heather leaned forward. “Was it definitely a ring ring?”

“Yes,” Kelly said. “Velvet box. Diamond. Very much not subtle.”

Jane looked delighted. “So how do you feel?”

Kelly hesitated.  “I mean, I love him. And I think it’s time.”

Heather smiled warmly. “Wow.”

“I know,” Kelly admitted, laughing softly to herself. “That realization kind of terrified me too.”

Before either woman could respond, Jane suddenly winced slightly. Both Kelly and Heather immediately looked at her.

“What’s wrong?” Kelly asked quickly.

Jane pressed a hand lightly against her stomach. “Nothing. Just another cramp.”

Heather frowned. “Jane—”

“It’s fine,” Jane insisted. “It’s been happening off and on.”

Kelly still looked worried. “Did you call your doctor?”

Jane nodded. “Dr. Mitchell says there’s nothing to worry about unless they become consistent.”

Even so, she looked slightly uncomfortable as she shifted in the booth.

* * *

Night settled heavily over CUT by Wolfgang Puck as Jordan emerged through the restaurant’s front doors beside Elliot Dorn, an up-and-coming Hollywood producer already spoken of in near-mythic terms.  Dressed in a midnight blue pinstriped Armani suit, Jordan exchanged a final handshake with Elliot near the curb before offering a polite smile and heading toward his car parked along the street.

Across the street, headlights sat motionless in the darkness.

Jordan climbed behind the wheel of his black Mercedes and pulled smoothly away from the curb. A moment later, the headlights across the street flickered to life and the vehicle eased into traffic behind him.

Los Angeles drifted by in long stretches of neon and shadow as Jordan drove west through the city. Traffic lights reflected across the windshield while the car following him remained several lengths back the entire time.

Inside the trailing SUV, Bruno sat behind the wheel while Dennis checked the magazine in his handgun beneath the dashboard lights with calm familiarity. In the backseat, Mickey remained silent.

Jordan’s Mercedes eventually turned through the gates of Rydell Productions and disappeared deeper into the sleeping backlot. He parked outside stage 18 and stepped from the car, the massive soundstage looming against the night sky ahead of him. He crossed toward the side entrance carrying a leather portfolio beneath one arm and disappeared inside.

Only after the soundstage doors closed behind him did the SUV finally pull into the empty lot nearby. Bruno killed the engine while Dennis reached beneath his jacket and cocked his handgun with a metallic snap that echoed softly through the vehicle.

In the backseat, Mickey stared silently toward the darkened soundstage. “Go,” he said quietly.

Bruno and Dennis stepped out into the night and headed toward the soundstage.

* * *

Several minutes later, Bruno eased open one of the side doors to stage 18 while Dennis slipped in behind him with his gun already drawn.

The cavernous soundstage was nearly silent except for the faint electrical buzz of overhead rigging somewhere high above them. Dust drifted through the darkness while abandoned city-street facades and half-finished set walls disappeared into shadow on either side of the stage.

Near the center of the room, a single hanging work light cast a harsh glow over a folding production table cluttered with blueprints, coffee cups, and scattered paperwork. Coiled cable and stacks of lumber surrounded the area.

A man sat alone at the table with his back to them. Jordan’s silver-speckled blond hair and pinstriped Armani suit were unmistakable beneath the light. He appeared to be reviewing something on the table, shoulders slightly hunched forward, one arm resting near a production binder. 

Dennis tightened his grip on the gun, and then Bruno fired.

The gunshot exploded through the soundstage with deafening force. The figure convulsed violently in the chair from the impact just as Dennis opened fire too, multiple flashes tearing through the darkness in rapid succession.

The body twisted sideways, crashed out of the chair, and hit the concrete floor hard beside the production table. Papers scattered and coffee spilled.

Smoke drifted slowly through the beam of the hanging work light while the echo of gunfire faded into the enormous emptiness of the stage. Then footsteps echoed somewhere deeper in the darkness.

Mickey emerged slowly through the side doors and walked toward the body lying motionless beside the table.

For the first time in days, something resembling relief flickered across Mickey’s face as he approached the corpse. He crouched down—and froze.

Beneath the torn shoulder of the pinstriped Armani suit, synthetic flesh had peeled back to reveal exposed latex stretched over gleaming metal framework and bundled wiring. And not a drop of blood.

Dennis stared. “What the hell—”

Realization overtook Mickey’s face.

He’d been played.