Last time on L.A. Connections:

Kelly discovered an engagement ring in Keaton’s bedroom and privately confessed to the ladies that she was ready for marriage, while Keaton continued to support Phoebe through her panic attacks over Matthew’s death. At MBA, Miranda worried the women by admitting the agency was in serious financial trouble. A terrified Brett learned that Mickey planned to have Jordan killed to restore Brett’s invoice approval authority, and after Brett revealed Jordan would be at the studio that night for a walkthrough, Mickey arrived with Bruno and Dennis to carry out the hit. Meanwhile, Renee tried to convince an increasingly paranoid Lara that James was not sleeping with Suzanne, but James only made matters worse when Suzanne called him after a tense run-in with Mickey outside the Ivy, and he lied to Lara by claiming it was Miranda on the phone. Jane began suffering cramps. Mickey’s assassination plot reached its shocking climax when he and his men shot Jordan inside a Rydell Productions soundstage, only for Mickey to approach the body and realize they had been fooled by a prop dummy.

* * *

A slow clap echoed somewhere deep in the darkness of stage 18 on the studio lot of Rydell Productions. Dennis whipped around instinctively, gun raised toward the shadows while Bruno took a startled step backward. Mickey remained crouched beside the ruined figure on the floor, staring at the torn synthetic flesh and exposed metal beneath the shredded Armani suit as realization slowly overtook his face.

He’d been played.

The applause continued, reverberating through the cavernous soundstage as footsteps approached from somewhere beyond the unfinished set walls. Then a figure finally emerged into the spill of the hanging work light.

Jordan, his hands loosely clasped as he stepped calmly out from backstage like a man arriving for a meeting rather than walking into the aftermath of his own attempted murder. And beside him—James Blackthorne. 

Genuine uncertainty flashed across Mickey’s face.

Jordan glanced down at the bullet-riddled figure sprawled across the concrete floor before giving a faint smile. “Incredible what we can do these days, isn’t it?” he said calmly. 

“That was a stunt dummy from a war picture we just wrapped,” James announced. “One of our makeup effects people retrofitted it this afternoon. New hairline. Silicone overlay. Custom suit. Pretty convincing, huh?”

Jordan casually motioned upward toward the rafters where tiny red recording lights blinked alive overhead one by one. “You’re looking at attempted murder,” he said evenly. “On camera.”

Mickey barely looked at the cameras. His attention remained fixed entirely on Jordan now, rage radiating off him almost violently.

“You think this is funny?” he snarled. He ripped the handgun from beneath his jacket and aimed it directly at Jordan’s head. “I could put both of you in the ground right now and nobody would ever find enough left of your bodies to bury.”

Bruno and Dennis instinctively followed suit, raising their weapons again as the tension inside the soundstage immediately reignited.

But Jordan didn’t even flinch.

“You think this changes anything?” Mickey raged.

“I think it changes everything,” Jordan replied calmly. 

James stepped forward then, drawing Mickey’s attention away from Jordan. Unlike Jordan’s icy composure, James looked genuinely disappointed. “How do you think Suzanne’s going to feel when she finds out what went on here tonight?”

Mickey’s jaw clenched.

James held his gaze steadily beneath the hanging work light. “Think she’ll ever forgive you now? I mean, you may have had a chance before, but now—”

For the first time, uncertainty broke cleanly through Mickey’s anger.

Jordan adjusted the cuffs of his suit with cold precision. “Brett confessed everything to me today after you unveiled your plans to him,” he said. “I fired him immediately, but at least he came clean. The invoices stop. The shell productions stop. Your access to Rydell stops.”

Every word tightened the vise further.

“You built this entire operation around my studio,” Jordan continued. “And now it’s over.”

The massive soundstage fell silent except for the faint electrical buzz of the work light overhead while Bruno and Dennis exchanged increasingly nervous looks beside Mickey.

Then Jordan delivered the final blow. “So now,” he said calmly, “you have a choice. Continue using my studio to launder drug money… or Suzanne.”

The rage in Mickey’s face faltered because suddenly the real threat wasn’t prison or exposure. It was losing her.

James stepped closer. “You still have a chance to walk away before there’s nothing left of you she can love.”

Nobody moved. For one long moment, it genuinely seemed possible Mickey might pull the trigger anyway. Then slowly, reluctantly, he lowered the gun.

Humiliation burned visibly across his face as he looked between Jordan and James, realizing they had stripped everything from him in a single night: his leverage, his operation, his control, and maybe Suzanne too.

Without another word, Mickey turned and disappeared back into the darkness of the soundstage while Bruno and Dennis hurried after him.

Moments later, the massive stage doors slammed shut behind them with a deafening metallic boom that echoed through the empty studio.

* * *

The hallway outside Suzanne’s condominium was quiet when James stepped off the elevator and made his way to her door.

A moment later, he was inside. Suzanne sat curled into one end of the sofa with a mug of tea clasped between both hands.

“Are you okay?” James asked gently.

She looked down into the cup. “After that run-in with Mickey today, I’m scared of what he’s capable of.”

James studied her for a moment. “Mickey won’t bother you tonight.”

“You don’t know that.”

After a brief silence, James reached inside his jacket and withdrew a small handgun.

Suzanne immediately stared at it. “James.”

“It’s registered,” he said calmly, placing it on the coffee table between them. “And it’s loaded.”

She looked at the weapon as though it were something foreign. “I can’t have that.”

“Yes, you can.”

“I’ve never even touched a gun. Prop guns during my career maybe, but—”

“Then hopefully you never have to use one.”

For a long moment, Suzanne simply stared at it. Finally, reluctantly, she picked it up.

James spent the next few minutes showing her the safety and basic operation before she carefully set it back down again.

“I hate this.”

“So do I.”

Outside, across the street from the condominium building, Lara sat alone in her car with the engine off. From her vantage point, she could see into Suzanne’s illuminated living room high above through the wall of glass facing the city.

After waiting outside the building all night, she finally saw James’s car pull up. It was then that she knew her marriage was in fact over.  

When the tears came, Lara quickly brushed them away, started the engine, and pulled away from the curb, disappearing into the stream of headlights below.

* * *

The Blackthorne mansion was quiet when James finally walked through the front doors well after midnight. He loosened his tie as he crossed into the foyer and stopped when he saw Lara standing near the staircase waiting for him.

“You were with her,” she said, her arms folded across her chest.

James closed his eyes briefly, already exhausted. “Lara—”

“You lied to me.” Her voice remained calm, which somehow made it worse. “You said Miranda called. Then you disappear for hours after Suzanne calls you hysterical.”

James’s jaw tightened instantly. “I told you I had business tonight.”

“With Suzanne?”

“No.”

“But you ran right to her when she called. I saw you at her apartment tonight, James. This isn’t something I made up in my head.” 

“That is not what happened. And you’re following me now? Staking out her apartment?”

Lara gave a sharp laugh under her breath. “Do I have a choice? Because from where I’m standing, it certainly looks like you’re emotionally involved with another woman.”

“That’s enough.” His tone cracked through the foyer hard enough to silence her for a moment. He turned toward her fully now, frustration boiling over after weeks of tension and suspicion and constant interrogation. “You have become obsessed with this.”

“Because I’m not stupid.”

“No,” he snapped. “But ever since you came back from rehab, something has been off between us.” He ran a hand across his face, trying unsuccessfully to contain his anger. “Every conversation turns into an accusation. Every phone call becomes a conspiracy. I walk into a room and you look at me like you’re waiting to catch me in something.”

“Maybe because you’re lying to me.”

“Yes, I lied about Suzanne calling and going there tonight,” he admitted sharply. “Because I knew this would happen. But I was only there as a friend.”

Lara stared at him, wounded now beneath the anger.

“I don’t know what happened to us,” James continued. Then after a pause: “I don’t even know if I want to continue this marriage.”

Lara’s face completely fell. The words hit her like a physical blow.

Immediately some small part of James regretted saying it, but he was too angry and exhausted to take it back now. After a long silence, he looked away from her and spoke more coldly. “I’ll have Ruthie fix up one of the guest rooms.”

Then he walked past her toward the staircase, leaving Lara standing alone in the foyer trying not to completely unravel.

* * *

Morning sunlight spilled into the open-air courtyard of the aging apartment complex as Riley stepped out of his unit carrying a messenger bag and thermos of coffee.

At the exact same moment, Steve emerged from the neighboring apartment tugging a T-shirt over his head, looking entirely too pleased with himself.

“Well,” Steve announced immediately, spotting Riley, “your ex in a naughty mood today.”

Riley didn’t even look at him. “Congratulations.”

Steve grinned smugly and dipped a toe in the pool. “Natalie and I barely slept.”

Riley kept walking toward the gate.

“Seriously,” Steve continued shamelessly, “I think we may have broken something in there.”

“That’s great, Steve.”

“No, like… seriously. The bed is a goner.”

Riley sighed heavily now. “Do you ever hear yourself?”

“All the time. It’s part of my charm.”

Riley finally glanced at him with complete disinterest. “You seem to confuse charm with a diagnosable personality disorder.”

Steve laughed loudly, completely unoffended. “You’re just bitter because I’m thriving.”

“You’re an over-confident thirty-year-old maître d’.” 

“And yet somehow,” Steve replied proudly, “still having more sex than you.”

Riley rolled his eyes and headed for the gate again.

Behind him, Steve smirked. “For the record, she screamed my name like three times.”

Without even turning around, Riley deadpanned: “Probably so you’d remember it.”

* * *

Brett stood in his office at Rydell Productions, slowly placing framed photos and scattered personal belongings into a cardboard box. The office already looked less like his.

In the doorway, Sam watched sorrowfully before finally speaking. “I still can’t believe this is happening.”

Brett forced a tired smile without looking up. “I’ll be okay. Don’t worry about me.”

She hesitated. “For what it’s worth… I’m really sorry.”

Before Brett could answer, Jordan stepped into the office. The atmosphere shifted instantly.

Sam adjusted her posture before quietly backing toward the door. “I should…” She glanced awkwardly between them. “I’ll give you two a minute.”

After she’d gone, Jordan entered the office slowly, taking in the half-empty shelves and open boxes before resting his gaze on Brett.

“If you’re here to give me a lecture,” Brett muttered, continuing to pack, “save it.”

Jordan closed the office doors behind himself. “I’m not here to lecture you.”

Brett said nothing.

Jordan’s expression hardened slightly. “I’m here because frankly, I’m hurt…”

Brett slowly stopped packing.

“I gave you an opportunity most people in this town would’ve killed for,” Jordan continued. “I trusted you with this studio. I picked you to carry on what I started.”

Brett stared down into the box in silence.

“You were like a son to me. Always have been.” 

That one hurt worst of all.

Jordan lowered his voice as he looked at Brett.  “How could you let a man like Mickey Donovan into this company? How could you not come to me and tell me you were in trouble?”

Brett swallowed hard but never looked up. “I don’t have a good excuse,” he said. “I guess I didn’t want to disappoint you.”

Jordan grew quiet for a few moments. “How’d that work out?” 

Brett didn’t answer. The silence between them stretched painfully.

Finally, Jordan straightened his jacket. He studied him for another moment before he turned toward the door and left.

A few minutes later, Brett stepped into the hallway carrying the box of belongings in his arms while employees quietly avoided eye contact around him. He reached the elevator and pressed the button. As he waited, he pulled out his phone and typed a message to Sharon.

I need to see you.

The elevator doors slid open a moment later, and Brett stepped inside carrying what remained of his career. 

Downstairs on the lobby television, a news anchor stood in front of a red-orange map of Los Angeles County reporting brush fires in Topanga and evacuations possible near Malibu Canyon. Brett barely heard it. His whole world was already burning. 

* * *

The atmosphere inside the Bravetti estate in the hills was ice cold despite the soft jazz drifting through the massive living room.

Carlo stood near the fireplace with a drink in one hand while Mickey remained several feet away, visibly tense as the older man unloaded on him. Sharon stood across the room watching the uncomfortable scene unfold.

“You had Rydell Productions in your pocket,” Carlo snapped. “A major studio. Real money. Real influence. And you lost it because you let yourself get distracted by some stupid woman.”

“We’re already inside Double Strike Studios,” Mickey shot back. “So what’s the big deal?”

Carlo turned toward him sharply. “Double Strike is small potatoes. Streaming garbage and tax shelter pictures.” He jabbed a finger toward him. “We need something bigger.”

Mickey shifted uncomfortably before him.

Carlo’s voice lowered now, which somehow made it worse. “I’ve spent decades building relationships in this town. Politicians, unions, studio heads, judges. And you burned a major operation to the ground because you couldn’t control yourself over a woman who doesn’t even want you anymore.”

Mickey grabbed his jacket from the back of a chair. “I’m done having this conversation,” he murmured and stormed out of the room.

Silence lingered briefly afterward.

Across the living room, Sharon glanced down at her phone as a text notification lit the screen.

Brett: I need to see you.

She quickly locked the phone again just as Carlo turned toward her, his entire demeanor softening immediately.

“You look tired,” he said gently.

Sharon smiled faintly. “A little.”

Carlo crossed the room and kissed her affectionately on the cheek. “Will you be home for dinner?”

“Actually,” she replied smoothly, reaching for her purse, “I have to meet a client and I’m not sure how late it will go.”

Carlo nodded. “Don’t work too hard, my bella.”

Sharon smiled again before heading for the door, Brett’s message still lingering heavily in her mind.

* * *

The afternoon crowds along Rodeo Drive drifted lazily between boutiques and cafés beneath the warm Beverly Hills sun as Suzanne and Heather stepped out of a jewelry store carrying shopping bags and bubble teas. Heather was midway through a story about the latest disaster at the agency when Suzanne suddenly slowed.

Across the sidewalk, Lara had just emerged from a boutique and stood staring at them. The tension hit immediately.

Heather saw it too and muttered under her breath, “Oh boy.”

Suzanne quietly exhaled. “Just keep walking.”

But Lara was already moving toward them, her expression cold and drawn with restrained emotion. “Well,” she said as she approached, “I hope you’re happy.”

Suzanne immediately looked uneasy. “Lara—”

“You got exactly what you wanted,” Lara continued, her voice trembling. “James doesn’t want to be with me anymore.”

Heather stepped forward slightly, trying to defuse things before they escalated. “Okay, maybe this isn’t the place for—”

“No,” Lara snapped sharply without taking her eyes off Suzanne. “I think this is exactly the place.”

A few nearby shoppers had already slowed to watch.

Suzanne shook her head sympathetically. “I’m sorry you’re hurting,” she said and tried to move around her.

Lara suddenly grabbed her arm hard enough to stop her in place.

Heather’s expression changed instantly. “Hey.”

“You are a homewrecker!” Lara screamed.

Now people openly stopped to stare.

Suzanne immediately pulled against Lara’s grip. “Lara, stop.”

But weeks of suspicion, humiliation, and emotional instability had finally erupted to the surface. “And it wouldn’t be the first time. I heard all about the affair you had with your brother-in-law,” Lara said. “The man you killed.”

Suzanne looked horrified. “Don’t do this.”

“And let’s not forget the affair with your daughter’s husband that you wrote so poetically about in that trashy novel,” Lara continued, glancing between her and Heather. 

“Stop it,” Suzanne said more firmly now, shame and anger flashing across her face.

But Lara had gone too far to stop herself. “It’s not surprising, though, is it?” she spat viciously. “Look what your behavior did to your son.”

Suzanne recoiled visibly while Heather stepped fully between them now. “Enough.”

But Lara leaned around her. “And what kind of mother isn’t there for her son when he wraps his car around a freeway column?”

For one terrible second, the entire world seemed to stop around Suzanne. Then suddenly—

Suzanne slapped her.

The crack echoed loudly across the sidewalk. Lara staggered backward in shock, one hand flying to her cheek as nearby pedestrians gasped openly and phones immediately began appearing in people’s hands.

Heather grabbed her mother at once and pulled her away.

A uniformed Beverly Hills police officer who had been directing traffic near the corner immediately started toward them.

“Ladies,” he called firmly, “is there a problem here?”

Lara slowly turned back toward Suzanne, fury burning in her eyes now alongside something almost triumphant.

“Yes,” she shouted. “There is.” She pointed directly at Suzanne. “I want this woman arrested for assault.”

* * *

James was making his way down the upstairs hallway at the Blackthorne mansion alongside Stormy when the doorbell chimed through the house.

Stormy carried an old leather garment bag over one shoulder while James held a small wooden presentation box in his hands.

“If you need any other artifacts of Nathan’s, talk to Victor Distefano,” James said as they headed toward the staircase. “He still has half my uncle’s life boxed up in some climate-controlled vault somewhere in his house.” 

“Good, because we want everything authentic.” Stormy glanced toward the box. “That watch alone is getting scanned and 3D printed for close-ups.”

As they started downstairs, Ruthie crossed the foyer and opened the front door.

“Mr. Ethan,” she said warmly.

James stopped halfway down the staircase, surprised.

Standing in the doorway with an overnight bag slung over one shoulder was Ethan Blackthorne.

“Ethan?”

Ethan looked up and smiled faintly. “Hey, Uncle James.”

Stormy’s face lit up immediately. “Look who finally remembered he has family on this side of the country.”

Ethan laughed as the other men descended the rest of the stairs and each pulled him into a brief embrace.

“What are you doing here?” James asked.

Ethan stepped inside while Ruthie closed the door behind him. “Miranda called me.”

James immediately sighed. “The agency.”

“Sounds bad.”

“It is bad,” James admitted. “She’s having a rough time of it.”

Ethan loosened his jacket slightly. “She thought maybe I could help take a look at their finances.”

James gave a small laugh and patted him on the back as they started toward the study. “Well, you are the best.”

They entered the study together, James gesturing Ethan toward the sitting area while he moved toward the bar cart.

“How are Brooke and Michael?”

Ethan’s expression softened immediately. “Good. Really good, actually.” He accepted the drink James handed him. “Brooke sends her love.”

James smiled knowingly as he passed another glass to Stormy. “But she wasn’t exactly eager to come back to Los Angeles.”

Ethan laughed quietly into his drink. “Let’s just say I don’t think she was emotionally prepared for a Blackthorne family reunion.”

Stormy leaned lightly against the desk. “I’d like to think we’re more welcoming than that.”

James shot him a look before turning back toward Ethan. “And Michael?”

Ethan’s face brightened. “Twenty years old somehow.”

James shook his head in disbelief. “Impossible.”

“He’s starting his junior year at NYU in the fall,” Ethan said proudly. “Film program.”

“That’s fantastic,” Stormy said. “Send him my way when he graduates.” 

Before Ethan could respond, James’s phone suddenly rang. He glanced at the screen and immediately answered. “Yes?”

After a pause, he nodded several times. “I’ll be right there.” He slipped the phone back into his pocket with a faint apology. “Something’s come up.”

Ethan nodded easily. “Go.”

“Make yourself comfortable,” James said, heading back toward the door. “I’ll be back as soon as I can.”

After he’d gone, Ethan watched the doorway close behind him, then he looked back toward Stormy and smiled faintly. “So,” he said, stepping forward to clap his cousin warmly on the back, “I hear you’re about to become a father again.”

Stormy laughed softly. “Yeah”

“Congratulations.”

“Thanks.” Stormy took another sip of his drink, the smile lingering briefly before softening into something more thoughtful. “It still doesn’t totally feel real yet.”

A moment of quiet settled between them then before Ethan’s expression shifted slightly. “I also heard about the trial.”

The warmth faded from Stormy’s face almost immediately. “Yeah, it’s next week.”

Ethan studied him carefully now. “You okay?”

“Not even close,” Stormy said with a somber shake of his head.

* * *

The wardrobe department at Sunset Studios stirred with moderate chaos as racks of costumes rolled across the floor and assistants hurried between fitting rooms carrying garment bags, shoes, and armfuls of fabric swatches.

Riley stood in front of a three-panel mirror near one of the fitting platforms while a wardrobe assistant adjusted the waistline of a pair of dark trousers. His shirt was off, revealing toned shoulders and lean muscle beneath the harsh dressing lights while another assistant flipped through continuity photos nearby.

That was when Phoebe wandered into the department.

Riley glanced over and immediately looked surprised. “Hey there. What are you doing here?”

Phoebe smiled sheepishly. “Keaton let me come to the set today.”

“Really?”

She nodded. “He’s being a good egg and looking out for me.”

Riley’s expression softened slightly. “That’s nice of him.”

The wardrobe assistant stepped back to inspect the fit while Riley glanced toward Phoebe again. “What about your job at MBA?”

Phoebe shrugged lightly. “I got laid off.”

Riley frowned. “Sorry.”

“It’s honestly not a big deal,” she said quickly. “I mostly took the job so Kelly and I could spend more time together anyway.”

Riley nodded, though his attention drifted toward the mirror as another assistant handed him a jacket to try on.

Phoebe watched him pull it on, and for a brief second her eyes lingered a little too long on his bare chest before he disappeared beneath the fabric. Riley didn’t notice. Or if he did, he didn’t react to it.

“You okay?” he asked casually while adjusting the sleeves.

Phoebe blinked slightly, pulled back from her thoughts. “Yeah.” A flirtatious smile crossed her face. “Actually… everything’s really okay.”

Riley smiled faintly. Then, unexpectedly, Steve’s voice drifted back into his head from earlier that morning, smugly bragging about Natalie and their apparently nonstop sex life. He immediately regretted even thinking about it. Still, something about Phoebe standing there smiling at him suddenly felt easy. Simple in a way very little in his life usually did.

He glanced back toward her. “Do you maybe want to go out sometime?”

Phoebe’s expression lit up instantly. “Definitely.”

* * *

Back on Rodeo Drive, Suzanne sat on a low stone bench near the curb, one hand pressed to her mouth, her eyes bright with tears she was trying very hard not to let fall. Heather stood beside her like a shield, while a uniformed police officer questioned Suzanne.

A few feet away, Lara stood with another officer, arms folded tightly across her chest, her face flushed.  She looked furious, hurt, and strangely triumphant all at once.

Then James arrived. He stepped out of his car and crossed toward them quickly, his expression darkening as he took in the officers, Heather, Suzanne sitting there shaken, and Lara standing apart from them.

“What happened?” James demanded.

Lara’s eyes snapped to Suzanne. “You called him?” she said, her voice sharp enough to cut through the street noise. “Of course you did. You’re not even trying to hide it anymore.”

The officer beside Lara lifted a hand. “Mr. Blackthorne, I called you.”

James looked at him.

The officer continued, carefully neutral. “Ms. Rogers and Mrs. Blackthorne got into a heated argument. Ms. Rogers struck Mrs. Blackthorne across the face.” He glanced toward Lara. “Mrs. Blackthorne has indicated she’d like to press charges.”

Suzanne lowered her head, shame moving across her face. “I shouldn’t have slapped her,” she said quietly. “I know that. I’m sorry.” Her voice trembled. “But she was saying horrible things about Benji.”

James clenched his jaw.  “No,” he said.

The officer blinked. “Sir?”

“She’s not pressing charges.”

Lara turned on him. “James—”

He looked at her with a cold, stunned disappointment that seemed to stop the words in her throat. Lara’s mouth remained open for another second before she closed it and nodded.

The officers exchanged a glance. One of them tucked his notebook away. “All right. If everyone is willing to separate and let this go, we don’t need to take it any further today.”

James turned briefly to Heather. “Call me if either of you needs anything.”

Heather nodded. “I will.”

Then James took Lara lightly but firmly by the arm and led her a few steps away, out of earshot of Suzanne and Heather, though not far enough to save Lara from the humiliation of knowing everyone could still see.

“What is wrong with you?” he shouted louder than he’d intended.

Lara pulled herself upright. “What’s wrong with me?”

“Yes, Lara. You.” His voice rose even further. “You are standing on Rodeo Drive trying to have Suzanne arrested because you picked a fight and didn’t like where it ended.”

“She hit me.”

“And what did you say to make her do that?”

Lara’s eyes flashed. “So now you’re taking her side?”

“Listen to me. This obsession, this public scene, this need to punish her—it has to stop.”

Her face reddened, emotion gathering behind her eyes. “You don’t know what it feels like to be made a fool of.”

James exhaled deeply. “You are not acting like the woman I married.”

For a moment, all the fight seemed to drain out of her. “Then maybe you should ask yourself why,” she said, her voice breaking.

She turned and walked away fast, heels striking the pavement with brittle precision. James called after, but she didn’t stop. She reached her car, yanked open the door, and disappeared inside.

* * *

Mickey entered Corso like a man entering a fight. The front door swung open hard enough to rattle the glass, and he crossed the empty restaurant without looking at anyone, his hair slightly disheveled, his face pale beneath the remains of a long night. He went behind the bar, grabbed a bottle from the shelf, and poured two shots in quick succession. He drank the first one without breathing, then the second.

Nearby, Nico stood with a beautiful red-haired woman in a black dress pressed close to him, one hand resting possessively against his chest. She laughed softly at something he murmured, then he kissed her deeply before glancing toward Mickey with amused curiosity. 

Nico watched his brother a moment longer, then gave the woman’s hip a light pat and stepped away. “You look like hell,” he said to him.

Mickey set the empty glass down a little too hard. “I feel like it.”

“Yeah,” Nico said, coming closer. “I heard you tied one on last night.”

Mickey reached for the bottle again.

Nico’s eyes narrowed with a dark little smile. “So what is this? Still about your lady friend dumping you? Or is it because you’re not inside Rydell Productions anymore?”

Mickey’s hand paused on the bottle. “Back off,” he said.

Nico held his gaze, the smile fading but not quite disappearing. “Hit a nerve?”

“I said back off. Jesus, you don’t know when to give something a rest, Nico. That’s one thing I hate about you. You’re just like your mother. Destiny never knew when to shut up.” 

Nico glowered angrily at him.  “Leave my mother out of this.” 

Across the room, Steve stood near a stack of folded linens, pretending to busy himself with nothing in particular. But his attention was fixed on the brothers.

The redhead noticed. She drifted away from the bar and came up beside Steve, her perfume arriving before she did.

“What do you find so interesting?” she asked playfully. “Hoping for tips on how to make it in business?” 

Steve glanced at her, caught off guard, then let a grin spread across his face. “Something like that.”

Her eyes moved over him with frank appreciation. “You’re cute.”

Steve’s grin deepened. “That so?”

“I think I’ll be hanging around here more often.” She looked back toward Nico and Mickey, then returned her gaze to Steve. “Lot of attractive men in this place.”

Behind them, Mickey poured himself another drink. Nico said something too low for Steve to hear. But whatever it was, Mickey didn’t laugh.

* * *

Miranda rose quickly from behind her desk the moment Ethan stepped into her office at the Miranda Blackthorne Agency.

“Ethan!”

They embraced warmly, Miranda holding onto him for an extra second.

“You look exhausted,” Ethan said as they pulled apart.

“I am exhausted.”

He loosened his jacket and glanced around the office, taking in the increasingly obvious signs of financial distress despite Miranda’s efforts to maintain appearances. Stacks of unopened invoices sat near the edge of her desk, and several framed agency photos had quietly disappeared from the shelves, likely sold or moved already.

Miranda sank back into her chair while Ethan remained standing near the desk. “How’s New York?” she asked.

“Busy.” A faint smile crossed his face. “Everybody’s buying everybody else right now.”

Miranda smirked tiredly. “What are you working on?”

“Mostly media acquisitions now,” he replied. “Streaming infrastructure, distressed entertainment assets… all the glamorous stuff.”

“Sounds interesting.”

“I like it. Just made managing partner.”

That brought the first genuine smile she’d managed all morning. “I’m so happy for you and Brooke.” 

“Thanks.”

Miranda gestured toward the open spreadsheets on her monitor. “So, can you look at my books? See if there’s any hope?”

Ethan barely glanced toward the screen before looking back at her. “Actually,” he said carefully, “I don’t really need to.”

Miranda’s face fell slightly.

“From what you already shared in your emails…” He exhaled softly. “The writing’s kind of on the wall here. Unless you pull in some major new clients—and fast—”

Miranda closed her eyes briefly and leaned back into the chair.

Ethan shook his head slightly. “I still can’t believe all this is because of Nico Bravetti’s trial.”

Miranda sighed heavily, images from the past creeping in before she could stop them… 

October 1999

Miranda stood in the game room at the Blackthorne mansion while late afternoon sunlight poured through the tall windows. Across the room, twenty-two-year-old Nico Bravetti leaned casually against the table’s edge, dark-haired and impossibly handsome in the dangerous, magnetic way that had completely captivated her at fourteen.

Trying very hard not to stare at him, Miranda absently twirled a finger through her hair. “Are you here on another errand for the studio?” she asked, attempting to sound far older and more sophisticated than she actually was.

A faint smirk tugged at Nico’s mouth. “Something like that.”

“I know things are busy there,” Miranda continued quickly. “You must be really important.”

Nico pushed away from the pool table and crossed the room slowly, stopping just close enough to make her pulse jump while still keeping the interaction innocent enough to deny if anyone walked in.

“You know,” he said softly, amused, “every time I see you, you get this little look about you.”

Miranda tried to play innocent. “What look?”

“Like you think you’re a lot older than fourteen.”

She laughed and tossed her hair over her shoulder the way she’d seen her mother do when she talked to men.

Nico’s smirk deepened slightly as his eyes held hers. “Aren’t you a little young to be flirting with a guy my age?”

Miranda lifted her chin. “Maybe you’re just easy to flirt with.”

That caught him off guard enough to make him laugh quietly under his breath. “You’re trouble, Miranda Blackthorne.”

“Is that bad?”

For a brief second, his expression lingered on her a little too long before the smile returned.

Today

The memory dissolved as Miranda blinked back into the present, sitting across from Ethan in her collapsing agency office.

“Yes,” she said quietly. “All because of Nico.”

* * *

The terrace behind the Rydell estate overlooked a hazy sweep of Beverly Hills, though by now the haze had thickened into something amber and uneasy. Somewhere beyond the hills, smoke was rising.

 A butler quietly set down fresh iced tea beside Jordan and Alex before retreating discreetly back toward the house. Their untouched Crab Louies sat between them.

Jordan shook his head as he slammed his fist on the table. “I still can’t believe Brett got us tangled up with that family.”

Alex glanced up from her plate. “The Bravettis?”

“Yes, the Bravettis.” Irritation sharpened his voice immediately. “Heather having to testify at that trial was bad enough. That is the only connection I ever wanted this family to have with any of them.” 

Alex’s expression softened slightly as her mind slipped backward into a memory she hadn’t revisited in years…

October 1999

Crisp white sheets tangled around Alex’s naked body, sunlight pouring softly through bedroom curtains while Nico lounged beside her shirtless, one arm folded behind his head. Younger. Dangerous. Relaxed in a way she rarely saw him.

Then he laughed quietly to himself.

Alex looked over. “What?”

Nico smirked faintly toward the ceiling. “I think your daughter has a little crush on me.”

Her expression remained casual. “What are you talking about?”

His eyes slid toward hers lazily. “Miranda. Whenever I’m around she puts on this little act like she’s twenty-five instead of fourteen.”

“Well she is fourteen,” Alex said and slid a cigarette from a gold Cartier case. “She’s impressionable, so don’t lead her on.”

“I’m not,” Nico said with a smile, taking the lighter from her hand and lighting her cigarette for her.

“Good,” Alex said firmly, then softened her tone. “Besides, I want all of your attention on me.”

Grinning, Nico kissed her softly. “Oh, it is, believe me.” He dove his head beneath the sheets, his tongue finding flesh and bringing her to a fit of ecstasy.  

Today

“Alex?”

Jordan’s voice pulled her sharply back into the present. She blinked and looked across the table at him.

“Where’d you just go?” he asked.

Alex picked up her fork again with careful composure. “Nowhere.”

* * *

Afternoon sunlight spilled through the terrace doors of Brett’s bedroom, across the rumpled bed while seagulls cried just outside over the beach. 

Brett lay beside Sharon watching her quietly for a long moment before finally speaking. “I’m falling in love with you.”

The words immediately changed the atmosphere.

Sharon’s expression shifted immediately as she stared toward the ceiling. “Don’t say that.”

Brett frowned slightly. “Why?”

Without answering right away, Sharon twisted off of the bed, crossing the room naked toward the terrace doors. She folded her arms loosely across herself and looked out over the water.

“You’re saying that because you’re vulnerable,” she said quietly. “You got fired today. Your life’s collapsing and now you’re looking for something to hold onto.”

Brett sat up immediately. “That’s not what this is.”

Sharon gave a faint, sad smile that suggested she didn’t entirely believe him.

Brett got out of bed and walked toward her. “Sharon…” He stopped just behind her. “I love you. I have since the moment I saw you outside that gallery.”

Sharon closed her eyes briefly before shaking her head. “It’s just not possible, Brett.”

“Why not?”

She turned toward him then, her expression softer now but no less firm. “Because I’m married to Carlo Bravetti. You of all people should know how dangerous this is.” 

Brett’s face fell instantly.

“Nothing changes the fact that he is my husband,” she continued quietly. “Nothing.”

For a long moment, neither of them spoke. Then Sharon gently stepped around him and disappeared into the bathroom. A moment later, the shower turned on behind the frosted glass while Brett remained standing alone near the terrace doors with quiet devastation settling over him.

* * *

Miranda stood at the head of the conference room table while Kelly, Heather, and Jane watched her anxiously from their seats. Miranda folded her arms tightly across herself before finally speaking.

“As you all know, I had my cousin Ethan come in this morning to go through the books with me, and there’s just no way around this anymore.” Her eyes drifted briefly toward the windows overlooking the office outside. “Without new clients coming in—and fast—it’s not possible to keep the agency afloat.”

Nobody could speak.

“The trial fallout destroyed us,” Miranda admitted quietly. “Clients don’t want controversy attached to their names. Half of Hollywood thinks we lied under oath and the other half just doesn’t want the publicity.” A faint, humorless laugh escaped her. “Either way, they’re leaving.”

Heather looked down.

Miranda’s composure began to weaken slightly. “I fought for this place as long as I could, but unfortunately the time has come to close our doors.”  

Kelly immediately looked stricken while Jane’s face fell completely. Even Heather looked shaken despite having seen this coming for weeks.

Miranda swallowed hard. “I’m sorry. And thank you… all of you. For everything you’ve done to make this dream a reality.”

Emotion settled heavily across the room. Then Jane suddenly shifted uncomfortably in her chair and pressed a hand lightly against her stomach.

Heather noticed first. “You okay?”

Jane let out a short breath through her nose. “Yeah. I just…” She paused as another tightening crossed her face. “Ow.”

Kelly frowned. “What?”

Jane sat back carefully, looking more irritated than alarmed at first. “I’ve been having cramps off and on for a few days.”

“Still?” Heather asked.

Miranda immediately looked concerned. “Jane…”

Another contraction interrupted her sentence and Jane grabbed the edge of the conference table briefly before it passed.

Jane shook her head quickly. “No, it’s probably nothing. I mean… it can’t be time yet.”

Heather crouched beside her chair. “How far along are you now?”

“Thirty-five weeks.”

The room went quiet again.

Jane looked around at all of them, suddenly nervous now herself. “That’s too early, right?”

* * *

Miranda’s black SUV screeched up beneath the emergency entrance canopy at Cedars-Sinai Medical Center just as Jane cried out from the backseat again.

For one surreal moment, it almost felt like months ago again—the four women crowded into Miranda’s vehicle, headed for the agency together as if nothing had changed. But beneath the familiarity was a quiet, aching certainty: this was the last time it would ever happen. 

Heather jumped out first while Kelly hurried around to the opposite side of the SUV just as two nurses and an orderly rushed through the sliding emergency doors with a wheelchair.

“She’s been in labor for about thirty minutes,” Miranda explained quickly as they carefully helped Jane out of the vehicle.

Jane gripped Heather’s arm hard as another contraction rolled through her. “Oh my god…”

“You’re okay,” Heather assured her while the nurses settled her into the wheelchair.

“Who’s your doctor?” one of them asked immediately.

“Dr. Mitchell,” Jane answered through uneven breaths.

The nurse nodded. “Okay, let’s move.”

The wheelchair disappeared quickly through the sliding doors while Kelly, Heather, and Miranda rushed after them into the bright chaos of the maternity department. 

Above the intake desk, a television flashed silent footage of smoke columns rising over the hills while a ticker crawled beneath it: MULTIPLE BRUSH FIRES REPORTED ACROSS LOS ANGELES COUNTY. Nobody looked at it for more than a second. Jane cried out again, and everyone’s attention narrowed back to the wheelchair. 

As they moved down the corridor, Miranda pulled out her phone and quickly called Stormy.

* * *

Across town at Sunset Studios, Stormy stood beside Riley near one of the soundstages reviewing production sketches when his phone rang.

The moment he saw Miranda’s name, his expression changed. “Miranda?” A pause.

Then instantly: “I’m on my way.”

He hung up already moving.

Riley looked up immediately. “It’s time? Already?”

Stormy nodded, adrenaline visibly hitting him now. “Yeah.”

Then he rushed off down the studio corridor toward the parking lot while Riley watched him go.

* * *

When Stormy arrived at the maternity ward twenty minutes later, he burst through the doors in a full blown panic.  

“Where is she?”

Kelly immediately stood from one of the waiting room chairs while Miranda and Heather turned toward him from near the nurses’ station. “She’s okay,” Kelly assured him quickly.

“They said this isn’t uncommon,” Heather added. “Because the baby’s early they just want to be careful.”

Stormy ran a hand anxiously through his hair, trying to steady himself while glancing toward the closed double doors leading deeper into labor and delivery.

“She was scared,” Miranda said more gently now. “But Dr. Mitchell’s with her.”

Stormy nodded distractedly, though it barely seemed to register because suddenly all he could think about was prison. Years lost, missing first words, first steps, birthdays. The image of Jane alone raising their child while he sat in a cell somewhere hit him so hard it almost physically staggered him.

No. He couldn’t let that happen.

A nurse approached carrying a folded hospital gown and a pair of blue protective shoe covers. “Mr. Blackthorne?” she asked kindly. “Are you ready to go in?”

Stormy looked toward the labor room doors again, then back at the nurse. “Just…” He swallowed hard. “Just give me one minute.”

The nurse nodded sympathetically and stepped back.

Stormy moved farther down the hallway near a row of darkened windows overlooking the city before pulling out his phone with visibly shaking hands. He stared at the screen for a long moment.

* * *

Music thumped softly through Corso as Natalie stepped inside, still smiling faintly to herself from the last text Steve had sent her earlier that afternoon.

The club wasn’t fully open for the night yet. Staff moved between tables setting candles and polishing glassware while the bar glowed beneath the dim lights.

Natalie approached one of the bartenders. “Hey, have you seen Steve?”

The bartender looked up while drying a glass. “He may be in the back office.”

Natalie smiled. “Thanks.”

She headed down the narrow hallway behind the bar, heels clicking softly against the floor while a high pitched squeal sounded faintly from somewhere ahead. Reaching the office door, she barely knocked before pushing it open.

At first, all she saw was a blur of bare skin. But as she focused on the black leather couch across the room, a gasp tore loose from her throat. 

Steve was there alright—naked, fucking a buxom woman with red hair from behind. And Nico, naked as well, was kneeling in front of the woman with his dick in her mouth. Natalie immediately understood exactly what she’d walked into.

Steve looked up first. “Natalie—oh fuck.”

Her face completely collapsed in horror. “Oh my god,” she gasped sharply, tears instantly filling her eyes before spinning around and hurrying back out into the hallway.

Behind the counter, the bartender barely looked up as the phone suddenly rang beside him. “Corso,” he answered casually. A pause. Then: “No, he isn’t here. I can put you through to the house, though.”

* * *

The infinity pool behind the Bravetti estate shimmered beneath the fading evening light while Carlo sat alone at a wrought-iron table overlooking the city. Beyond the darkening hills, thin ribbons of smoke curled into the sky, and farther off, the glow of wildfire flickered orange against the horizon. 

His phone rang.

Carlo glanced at the screen before answering calmly. “Yes?” he answered, then paused before continuing. “Put him through.”

A moment later, Stormy’s voice came over the line. “Mr. Bravetti.”  

“Ah, yes, Mr. Blackthorne. What can I do for you?” Carlo asked.  “Reconsidered my offer for help, I hope.”

Stormy stood alone near the windows outside the maternity ward, the sounds of nurses and rolling carts echoing faintly through the corridor behind him. His grip tightened slightly around the phone. “I have,” he said. “I’ve decided that I’ll take it.”

The words tasted bitter coming out.

Beyond the darkened hospital windows, a dirty orange glow pulsed faintly against the hills. Somewhere out there, Los Angeles was starting to burn. Stormy stared at it, phone shaking in his hand, and realized he would do anything not to lose his life, his child, or his future.