9. Bailey
BAILEY
I haven’t touched them in two days. That has to be some kind of record.
It’s not because I don’t want to. I do . God, I do. I walk past them in the halls and my skin prickles with memory. Sean’s hand at my throat. Huck’s mouth on my thigh. Wesley’s voice like thunder in my ear.
They’re still watching me the way they always have—eyes heavy, full of heat and promise. But I don’t let them near me. Because now I don’t know who else is watching.
I’ve always had a healthy respect for paranoia. Comes with the job. You don’t grow up a pretty girl in LA, break into Hollywood, and stay sane without assuming someone is always watching. Someone’s always trying.
But this? This is different. Someone succeeded. The photos—God, the photos. Just thinking about them makes my stomach twist.
It wasn’t just the violation, though that’s bad enough. It was the intent. Someone got close enough to see us, to capture those exact moments. Someone wanted me to know I’d been seen at my most vulnerable. Not as an actress. Not even as a woman. But as a thing to be used and exposed.
And if there’s one thing I’ve learned, it’s that being exposed in the wrong way is a career death sentence.
So no more private sessions. No more closed doors and open mouths. No more Bailey on her knees, begging for three men she can’t afford to fuck. Not if David—or whoever—wants to play this game until something leaks.
I won’t give him the ammo. Even if it kills me.
The kids pull up ten minutes later than they were supposed to. Not unusual. Not enough to make me panic. But I still open the front door before the SUV even comes to a full stop. David’s driver, Eric, never makes eye contact anymore, so I don’t bother to acknowledge him.
Maeve hops out first. She’s always first. Eleven going on thirty. Her braid is looser than she likes, and there’s a faint smear of something red across her cheek that might be ketchup or might be blood.
“Hi, Mom,” she says, rolling her eyes at nothing.
“Hi, baby.” I kiss her forehead, glance over her shoulder. “Where’s your brother?”
“He’s being slow.”
That’s when I see Eli, still strapped into his seat, staring at nothing through the window.
The smile dies on my face. I walk to the car and open the back door. “Hey, sweet boy.”
He doesn’t look at me. Just unbuckles himself and climbs out in silence. Eli never climbs out in silence.
I crouch down. “Everything okay?”
He nods. But he’s not really nodding. He’s doing that thing kids do when they know what you want to hear and just mimic the motion.
I reach out, tucking his hair behind one ear. “Did something happen at Dad’s?”
He shrugs. Which means yes. Maeve is already inside, shouting for Jessica and asking about snacks. I pull Eli into my arms. He doesn’t fight it, but he doesn’t melt into me the way he usually does either. He’s stiff. Too quiet. I stroke his back. “You want to tell me about it?”
A pause. Then, finally, the smallest whisper. “Not now.”
That’s all he gives me. And that’s enough to set my skin on fire.
Because I know David. I know his moods. I know the way he smiles through teeth when he’s trying to make a point. I know the look in his eyes when he says something awful but frames it like discipline. I fought like hell to get primary custody. But every other weekend is still too much.
I kiss the top of Eli’s head and murmur, “Okay, baby. Not now.”
But soon. My whole body feels queasy, knowing something is wrong with my baby boy. I want to strangle David before I know anything for sure. Might not be fair to him, but the more I think about it, the more I want to.
Hours later, my phone rings just after I tuck Eli into bed.
He still hasn’t said anything about what happened.
Jessica helped coax him into a warm bath and a fresh pair of pajamas.
Maeve snuck in and gave him a Star Wars plushie without being asked.
He gave her the barest smile. It broke my heart anyway.
I sit on the edge of my bed, lights low, eyes still on his bedroom door.
Then I glance at the caller ID. Mira.
I swipe. “Hey.”
“Bailey,” she breathes. “Tell me you’re sitting down.”
“I am, actually.”
“You’re on the short list.”
My stomach flips. “For what?”
“For Friedburg.”
I bolt upright. “No.”
“Yes.”
“Shut up.”
“Never.”
“You’re serious?”
“As a heart attack.”
I swing my legs over the edge of the bed, breath catching like it forgot how to do its job. Friedburg is the guy. The director who turned three underdog actresses into Oscar winners. Who doesn’t even do auditions—he chooses.
“I haven’t even—how does he?—?”
“He’s seen your work. Said your name was floated to him by one of his casting producers. You’re up for the lead. The lead , Bailey. The role’s not locked yet, but they’re building a short list for chemistry reads. You’re on it.”
I don’t know what to say. This is the call. The one every actress dreams about but stops expecting when she hits a certain age and still has to fight for every decent part.
“Bailey?” Mira prompts.
“Yeah. Yeah, I’m here.”
“Baby, this is big. Like change your tax bracket big. Like real roles for the rest of your life big. It’s raw. It’s dark. But it’s prestigious as hell. And you? You can handle raw.”
I close my eyes. I think of Eli’s blank stare. Of the envelope. Of the photos that could end it all before I ever get to start.
“Okay,” I whisper. “What do I do?”
“Nothing yet. We’re not shouting it from the rooftops. But you’ve got maybe a week to get your head right before the first callback comes through. If he wants to see you? It’ll be fast. You need to be ready.”
I nod, even though she can’t see it. “Okay.”
“Bailey?”
“Yeah?”
“You deserve this.”
That’s when I break. Just a little. Just enough to feel the knot in my throat. “Thanks, Mira.”
“Just doing my job.” She hangs up.
I sit there in the dark, phone clutched in my hands, trying to breathe around the thrill and the fear that are suddenly sharing the same room. Because I’m finally in the running for the role of my life. And all I can think about is how fast it could disappear.
I don’t go back to bed.
Instead, I wrap myself in a robe and walk barefoot through the house, down the hall and out to the balcony off the primary suite.
The lights of Los Angeles glitter in the distance, low and golden and always watching.
Even way up here, tucked in the hills behind my security gates and manicured hedges, the city feels like it’s breathing at my back.
Below me, the pool reflects the lights from the house in broken shards. Past the wall of bamboo, a few faint traffic sounds drift up the canyon—some kid’s bass rattling the pavement, a barking dog down the ridge, the low whine of tires on Mulholland.
I fold my arms tight around my waist. The robe’s silk, but I still feel cold.
Some part of me—some cracked, naive piece—thought I could start over out here.
Build something clean. Quiet. Private. I picked this house for its views, its gates, its distance from everything I didn’t want to be anymore.
Picked out all the details myself for the renovation to make it into my own. My safe space.
Someone aimed a lens through my windows and turned something intimate into something vulnerable .
And now I’m sitting here, alone on a balcony with a shot at the role of a lifetime and three men I can’t let touch me again—not without risking everything. Because if any of this gets out? It won’t just cost me a film.
It’ll cost me credibility . Custody. Control.
I press my fingers to my lips, remembering the way Huck held me. The way Wesley made me laugh when I was unraveling. The way Sean looked at me like I was his mission.
And now I’m avoiding all three of them like their passion is a liability. Maybe it is. Maybe it always was.
The robe slips down one shoulder, but I don’t fix it. I just stare out at the city and try to imagine the version of myself who could have all of this and still feel safe.
She doesn’t exist. But God, I want her to.