Chapter 37
LEXI
They wouldn’t let me back inside the house.
Blue lights flashed against the brick, bouncing across the broken window where Hannah had fallen.
The cops had taped off half the set, and Franklin paced the gravel drive like a man about to have a heart attack.
Carrie hovered nearby, pale, clutching a bottled water she hadn’t opened.
Benji stood with his hands in his hair, arguing with a medic about whether he could drive me to the hospital himself.
But there was nothing any of us could do—not yet. They said Hannah was still alive when they left. Critical. Stable enough to move.
Stable.
The word meant nothing.
I sat on the steps, arms wrapped around my knees, trying not to think about the blood on my hands or the sound her body made when it hit the ground. Trying not to think about what she’d said right before she jumped—you already know.
But I didn’t. I didn’t know anything anymore.
A shadow fell over me. “Ms. Montgomery?”
I looked up. Security. Black polo, radio on his shoulder, badge clipped to his belt. He was tall—maybe six-three—with a clean jaw, ballcap and the kind of military posture I’d learned to spot since Lucas.
“Dominion Hall liaison.” He flashed a badge quickly. The only thing I could read on it was the word ‘security.’ “Mr. Dane sent me to get you out of here. We’re moving you to a secure location.”
Mr. Dane. The sound of his name was a lifeline. “He sent you?”
“Yes, ma’am.” His voice was steady, calm. “We need to move now.”
I hesitated, scanning the yard. The police were distracted with statements. Franklin was still on the phone. Carrie caught my eye, mouthing you okay? I nodded automatically.
“Okay,” I said. “Let me just grab my bag.”
“Where are your things?” the security guy asked. “Vehicle’s already out front.”
I pointed to the house that was now shut off to cast and crew. He looked up at it, pausing for a moment, then nodded, marching that way. I followed.
Something about the efficiency should have comforted me. It didn’t. My instincts—the ones Lucas had sharpened in me—buzzed faintly under my skin.
Still, I followed him.
The officer at the door gave us a cursory glance, hesitated, then nodded us through.
“She’s with me,” he said, flashing his badge again, and just like that, the tape lifted and we were inside.
No one questioned it—too much chaos, too many uniforms, everyone assuming someone else had cleared the details.
Upstairs, the room smelled like fear. The air was thick, stale, carrying the ghost of what had happened. I forced myself not to look at the window.
My bag was on a table. I slung it over my shoulder, my phone buzzing inside it with calls I wasn’t ready to answer.
“You got everything?” the man asked.
“Yeah.”
He gestured for me to go first. Gentlemanly. Or strategic. I couldn’t tell.
We walked down the hall together, his footsteps quiet, mine uneven on the old wood floors.
“How are things?” I asked. “At Dominion Hall?”
“Contained,” he said smoothly. “The Danes are handling it.”
I wanted to believe him. I wanted to believe Lucas was out there putting the world back in order while I just followed instructions. But I’d learned something about myself recently: I wasn’t built for blind faith anymore.
When we reached the side door, I stopped. “Where’s your radio?”
He blinked. “What?”
“Your radio. All the other guards have been using theirs nonstop today. Yours isn’t on.”
A tiny flicker crossed his face—so quick I almost missed it. Then came the smile. Easy. Reassuring. Practiced. “Battery died.”
That was when my stomach turned to stone.
“What did you say your name was?” I asked quietly.
“I didn’t. Miss, we really need to go.”
Something about the way he said it—like he’d practiced it—made my skin crawl. “Have we met before?” I asked.
His eyes flicked up, then down. “Don’t think so.”
But I wasn’t convinced. He looked familiar. My pulse kicked hard.
For the first time, his composure cracked. The radio on his belt wasn’t a radio at all—it was a prop, a black plastic shell with no antenna. His hand hovered near it like muscle memory.
“Don’t,” I warned.
But he was faster. He lunged.
I twisted out of reach, slamming my elbow into the doorframe. Pain flared white-hot, but adrenaline drowned it. “Help!” I shouted, my voice echoing through the hallway. “Benji!”
He caught me around the waist, dragging me backward. “Wrong move,” he hissed against my ear.
I drove my heel into his shin. He grunted, stumbling, and I tore free, sprinting toward the main corridor.
Carrie rounded the corner, eyes wide. “Lexi?”
“Run!” I screamed. “He’s not security!”
The guy was already on me again. He caught my arm, wrenching it behind my back. I heard the click of metal—handcuffs, cold and sudden.
Benji appeared next, barreling out of the kitchen like a linebacker. “Get the fuck off her!”
My captor spun, pulling me in front of him like a shield. “Back it up,” he barked. “Or she dies right here.”
There was a gun now. Small, black, pressed against my ribs. I hadn’t even seen him draw it.
Benji froze, hands raised. “Hey, man, easy.”
Franklin’s voice boomed from somewhere down the hall. “What the hell is going on?”
“Get everyone out,” Benji shouted. “Now!”
The set exploded into chaos again—people screaming, scrambling for the exits.
He dragged me toward the side door, his grip iron. “We’re leaving,” he muttered. “You and me, Miss Movie Star.”
“You’re making a mistake,” I said, trying to keep my voice steady.
He laughed softly. “Shut up and walk, princess.”
Rage flooded through me, so sharp it steadied my fear. “You son of a bitch.”
I drove my knee up, hard. He doubled over, the gun jolting from my ribs. I twisted, slamming my cuffed hands down on his wrist, trying to knock the weapon loose. It clattered to the floor, skidding.
“Benji!” I yelled.
He was already moving. He lunged for the gun—but the imposter kicked it first, sending it spinning under a shelf. Then he caught Benji with a punch that made the sound of bone on bone. Benji went down hard, groaning.
I tried to run again, but he grabbed the chain between the cuffs, yanking me back. Pain shot through my shoulders. I hit the wall, stars bursting behind my eyes.
“Stop fighting,” he snapped.
“Go to hell.”
His hand closed around my throat, not tight enough to cut off air—just enough to make the threat clear.
Carrie’s voice echoed faintly from somewhere beyond the corridor. “Police are coming!”
He smiled. “Then we better finish the scene.”
He dragged me deeper into the house.
My heart kicked hard. This was it.
Every survival instinct I had screamed at once.
The self-defense training I’d taken years ago—at the studio’s insistence after a fan broke into my trailer—flashed through my mind in brutal clarity.
Never let them take you to a second location.
That line had been repeated like gospel, the instructor’s voice sharp enough to cut through panic.
If they moved you, the odds of getting home alive plummeted.
Fight. Run. Bite. Scream. Do anything before you let them put you somewhere you couldn’t be found.
I couldn’t let him take me. No matter what.
A wave of cold ran through me. The doorway behind the man looked smaller now, the world shrinking to the space between us. He had all the power of momentum on his side, but I still had my voice. My wits. My will to live.
And God, I wanted to live.
Not just survive this moment, but everything after it—the mornings at Dominion Hall when the light hit the water just right, the smell of coffee and salt air, the sound of Lucas’s laugh against my skin.
The future we hadn’t fully spoken out loud yet but both knew was coming.
I could see it: a quiet life, a porch somewhere far from the chaos, two dogs, a garden, peace.
I wasn’t ready to lose any of that. Not to anyone.
“Listen,” I said quickly. “You don’t have to do this. Whatever this is, we can fix it. I know people—”
“Yeah,” he said, shoving me forward. “Like Santa Claus?”
He yanked the next door open, motioning with the gun. “Go.”
I didn’t move.
“Now.”
“No.”
“Don’t test me.”
“Go ahead,” I said, my voice shaking but steady. “Shoot me here. In front of the cameras, the cops, half the crew. They’ll see your face. They’ll run it on every channel by morning. You can’t get away.”
“That’s what you think. I know people, too. By morning, I’ll be drinking margaritas on a beach.
A voice shouted from behind us. “Drop it!”
Franklin. God, bless his stubborn producer instincts. He stood at the end of the hall, a flashlight raised like a weapon.
The man spun, firing. Franklin dove behind the corner, swearing.
I ran.
The cuffs clanged as I sprinted into the next room, every nerve screaming. I had to get to a window. Two more shots rang out, the air splitting beside me. Something tore across my shoulder—a hot, slicing pain.
I stumbled, but didn’t fall. The sirens were closer now, the wail building.
Then he caught me again. He grabbed the chain between the cuffs, yanking me backward into the same spot where I’d kissed Benji on film two days before. His breath was ragged, desperate.
“Stop!” I gasped. “It’s over!”
“Not for me,” he said.
He pressed the gun to my chest.
Time slowed. I could hear my heartbeat, feel the throb of blood from my shoulder, smell the faint reek of gunpowder and adrenaline in his sweat.
In that moment, everything crystallized—the fear, the fury, the love. Lucas’s face flashed in my mind: the quiet confidence, the way his eyes softened when he looked at me.
I wasn’t going to die as someone’s damsel.
I brought my knee up hard, catching him in the ribs. He grunted, grip faltering, and I swung my cuffed hands up with everything I had, the steel cuff connecting with his jaw. He staggered back, dazed.
I turned and ran again—but he recovered faster than I expected.
“Stop running, bitch.”
I spun just as he raised the gun.
And then—
The heavy sound of boots pounded into the room.
“Drop it!” a voice bellowed. Deep. Commanding.
Lucas.
He had come for me.
He was here.