Chapter 3
The shiny new Oscar sits on the corner of my desk, catching the afternoon sunlight streaming through the floor-to-ceiling windows.
Every few minutes, my gaze drifts toward it, tracing the familiar silhouette of the statuette, because I still don’t quite believe it’s real.
Twenty-four hours ago, I was standing on the stage of the Dolby Theatre reaching the pinnacle of my career.
A moment that was quickly overshadowed when my stalker managed to truly scare me for the first time in months.
Outside the windows, the ocean stretches endlessly beneath a sky so blue it looks painted, the waves crashing against the shore, softened by heat haze and smog.
From this far outside of Los Angeles, in Malibu, it is kind of peaceful, almost idyllic, a sprawling kingdom of light and possibility.
Ordinarily, I would appreciate the view, staring over it as I remind myself how far I’ve come from the cramped apartment in Reseda where I dreamed about moments like yesterday’s.
Today, however, I keep finding my eyes drifting toward the security monitor on the edge of my desk, displaying the feeds from the gate cameras and around the grounds.
“Devyn?” I blink, the sound of my agent’s voice jerking me back to the present.
Right, the phone call. The conference call started twenty minutes ago, and I’ve already drifted away twice.
Jake’s voice crackles through the speaker, carrying that particular blend of concern and frustration he gets when I’m not focusing on my brand. “Still with us?”
“Barely,” I mutter, rubbing at my temples with fingers that feel cold despite the warmth in the room.
A low chuckle comes through the line, familiar and dry, my manager, Leslie, letting out a sigh that speaks volumes. “You haven’t slept, have you?”
“I slept.”
“Two hours doesn’t count, Dev.”
“It does if you’re exhausted enough.”
“It really doesn’t.”
I lean back in my ergonomic chair, the leather creaking beneath me, and press the heels of my palms against my eyes until color bursts behind the lids.
The truth is: I haven’t slept much at all.
I was a mess leading up to last night. Any hope I had of getting sleep after the award ceremony was snatched away the moment I opened that card.
Every creak in the house—the expansion of cooling ducts, the settling of old wood, and the wind against the eaves—startled me awake with my heart hammering against my ribs.
Every shifting shadow in the darkness made my pulse spike, my body flooding with adrenaline before my mind could catch up and identify the threat as nothing more than moonlight flitting through the curtains.
Every time my eyes drifted close, I jerked them open, convinced this time the threat was real.
Around three in the morning, I’d convinced myself someone was standing in the corner of my bedroom, watching me.
Barely breathing, I was frozen in my sheets for twenty minutes, until I’d finally worked up the courage to check.
There hadn’t been anyone there, just a palm tree shifting in the breeze, throwing shadows across the wall.
Knowing I was alone did nothing to quell my fear.
It’s about as helpful as knowing LAPD detectives are actively working my case.
A case that has been open for nearly a year.
They have made no progress. Neither did the private investigator I hired to look into the matter.
Except for the note—and another twenty others just like it—tucked into an evidence bag downtown, it’s like X doesn’t even exist.
“So,” Jake says brightly, attempting to redirect the conversation with the subtlety of a bulldozer, “let’s discuss the fact that you’re currently the most sought-after actress in Hollywood.”
I groan, the sound weary. “Please don’t start.”
“I’m serious.”
“That’s because you make money when I work.”
“Accurate.” At least he’s honest. I stare out the window at the view that should bring me peace, watching a few birds circle lazily above the horizon.
This industry moves fast. Winning an Oscar doesn’t mean you get to relax and bask in the achievement.
It means everyone immediately wants to know what’s next.
Studios, producers, directors, and streaming services with bottomless budgets and endless appetites for content—all of them want a piece.
The second someone wins a major award, Hollywood begins circling like sharks smelling blood in the water.
I’m a commodity, one that will make everyone a lot of money.
“We need to make a decision soon,” Leslie continues, her voice carrying that note of maternal authority that made me hire her in the first place. “You already have six offers.”
“Seven,” Jake corrects, and I can hear the smile in his voice, the excitement of fresh deals to negotiate.
“Seven?”
“One came in around lunch. They’re very…
enthusiastic,” he shares. I groan again, pushing away from the desk.
The energy buzzing beneath my skin makes sitting still impossible.
Needing motion to process what my mind can’t handle stationary, I pace across the room.
My bare feet are silent against the polished hardwood floor.
“They said the studio sent the screenplay over this morning.”
I stop near the archway, my hand resting against the smooth plaster. “The screenplay?”
“Yeah.”
“I didn’t get anything.”
“Should have arrived over an hour ago.”
I glance toward the hallway, my lips pursing. Maybe my assistant, Sarah, signed for it. She’s been handling the influx of packages, flowers, and various congratulatory gifts that have been arriving in a steady stream since yesterday evening. “Let me check with Sarah.”
I leave the office and walk along the first-floor hallway, my hand trailing over the banister as I descend the curved staircase. When I reach the landing in the foyer, faint music is playing from Sarah’s office. I pull the phone away from my ear and call, “Hey, Sarah?”
Her voice drifts back, “Yeah?”
“Any packages arrive today?”
“Yeah, sorry.” She sounds disappointed as she pokes her head out the door. “I’ve been dealing with the gown returns, and I haven’t brought them upstairs yet.”
“No worries.” I smile at her.
“I put a few things on the island.” She gestures in the direction of the kitchen. “There’s a ton of mail, too. Congratulations bouquets from like twelve different studios.”
As I pad toward the kitchen, Jake is still talking, rambling on about special appearance and merchandising rights.
Leslie chimes in occasionally, a grounding counterpoint to his enthusiasm.
Sunlight pours through the glass doors overlooking the backyard and pool.
When I step through the archway, my gaze flits over the large marble island and the bouquets of roses, lilies, and proteas.
I freeze, my bare feet suddenly fused to the floor as my breath catches in my throat.
A bouquet sits in the center of the island, arranged carefully in a crystal vase with a cream ribbon wrapped around the neck.
The bright pink proteas are bruised and browning at the edges.
A few of the stems are bent, the leaves on them crushed or torn.
They look as though they have been pulled from the trash.
My trash. A new cream-colored envelope is tucked between the stems.
My pulse thunders faster as I take the final few steps over to the island. I am unable to control the tremble of my fingers as I reach for the crisp envelope.
“Devyn?” Jake’s voice sounds distant.
My fingers numb and clumsy, I pluck the envelope from the bouquet and, full of dread, pull out the card.
My love,
I do not like it when you
soil what we have.
You’ll learn…
once we’re together.
—X
A violent wave of nausea hits me so hard I drop the card and double over, my lungs refusing to do their job. For several seconds, I can’t breathe, think, or even move.
He was here.
The realization slams into me like a physical blow, driving the remaining air from my chest. He wasn’t watching from beyond the gates or sending gifts through courier services. This time, he was here. Close enough to my home to rummage through the trash beside the garage. Inside my home.
“Devyn.” Jake’s voice is sharp and demanding now, cutting through the static in my head. “What’s wrong?”
I stare at the bouquet, proof that my stalker has breached the one place I should feel safe. “He was here.” The cracked and broken statement comes out barely as a whisper.
“What?” Leslie’s voice is full of worry.
I swallow hard, forcing the words past the constriction in my throat. “He was here.” My voice shakes, trembling like my hands. “He was inside my house.”
Everything erupts at once, both voices talking over each other.
“What happened?”
“Dev?”
“What do you mean, inside?”
“Last night’s flowers… They’re in my kitchen.”
“Jesus Christ,” Jake exclaims.
“That’s it,” Leslie huffs. “You’re hiring protection. Full-time residential security. I’m not negotiating on this, Devyn.”
I lean against the island heavily, the edge digging into my hip. Part of me wants to argue, to insist I can handle this. But the other part of me knows she’s right. “I already planned to,” I lie.
“Good.”
Jake exhales heavily, the sound carrying through the speaker. “Look, Dev… not to minimize this—”
Leslie makes a disgusted noise. “Then don’t.”
“I’m not.” He pauses before continuing, choosing his words carefully, “But every celebrity at your level deals with fans. Overzealous ones. It’s part of the territor—”
Leslie cuts him off, her voice hard as steel, “Fans are fine. Fans send letters. Fans wait outside restaurants.” Her voice turns harder, each word precise and weighted. “This is not a fan. This is not okay.”
She’s right. This stopped being a fan a long time ago. Fans don’t leave photographs outside your home in the middle of the night. They don’t violate your privacy. And they sure as hell don’t recover gifts from your trash and place them on your kitchen island with creepy-ass love notes attached.
I look around the room suddenly—really look at it—and everything feels contaminated.
How did he let himself inside? Was I home?
Where else did he go? How long was he here?
Was he watching me sleep? The thoughts cause bile to rise up my throat.
I gag, my stomach heaving as I empty its contents into the sink.
“Devyn?” Leslie’s voice softens, becoming the one she uses when I’m falling apart and need to be held together. “You okay?”
No. Not remotely. Not even close.
“Yeah… I’m okay.” The lie is so poorly delivered, they should probably revoke my Oscar.
“I’m sending Sarah the names of some security firms. The best. Discreet, professional, experienced with high-profile clients.”
“Okay.”
Jake clears his throat, the sound awkward. “Until we find a detail and get them in place…”
I look at the card by my feet. “Yeah?”
“I am more than happy to come over. Whatever you need. Just say the word.”
“I don’t want to inconvenience—”
“Stop. You are anything but an inconvenience.”
“It’s okay. Sarah is here. I’ll lock the doors, set the alarm, and start calling these companies.”
His tone lightens. “If you change your mind—”
“I know.”
After ending my call with two of them, I carefully pick up the card from the floor and place it on the counter.
I read the words again and realize that it’s not just his presence that scares me.
Though it definitely does. What has me terrified is the unwavering conviction in his deranged belief that he loves me and that we’re meant to be together that has me terrified.
Delusions don’t bend to reason, and I don’t know how far he’s willing to go when reality refuses to match the story in his head.