3. Erika
ERIKA
The limousine slowed outside Terry Von Plump’s new West Hollywood restaurant. Paparazzi flashes pulsed against the tinted windows. Fans pressed against the velvet rope, phones raised.
Inside, Anneliese’s thumbs never stopped moving across her phone screen. “Martin Blackwell just arrived,” she said, not looking up.
“You’re not worried?” Erika asked, though in twenty-six years, she’d never seen her twin sister genuinely worried about anything.
“Worried? Bean, please. He needs me more than I need him.” Her laugh was bright and a little cold.
“It’s all part of the fun. Keeps things interesting.
Besides, I’m just excited to finally celebrate the Love in Paradise news.
And . . . Bradley Smart is going to be there.
” She finally looked up, and the screen’s glow was nothing compared to the sparkle in her eyes.
“I saw on his story that he’s wearing custom Thom Forde.
Can you even imagine? I heard his agent has been talking to my agent.
This could be huge, Eri.” She leaned forward, her voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper.
“You excited, Bean? Isn’t it all just terribly exciting? ”
She tugged at the emerald dress where it pinched under her arms, the borrowed Delacroix already numbing her smallest toes.
The morning’s rejection email still burned: “We regret to inform you that your portfolio, while promising . . .” Anneliese’s hand found the door handle.
“Showtime,” she murmured, and then she was gone, emerging into the light in that pale gown gone iridescent under the flashes, catching it like oil on water, each movement calculated.
She paused—three seconds, no more—and blew a kiss that would appear on seventeen magazine covers by morning.
Erika remained frozen on leather upholstery, heart slamming against her ribs.
The limousine door cracked open. Heat, sound, and chemical ozone slapped Erika’s face.
The air tasted of exhaust, and the sour-sweet rot of dumpsters baking in the heat.
Erika tugged at her emerald hem, trying to look less deer-in-headlights, when Anneliese’s hand appeared—steady, certain—beckoning her forward.
She reached for it. Their fingertips nearly brushed.
“Anneliese, sweetie.” Olivia Grey materialized between them, five-foot-two of sharp angles in a black pantsuit so pristine it repelled the very concept of lint.
“We need to stage this entrance.” Her smile tightened as she glanced at Erika.
“If you could, please step off the carpet. Anneliese will do solo photos first.”
Three feet away, the velvet rope sagged between brass stanchions. Erika’s throat tightened.
“She’s my twin,” Anneliese said, her voice slipping into the register she only used when nobody was filming. “She should be with me.”
“Absolutely, darling, but we need to debut you solo to maximize impact.” Olivia’s smile was a thin red crack in her face. “Five minutes, then your sister can join the group shots. It’s all about narrative.”
Narrative. The word stuck. She’d spent years making other people’s visions look better than they deserved.
She stepped onto the narrow curb. Her borrowed Delacroix sank into decades of gum and spilled champagne. Olivia’s hand on Anneliese’s back propelled her forward like a prize racehorse. The crowd surged, a wall of upraised phones glowing like votive candles.
“We love you, Annie Banana!” someone screamed, and Erika’s stomach twisted at the nickname they’d shared in the womb, now trademarked and hashtagged. A thousand screens reflected Anneliese’s face at her—those familiar features polished to a high gloss.
Exiled to the carpet’s edge, Erika catalogued the absurdities: a Real Housewife announcing that her chakra specialist confirmed the universe wanted her to buy a second yacht.
Terry Von Plump in a retina-burning fuchsia tuxedo.
A frantic PA protecting a gown that probably had its own insurance policy from spilled champagne.
Erika’s stomach knotted as her sister pivoted between cameras—each smile a different product, each angle calculated for maximum impact. The paparazzi got the three-quarter profile she always gave them.
Twenty-six years of the same face. Anneliese had figured out how to wear it.
“Here.” Olivia materialized at Erika’s elbow, the champagne flute extended like a peace offering. “You look like you could use this.”
“Thanks.” The glass was cool against Erika’s palm. As Olivia disappeared back into the scrum, a figure peeled away from the VIP section.
He appeared at her side with predatory ease.
Martin Blackwell. An expensive shadow in a suit so deliberately unremarkable it felt like a threat, his eyes pale and flat as sheet ice.
He didn’t bother with a hello. His gaze flicked from Erika’s face to her shoes, then up again, as if checking for something.
“You’re Anneliese’s sister, aren’t you.” It wasn’t a question. His gaze lingered on her throat.
Erika’s polite expression felt brittle. “Erika. It’s nice to meet you.”
He didn’t offer his hand. Instead, he took a half-step closer, invading the bubble of space around her.
“Your sister is . . . quite something. So much raw potential.” He said ‘potential’ as if it were a slab of meat he was considering buying.
“I’ve been watching her work. The way she moves on camera—instinctive, unschooled. No one can teach that.”
“She works very hard, actually,” Erika said, the words escaping before she could stop them.
Martin’s eyebrow arched. “Of course she does. But it’s all about molding it, you see. Finding the right clay and shaping it into what I want it to be.” His fingers made a small squeezing motion in the air.
His attention settled on her face again, calm and steady.
“You have the same good bones. A different kind of canvas, but the structure is there.” He reached out, his index finger hovering an inch from her jawline without touching.
“The symmetry is remarkable, but you hold yourself differently. More . . . contained.”
“Twins,” he mused, almost to himself. “Such a useful thing, having someone who shares your face.” His smile sharpened. “I imagine Anneliese relies on you quite a bit. Sisters can be so . . . influential.”
Her arms prickled. She wanted to step back. Her feet wouldn’t move. The champagne in her hand was suddenly a terrible idea.
“What do you do, Erika?” he asked. He gave her name an extra beat.
“I’m an artist,” she said.
“Ah.” He nodded, as if confirming a suspicion. “Creating rather than being created. Interesting choice.”
Somewhere behind them, a flash cannon briefly lit Martin’s eyes to blank white. He didn’t blink.
“I hope you don’t take offense, but you’re not what I expected.”
“I get that a lot.” God. Really?
He smiled. Something pleased and patient. “There’s a dignity to that. To refuse becoming the thing people want you to be.” His gaze pinned her in place. “That’s rare. And, in its way, more dangerous than ambition.”
She was about to speak—anything—to reclaim agency, when a shrill “Martin, darling!” rang out from the carpet. A woman in red sequins beckoned him over.
Blackwell gave Erika one last look that didn’t reach his eyes. “We should talk sometime. About your work.” He leaned in, close enough that she could smell the mint on his breath. “Enjoy the party,” he said, before sliding back toward the cameras.
Erika stood alone. She needed a shower and possibly a priest.
The air along the velvet rope pulsed, a subsonic shudder that ran down the line of photographers before Erika registered the source. This was the actual arrival, the one the room had been holding its breath for. It hit her sternum like a bass drop.
He emerged from the far end of the carpet, solitary and slow: Stefan Cruz, the name murmured first in a tremble, then building, fractal, until everyone was saying it.
Cruz, Cruz, Cruz. It ricocheted off the marble and glass, colliding with the brittle laughs of publicists and the staccato bark of camera shutters.
Erika had seen him in magazines, but in person, Stefan Cruz was a different creature entirely.
Tall, broad-shouldered, with a jaw that belonged on a Renaissance sketch and dark eyes that swept the carpet without seeming to see it.
His forest-green suit caught the light, the lapels shimmering under camera flashes.
His collarless black shirt openly mocked the black-tie dress code, revealing a triangle of golden-brown skin at his throat.
He moved unhurriedly, each gesture deliberately delayed, making the crowd lean forward in anticipation. As he passed, Erika caught his scent—gin, sandalwood, something briny underneath—and her pulse did something inconvenient. Damn him.
“Erika . . .”
Anneliese materialized beside her, a flash of blonde at the edge of Erika’s vision, the scent of Maison Voss No. 9 announcing her presence. Her sister’s hand caught her wrist, tugging her closer. “Don’t look at him,” Anneliese said, smiling camera-ready. “He’s not worth it.”
“Stefan!” A reporter’s voice cut through the din as he thrust his microphone forward. “What do you think of influencers in Hollywood?”
Erika’s breath caught. He pivoted toward the voice. His smile unfurled slowly, revealing perfect teeth that gleamed under the harsh lights. Something flickered at the corner of his mouth.
“Influencers,” he repeated, drawing out each syllable.
“You mean those people who are famous for having no talent?” He paused, letting the barb sink in, his eyes scanning the crowd with practiced nonchalance.
“I think they’re a dime a dozen in this town.
The digital equivalent of fast fashion—disposable, derivative, and ultimately forgettable. ”
Beside her, Anneliese’s shoulders stiffened. Her smile stayed frozen in place, but her knuckles whitened around her champagne flute.
A nervous ripple of laughter moved through the crowd.
“But surely some have genuine creative vision,” pressed a woman in a severe blazer. “Anneliese Morgan has built an empire.”
Stefan’s laugh was low and dismissive. “An empire built on what? Lip gloss tutorials and staged vacation photos?” His voice hardened.
“Real artistry requires sacrifice, discipline, and training. Years of study and failure and getting back up again.” He leaned toward the reporter.
“Not just knowing your angles and which filter makes your eyes pop. That’s not art—that’s narcissism with a business plan. ”
Erika’s cheeks burned. The champagne turned sour in her mouth.
No talent? Anneliese at 2 a.m., hollow-eyed, hunched over her tenth video edit.
The tearful calls. The vicious comments.
The grind behind the “effortless” perfection.
This beautiful, arrogant asshole had erased it all with a flick of his hand.
“What a prick,” she muttered, loud enough that a nearby publicist shot her a startled look.
Olivia found her in the crowd. “He torpedoed his relationship with the most powerful director in town.”
“Good.” Erika’s voice was tight with fury. “Maybe someone will finally tell him he’s not God’s gift to cinema.”
As if sensing her stare, Stefan’s attention swept the sidelines. His eyes landed on her.
The smug, condescending smirk vanished from his face, replaced by an unnerving stillness. His eyes locked on hers. It felt like a hand on her sternum. The roar of the party, the percussive clatter of shutters—it all faded into a dull hum.
She should look away. She wanted to look away. This was the man who had eviscerated her sister on camera, the arrogant prick she’d been ready to hate five seconds ago.
He wasn’t looking at her the way one looks at a stranger in a crowd. He was looking at her like he was trying to solve something he hadn’t expected to find. And everything in her wanted to break the connection. She didn’t look away.
Her gaze darted to her sister. Anneliese was staring at her. Furious. Wounded.
Her stomach dropped. But when Erika looked back, Stefan was still staring, his expression unchanged, his focus absolute—a silent question that had nothing to do with her sister and everything to do with her.
She wasn’t going to recover from being looked at like that. She was already trying to figure out how to be looked at like that again.
“Eri . . .” Anneliese’s grip on her wrist tightened, a warning or plea that Erika couldn’t decipher.
Her chest went tight. She needed air. Needed to be anywhere but between Annie’s face and Stefan’s eyes.
“I need—bathroom.” She pulled free of Anneliese’s grip, didn’t wait for a response, pushed through the throng of elegantly dressed figures, looking for the first escape that didn’t involve eye contact with anyone else tonight.