4. Stefan
STEFAN
The flashbulbs were a physical assault, white-hot flashes that left spots in his vision.
Stefan forced a smile, the familiar upward pull of his lips feeling less like an expression of joy and more like a reflex.
La cara es el espejo del alma, his Tita used to say.
The face is the mirror of the soul. What a lie.
Here, it was a mask—and not even a good one tonight.
The red carpet gave slightly under his Verramago loafers. Smile, cabrón. You’re supposed to be enjoying this. This was the part of the job he despised the most—the performance before the performance.
A flash of white crossed his vision. Mierda. But fate had a cruel sense of humor tonight. He came face-to-face with Anneliese Morgan in a white dress designed to be seen from a satellite.
“Stefan! What a surprise to see you here,” Anneliese said, all teeth. The smile didn’t reach her eyes.
He kept his own smile steady. “Anneliese. It’s always a pleasure.
” The tabloids had feasted on their rivalry for two years, ever since the Temmys.
His costar had lost Best Supporting Actress to Anneliese for Midnight in Malibu—a glorified influencer vehicle—and he’d told a reporter exactly what he thought.
The word “undeserving” had followed him ever since.
Fame without the work. Success without the sweat.
“I have to admit, I’m surprised to see you,” she said, the camera-ready smile thinning. “Don’t you usually avoid events like these? Or did you run out of reporters to trash-talk me to?”
His face gave nothing. “I’m not sure what you’re talking about.”
“Oh, please.” Her laugh was bright and entirely for the cameras. “One word at the Temmys and you’ve been coasting on it ever since. Must be exhausting, being so principled.”
“It wasn’t a talking point. It was the truth.”
Something flickered behind her eyes—hurt, maybe, quickly buried. “You know what, Stefan? Funny how your ‘truth’ always sounds like jealousy.” She smiled, all teeth.
Hijo de puta. That one landed. He kept his face neutral.
“Enjoy your evening, Anneliese.”
“Always do.” She turned on her heel and sauntered away, leaving him stewing in a cloud of her expensive perfume.
His fingers curled at his sides. Fantástico. Ten minutes in, and he’d already wanted to set something on fire. Shaking his head, he turned back to the press line. A reporter with bright red hair and a mischievous glint descended.
“Stefan, over here!” she called.
He walked over, the mask back on. Here we go.
“Stefan,” she said, her microphone inches from his mouth. “Martin Blackwell is here tonight. Any plans to bury the hatchet after your last . . . collaboration?”
Of course. Of fucking course. Sarah’s voice was a frantic whisper in his mind: Be diplomatic. We can’t afford another fire.
But the question brought back his last collaboration with Martin—the screaming matches, the director’s casual cruelty, the young actress whose career he’d almost destroyed, whose life he’d nearly destroyed.
Stefan had walked away from that film, from millions, to get away from that man.
And now he was expected to sing his praises.
“Martin is a . . . visionary,” he said, the word tasting like poison.
“He has a particular way of doing things. Let’s just say it was an educational experience.
I prefer to work with collaborators, not dictators.
” The word hung in the air. So much for Sarah’s media training.
The reporter’s eyes widened. There goes the Verramago deal.
He didn’t wait for another question. He smiled, waved to the cameras, and headed for the restaurant’s entrance, desperate to escape the spotlight. He needed a drink—a strong one.
After an hour of schmoozing, of shaking hands and making meaningless small talk, Stefan had managed to secret himself away at the back bar.
He nursed a Japanese whiskey, the smoky liquid doing little to soothe his frayed nerves.
Jealousy. The word stung because it wasn’t entirely wrong. Perhaps he was stuck.
As he raised the glass to his lips, a stillness cut through the room’s oppressive noise. His gaze snagged on a flash of emerald green. And there she was.
She was sitting at a nearby table, a solitary figure in a sea of noise and motion.
The emerald gown was the quietest thing in the room, and her dark brown hair fell in soft waves around her shoulders.
But it wasn’t the dress that held him. It was the way she sat—no preening for invisible cameras, no scanning the room for someone more important to talk to.
She was watching a waiter navigate a tray of champagne flutes like it was the most interesting thing in the room.
With a small smile she wasn’t performing for anyone.
His breath caught, like some lovesick teenager in one of his Tita’s telenovelas. She had duende—that untranslatable thing Tita talked about when she was being serious.
And Stefan, who had bedded actresses and models and a minor Euaropean royal, found himself off-balance like a damn schoolboy.
He couldn’t look away. Whatever had happened on the carpet hadn’t been a fluke.
As if sensing his gaze, she turned. Their eyes met for the second time that night, and her expression shifted. Surprise, or recognition. He couldn’t tell. Then a slight, knowing smirk tugged at her unpainted lips before she looked away.
He was in trouble.
He watched her run a finger around the rim of her glass, tuck a strand of hair behind her ear, exposing the line of her neck. What would it be like to sit across from her? To have those eyes actually look at him.
His fingers twitched against his whiskey glass. He wanted to know what her skin felt like—wanted to see if she’d startle or lean in if he touched the spot just behind her ear.
Cálmate, cabrón. He didn’t even know her name.
Talk to her. The thought was absurd. He didn’t chase women at parties. That was beneath him. And yet his feet were already moving, the whiskey abandoned on the bar, the pull undeniable.
He needed to know her name.
As he approached her table, she stood and walked across the room, the emerald fabric swaying with each step. She glanced back over her shoulder—not coyly, but with a look of quiet purpose.
He followed, unhurried, weaving through the crowd. His eyes never left her.
She was heading toward a small group surrounded by cameras. And then the crowd parted, and a familiar blonde in white stepped forward.
The woman in green embraced Anneliese Morgan. Not a polite air-kiss, not a networking hug—a real one, warm and unguarded—the kind of hug you gave your family.
The resemblance stopped him cold. The same bone structure. The same full lips. Twins. She was Anneliese Morgan’s twin sister.
You have got to be fucking kidding me.
Of all the women in this godforsaken city, the one who’d derailed him mid-sentence was the sister of the woman he’d publicly eviscerated. The universe was laughing at him.
And yet, watching her smile at her sister—nothing like the one Anneliese gave the crowd—he couldn’t make himself walk away.
He retreated to the bar and ordered another whiskey.
A throng of well-wishers had swallowed the sisters. Probably for the best. What was he going to do, walk up and introduce himself? Hi, I’m the guy who called your sister talentless on camera. Can I buy you a drink?
He knocked back the whiskey. This night was a disaster.
The smart move was to forget her. Walk away. Pretend the last hour hadn’t rewired his chest. She was off-limits—Anneliese Morgan’s twin sister. No version of this ended well.
And yet some reckless part of him—the part that had walked away from Martin Blackwell’s millions, the part that believed in things like duende and fate—whispered: So what?
He found her in the crowd again. Idiota.
“Enjoying the party, Stefan?” a low voice drawled beside him.
Stefan didn’t have to look to know who it was. The voice was smooth. It always was. His grip tightened on his glass.
He turned slowly to face Martin Blackwell. Blackwell’s expression, smooth as polished bone, held a gleam of amusement.
“Martin,” Stefan said, his tone flat. “Didn’t realize you’d crawled out tonight.”
“Indeed.” Blackwell took a sip of his drink, unbothered. “I heard you had some . . . choice words for the press earlier. ‘Dictator,’ was it? A bold move. Very artistic.” He paused. “Sarah must be thrilled.”
Dictator was the cleanest word he could use in public.
Predator was the truth. He remembered Stasia on set—the way she’d made herself small when Martin got too close, the night she’d finally told Stefan what had happened, what the studio had paid to bury.
He’d walked away from Midnight Run the next day.
Eight years later, the rage hadn’t dulled one bit.
“I speak my mind,” Stefan said, finally meeting Blackwell’s gaze. “Some of us don’t need NDAs to clean up after us.”
“So I see,” Blackwell said, following Stefan’s gaze toward where the sisters had disappeared.
“You and Anneliese Morgan have that in common. So much . . . ambition. She’s a firecracker, that one.
Thinks she’s untouchable.” He paused, swirling his drink.
“And her sister . . . the quiet one. I had a word with her on the carpet. Erika, isn’t it?
An interesting canvas. Very raw. Untouched.
” His lips curled. “I do love a blank slate. So much more rewarding to be the one to make the first mark. Before anyone else . . . ruins the surface.”
The words hit Stefan like ice water. He’d heard Martin use the same language before—about Stasia, right before he’d systematically destroyed her. The memory curdled.
He wasn’t about to watch it happen again.
“Stay away from her.” Stefan’s voice came out low. The pretense of civility was gone.
Blackwell’s thin lips twisted into a smirk. “Protective, are we? How fascinating.” He placed his glass on the bar and leaned in closer. “A word of advice, my boy. In this town, it’s wise to keep your hands off another artist’s work. Especially before he’s had a chance to . . . break it in.”
Stefan’s grip on his glass was the only thing keeping it intact.
Blackwell smiled and disappeared into the crowd.
He scanned the room. There—the emerald dress, breaking away from Anneliese’s group, slipping down the corridor toward the restrooms.
He started after her.