5. Erika
ERIKA
The bathroom was a sanctuary of cool marble and blessed quiet.
Erika leaned against the sink, the stone cold against her trembling hands.
She splashed her face with water, staring at the stranger in the mirror.
The image was hers, but the elegant hair and the lingering trace of party makeup felt like a costume.
Get it together. She glared at her reflection. He insulted your sister.
She forced herself to focus. The anger was real, at least—something solid to hold onto. No talent. The words were a direct assault on Annie.
Yet underneath the fury, something else. Low and insistent. The intensity of his stare had been unnerving, yes, but it had also been . . . singular. For one dizzying moment on that chaotic carpet, she hadn’t felt like Anneliese’s shadow; she had felt seen. Terribly, terrifyingly seen.
She wasn’t sure which was worse. That a stranger had made her feel more visible in ten seconds than she had in years. Or that the stranger was Stefan Cruz.
A young woman with wide, star-struck eyes materialized before her. “Anneliese! Oh my gosh, I’m such a huge fan!” the girl squealed, phone already angled for a selfie. “Could I please get a picture?”
“Oh, I’m actually not—” In the dim corridor, with the glam makeup, the designer dress, and her hair down in soft waves framing her face, she supposed she could pass for Annie at a glance.
But the girl was a whirlwind of energy. “Oh my gosh, that Kristi LaDor campaign you did? I have the pictures all over my vision board! You were so amazing! Please?” She held the phone out, pleading.
Faced with such overwhelming excitement, Erika couldn’t bring herself to disappoint her. “Um, sure,” she said, and composed her face for the camera’s lens.
“Thank you so much!” the girl said, already staring down at her phone. Her expression faltered. She squinted at the picture, then back at Erika’s face. “Oh my God. You’re not her, are you? I’m so sorry—you must be her sister.”
The girl went red. “I saw you on her Live today. Wow, you really do look alike in the right lighting.”
Her embarrassment quickly morphed into a new, hopeful plea. She thrust a napkin and a pen at Erika. “Could you . . . could you maybe get this to her? Ask her to sign it for me? My name is Mia.”
Erika took the napkin, the request a fresh sting of inadequacy. She wasn’t a flawed copy; she was a go-between, a conduit to the real star. Maybe she should start charging a finder’s fee.
“Sure. I’ll see what I can do.”
“Thank you!” The girl beamed, her earlier mistake forgotten. She hurried away, leaving Erika standing alone in the corridor, holding a stranger’s hope. The brown-eyed footnote. It was a role she was tired of playing. She took a breath, and turned to head back to the party.
She almost made it.
“That looked painful.” The voice was a low, resonant baritone, laced with an accent she couldn’t quite place.
She jumped. Stefan Cruz was leaning against the wall in the corridor, partially cloaked in shadows—a study in chiaroscuro, all sharp angles and dramatic contrast as if he’d positioned himself for maximum effect and probably had.
“Excuse me?” The word came out embarrassingly thin.
“The fan. Being mistaken for someone else, then dismissed. It can’t be easy.” He pushed off the wall. The movement brought him a step closer, his focus entirely on her. The air between them was dense, charged.
“Were you following me?” The accusation came out sharper than she intended.
His mouth curved. “Following you? I prefer to think of it as . . . paying attention.” He took another step closer.
“Anneliese Morgan has a famous face. But she doesn’t have the small, heart-shaped birthmark behind her ear.
” His gaze flickered to the spot on her neck, and Erika’s hand flew up to cover it before she could stop it. “And she doesn’t have your eyes.”
He hadn’t guessed. He knew.
“That’s either impressive or creepy,” she said. “I haven’t decided which.”
Surprise crossed his face. Or amusement. “Take your time. I’ve been called worse tonight.”
“I’m Stefan.” He paused, letting her fill the silence.
“I know who you are.” She lifted her chin. “You’re the man who called my sister talentless on national television.”
“. . . And you are?”
“Erika.” She hadn’t meant to give it up.
“Erika,” he repeated, low and deliberate, and she hated how much she liked hearing it. “You have a terrible poker face.”
“You were watching me.” It wasn’t a question this time.
“I was,” he said, his eyes on her face like a held breath. “You’re more interesting than anyone else in that room.”
“That’s a low bar.”
His laugh was unexpected—low and genuine, not the practiced charm she’d seen on the carpet. “Fair point.”
His expression hardened. He took another step closer. Heat rolled off him, and whatever he was wearing did something to her knees she didn't want to examine too closely. Heat rolled off him, and whatever he was wearing did something to her knees she didn't want to examine too closely.
Move. Her feet didn’t move.
“My comment about your sister was uncharitable,” he continued. “But it was honest. And in a town built on performance, honesty can be a weapon.” His expression turned serious. “Blackwell. I saw him talking to you earlier. You looked like you wanted to crawl out of your own skin.”
He’d read it exactly right. She hated that. “That’s none of your business.”
“Perhaps not.” His gaze held her in place. “But he is a predator. And you . . . you looked like his next meal.”
The cold moved through her. She tasted the metallic fizz of champagne, and felt Blackwell’s stare. Stefan’s heat warred with the cold memory.
“I noticed you watching him watch me.” Her chin came up. “You looked like you wanted to throw your drink in his face. So, what history do you two have? Don’t pretend this warning is entirely altruistic.”
He paused, like she’d caught him out. “You’re right. It’s not.” He paused. “But that doesn’t make it less true.”
“What did he do?”
The question hung between them. For a moment, she thought he wouldn’t answer.
“He breaks his toys,” Stefan said quietly. “I’ve seen the aftermath. And I’d rather not see it again.” He raised a hand, and Erika instinctively tensed, but he only gestured back toward the party. “Be careful, Erika. Your sister knows how to play the game. Blackwell doesn’t play. He destroys.”
The intensity in his eyes held her pinned for one moment longer. Erika broke the spell and turned to leave.
She didn’t get far.
His hand reached out—but didn’t quite reach her elbow. Hovering. Waiting.
She could walk away. She should walk away. Her shoes stayed where they were.
His fingers closed the distance, gentle but firm around her elbow. The warmth of his palm through the thin fabric of her dress was immediate, a startling heat that shot up her arm. She felt it everywhere.
Don’t lean in.
But her body wasn’t listening. She was leaning into the touch, ever so slightly. She caught herself doing it, and the shame came right after.
He leaned in, his voice a murmur meant only for her. “It was a pleasure to meet you, Erika Morgan.”
The spell broke. She stepped back, and his hand fell away immediately—no resistance, no protest.
“Save the charm for someone who hasn’t heard what you think of her family.” She turned and walked away.
As Erika returned to the table, the room’s buzzing energy felt distant and muffled, like she was hearing it through glass.
Anneliese wasn’t alone. She was holding court, with Olivia on one side and a sycophantic junior agent named Leo on the other.
Erika slid into her empty seat, the borrowed heels still biting into her ankles, but she was too numb to feel it.
She glanced at her sister—radiant, commanding, effortlessly the center of attention—and something dropped out of her. If Annie ever found out . . .
It meant nothing. He warned you about Blackwell. That’s all.
But she could still feel the ghost of his hand on her elbow. Could hear the way he’d said her name. And her eyes kept betraying her, scanning the crowd for a tall man in a forest-green suit.
Stop it.
She kept looking anyway.
“The ‘no talent’ line is already trending,” Leo said, shaking his head.
Olivia waved a dismissive hand, though her eyes were sharp. “It’s a tired move, Leo. Predictable. He needed a soundbite to distract from his last movie flopping, and Anneliese is always good for a headline.”
“A headline?” Anneliese’s voice was low and tight, her knuckles white around the breadstick she was holding. “He called me a talentless influencer, Olivia.”
Olivia’s expression softened slightly. “I know, sweetie. The indie film. The one Stefan torpedoed.”
“He got me fired, Liv,” Anneliese whispered, her voice fierce.
“After the Temmys, I posted one little response to his ‘undeserving’ comment, and he went scorched earth. Told the director I didn’t have the ‘grit’ for the part, that I was just some shallow internet girl who couldn’t handle real acting.
” She snapped the breadstick in two with a sharp crack.
“He builds his entire brand on being this ‘authentic’ tortured artist, but everything he does is a calculated move to tear people down. And now he has the nerve to say I have no talent?” She crumbled the pieces onto her plate.
“Arrogant asshole. I’m not going to let him ruin my night. ”
As she spoke, a shadow fell over their table. The atmosphere froze. Erika didn’t have to look up. The scent of gin and sandalwood arrived a second before he did, and her stomach dropped.
Oh no. Not now.
Anneliese glanced up. Her smile went cold. “Stefan.”
“Anneliese.” He nodded, pleasant enough—but his eyes swept the table and found Erika. Warmed. “Erika.”
Her name in his mouth, familiar now. Anneliese’s gaze sharpened, flicking between them.
“You two know each other?” The question was light. The tone was not.
“We met earlier,” Stefan said easily. “Your sister’s far better company than most of this crowd.”