6. Erika
ERIKA
The fluorescent lights of Cedars-Sinai were flat, unforgiving. Erika sat in a hard plastic chair outside the private room. Her breathing was off. Chocolate had dried in the creases of her palms.
The paparazzi had been waiting when the ambulance pulled up. Erika had shielded Anneliese’s face with her own body, Olivia barking orders at hospital security, a blur of flashing lights and shouted questions. Did Stefan push you? Is your career over? Was it a publicity stunt?
Now, in the relative quiet of the private wing, those questions echoed in her skull like a migraine.
Anneliese lay in the hospital bed, her face pale against the crisp white pillowcase, the glamorous LaDor dress now a ruined still life—chocolate and champagne stains blooming across the silk. The heart monitor beeped, steady and uninterested.
Erika sat by her sister’s side, watching silent tears well up in Anneliese’s eyes as she stared at the ceiling, her hands clenched into fists on the thin blanket.
The door swished open, and a middle-aged doctor entered, his expression grave. Erika’s gaze snapped up.
The doctor folded his hands. “Anneliese, I want to be straightforward with you. Your ankle is broken in two places. It’s a significant break. It will require surgery and extensive rehabilitation.”
Two places. A single tear escaped, tracing a path across Annie’s cheek.
“How long?” Anneliese’s voice was barely a whisper. “Until I can walk again?”
The doctor’s pause said everything. “Several months before you can put significant weight on it. We’ll do everything we can, but I won’t sugarcoat it—this will be a difficult recovery.”
Several months. Love in Paradise was supposed to start shooting in three weeks.
Anneliese’s breath hitched, a ragged, panicked sound.
“Months? Months?” Her composure shattered.
“I start shooting in three weeks! Fittings are next week! Bradley Smart—Martin Blackwell—the biggest director in Hollywood finally takes a chance on me instead of some nepotism hire, and now—” Her voice cracked.
“Two years. Two years I’ve been clawing my way back from what Stefan did to me at the Temmys, and now this? It’s gone. It’s all gone.”
Olivia stepped forward, her expression calm but her eyes sharp. “Anneliese, stop. Panicking is not a strategy. We’re not there yet.”
But Anneliese couldn’t hear her. “It’s over, don’t you see?” she said, the tears coming harder. “Everything I’ve built—for us—it’s gone. He wins. That smug, self-righteous asshole finally wins.”
“No one is winning anything,” Olivia said, firm but not unkind. “I’ve already put out the preliminary statement. An unfortunate accident. Uneven carpeting. You’re a graceful professional who had an unfortunate mishap. That’s the narrative. We control the narrative. Breathe.”
“What narrative, Olivia?” Anneliese’s voice was raw, ragged.
“The one where I’m uninsurable? Where every brand drops me like I’m radioactive?
Where Kristi LaDor pretends she never knew my name?
The one where I lose the house—” Her eyes flicked to Erika, wild with panic.
“Where I can’t take care of my sister anymore?
That’s the only narrative that matters, and it’s over! ”
Take care of my sister. The phrase stuck. She’d known, of course. She’d always been the dependent one in Annie’s eyes. But hearing it said—filed under brand deals and insurance premiums . . .
Erika reached out and placed a hand on Anneliese’s shoulder, feeling the tremor of her sobs. After a few minutes of hollow reassurances, the raw emotion in the room became too much.
“I’ll be right back.” Erika kept her voice level. “Just getting some water.”
She slipped out of the room, and the sterile white walls of the corridor swallowed her whole. The lights hummed overhead, casting everything in that flat, institutional pallor. She leaned against the wall, pressing her palms flat against the cool surface, and tried to breathe.
Take care of my sister. The phrase kept circling back.
She’d spent her whole life being the one who needed taking care of. The one who couldn’t hold a job. The one whose art wasn’t selling. The one who wore borrowed dresses to parties she didn’t want to attend. And now, when Annie needed her most, what could she offer?
Nothing. She had nothing. Well, she had a fine arts degree and a closet full of her sister’s hand-me-downs. So, basically nothing.
“Erika.”
The voice, low and familiar, made her go still. She looked up at the sight of him. Stefan Cruz stood at the far end of the hall, looking utterly out of place in his champagne-stained suit. The arrogant smirk was gone, replaced by what might have been a concern.
Her stomach did something inconvenient.
“What the hell are you doing here?”
He walked toward her slowly, hands raised in a placating gesture. “I came to see if she was okay. Someone posted which hospital—I needed to know.”
“You needed to know?” Erika pushed off the wall, her exhaustion curdling into fresh rage. “Or you needed to be seen showing up? Make sure the paps get a shot of Stefan Cruz, the concerned colleague? Turn this whole disaster into your redemption arc?”
Hurt flickered across his face. “That’s not why I’m here.”
“Then why? Because from where I’m standing, you got exactly what you wanted.”
“That’s not what I wanted.” His voice was low. He paused a few feet from her, close enough that she could see the regret in his dark eyes. “It was a stupid argument that went too far. I never wanted her to get hurt.”
“Well, she is hurt.” Erika’s voice broke. “Her ankle is fractured. She needs surgery. She’ll be off her feet for months.” His face went pale. Good. Feel that.
“And because of the media shitstorm you started, she’s going to lose the contract for Love in Paradise.
The biggest role of her career—gone. Do you understand what that means?
” She stepped closer, her voice dropping.
“She loses the role, she loses the income. She loses the income, she loses the house. She loses the house—” Her throat tightened.
“She’s been supporting both of us. So congratulations, Stefan.
You didn’t take her career. You took everything. ”
The words hung between them. Erika hadn’t meant to reveal that much.
Stefan ran a hand through his hair. “I didn’t think—”
“No. You didn’t.” She folded her arms across her chest. “It’s never ‘just a stupid comment’ with you. It’s always a spectacle.”
“That’s not fair.”
“Neither is a broken ankle and a ruined career, but here we are.”
He recoiled.
“I’m sorry, Erika.” His voice was quiet now, stripped of charm. “For what it’s worth.”
He looked wrecked. There were no cameras here, no reporters, only the two of them in a hallway that smelled like antiseptic and bad coffee.
And for a moment, Erika saw the man from the corridor again.
She could almost smell the sandalwood, and hear the way he’d said her name. Like it meant something.
“Let me help.” He paused. “I know people—producers, directors. I could make some calls. Try to salvage—”
“Salvage?” She laughed, and it came out ugly. “You think a few phone calls are going to fix a broken leg and a ruined reputation?”
“No. But it’s something. That’s all I can offer.”
For a moment, she almost believed him.
And that was the problem. She wanted to believe him. Wanted to let him fix this, just once.
“I can’t do this right now.” Quieter than she meant it. Not cold—just tired. Worn down to the bone. “Just . . . stay away. Please.”
She turned to go. Her hand hovered near the wall. She forced her feet forward and didn’t look back. But she couldn’t quite shake the image of his face. Raw. Not the arrogant actor she’d wanted him to be.
Liar. She ignored it. She was good at ignoring things.
She’s been supporting both of us. Her own words echoed back at her, bitter and true. Maybe it was time to be the one who fixed things. She didn’t know how.
But as she pushed open the door to Anneliese’s room and saw her sister’s tear-streaked face turn toward her with desperate hope, she took a breath and went back in.