7. Stefan
STEFAN
Stefan was trying to outrun his own head. The treadmill hummed in his cavernous home gym. He cranked up the speed, his lungs burning, his feet hitting hard.
#ChampagneGate. Olivia Grey had spun it as a clumsy accident. But Stefan knew the truth. Idiota. He’d provoked Anneliese, and she’d gotten hurt.
But the guilt over Anneliese sat low in his gut, easy to ignore. The memory that cut through was her sister. He saw Erika’s face in the harsh fluorescent light of the hospital corridor—the way she’d folded her arms and told him to leave. Her anger hadn’t been for show. She’d meant every word.
He slammed the stop button on the treadmill. The workout hadn’t helped. He pulled out his phone and opened GlamGram. He navigated to Anneliese Morgan’s profile and scrolled to her tagged photos.
He found it—a post from three years ago.
Anneliese beaming, arm wrapped around her sister.
But it was Erika who held his attention: softer then, a sketchbook clutched against her chest. The caption: “SO proud of my genius twin!” Stefan zoomed in on the sketchbook. Charcoal work. Bold strokes. An artist.
He picked up his phone and dialed Alex. “Are you watching this dumpster fire?” His voice was rough from the workout.
“#ChampagneGate?” Alex’s laugh was dry. “I’ve got three Google alerts and a migraine. You really know how to make my job interesting.”
“The Morgan role in Love in Paradise—find out if the studio’s looking to replace her. Quietly.”
“Already on it. Backchannels only.” A pause. “Anything else, or are we done setting fires for the day?”
Stefan hesitated. Flowers for Anneliese would be damage control. But what else could he send? “Actually, yes.” He cleared his throat. “Send a flower arrangement to Anneliese Morgan’s place. Something tasteful. White lilies. The card should just say, ‘Wishing you a swift recovery. -S.’”
“Guilt bouquet. Got it.”
“And . . .” He paused. The next thought arrived before he could stop it. “Her sister, Erika.” The artist. “Find a set of professional-grade charcoal pencils and a high-quality, leather-bound sketchbook. No card. Just send it to the house.”
Alex’s voice shifted. “Who’s the sketchbook really for?”
“Just do it, Alex.”
“Uh-huh.” He could hear the smirk. “I’ll see to it personally.”
He hung up. The caller ID flashed Sarah Westwood. His agent.
“Sarah,” he answered, trying to keep his tone even.
“Stefan, we have a problem,” she said, tight. “Verramago just called. They’re pulling the plug on the campaign talks. Said your recent press is ‘not aligned with their brand values.’”
Stefan squeezed his eyes shut, leaning his head back against the cool glass of his gym wall. The Verramago deal was supposed to be his next big thing, a lucrative campaign that would have helped bury Explosion Avalanche. “Let me guess. ChampagneGate?”
“That, and the ‘no talent’ comment, and the ‘dictator’ soundbite. It’s a mess, Stefan. The tabloids are painting you as angry and bitter, and the luxury brands are getting spooked.” She exhaled. “Which, ironically, brings me to some . . . other news.”
Stefan braced himself. “What is it?”
“Bradley Smart might be dropping out of the new Martin Blackwell picture. The studio is panicking.”
Hijo de puta. “And they called me? Sarah, you know I’ll never work with Martin again.” His vow had been absolute, a decision made after Midnight Run. After he’d found a young actress shaking in her trailer, unable to meet his eyes, and figured out the rest.
“I know, Stefan, I know,” she said, softer. “But hear me out. Things have been . . . quiet lately. And the Verramago deal just went up in smoke. We need a win.”
Quiet was an understatement—six months without a role. At thirty-six, the clock was running.
“They’re desperate,” Sarah continued, dropping to a whisper. “Martin is desperate. He’s offering double your emergency fee.”
Stefan let out a short, humorless laugh. “That’s not enough to get me in a room with that monster, Sarah. Not even close.”
“I know,” she said. “That was just the opening offer. The real number . . . Stefan, they’re offering seventy-five million dollars.”
Stefan froze. The number was life-changing. Enough to start his own production company, or finally retire from the Hollywood race, to finally escape the whims of men like Martin Blackwell. “That’s . . .” he started, the number making him dizzy.
“That’s not even the interesting part,” Sarah cut in. “There’s one more thing you need to know.”
“Anneliese Morgan is still attached to the project,” Sarah said. “She’s your costar.”
Madre mía. Stasia’s face flashed through his mind—the way she’d flinched whenever Martin entered a room after that night. Whatever Martin did, he did slowly. And Anneliese Morgan, with her public bravado, would be exactly the kind of target Martin liked.
But beneath that: Anneliese meant proximity to Erika.
“I can’t work with her, Sarah,” he said, the words hollow. “You know what happened between us.”
“I know,” Sarah said. “But the studio wants her. And frankly, after ‘ChampagneGate,’ the publicity of you two starring in a romance would be off the charts. You don’t have to like her, Stefan. You just have to be a professional.”
Stefan stared at the ceiling, laughing bitterly. Seventy-five million dollars. The role of a lifetime. And Anneliese Morgan—who meant proximity to Erika.
“Stefan? Are you there?”
He closed his eyes. A golden ticket to hell.
Erika’s furious face at the hospital. “. . . she’s probably going to lose the contract for Love in Paradise! The biggest role of her career!”
Her words sat there. Without a leading man, the project would collapse. Anneliese would lose the role.
There had to be someone else. He ran through names—actors who could step in on two days’ notice without losing their minds. But anyone with half a brain knew better than to sign onto a Martin Blackwell production on two days’ notice. Mierda.
The guilt churned. This was his fault. And Martin on set with Anneliese—public bravado, no experience with men like that—it was Stasia all over again.
He could see exactly how it went. If he took the part, he was the only person who knew what Martin was and could actually do something about it.
The thought of Erika’s face, the fury in the hospital corridor, pulled at something else entirely.
Somewhere, his Tita was shaking her head. Siempre el héroe, mijo. Even when it costs you.
“I can hear you breathing.”
“Tell them I’m in.”
Before she could reply, he ended the call and dialed Alex.
“Tell me you’re not doing something stupid,” Alex said by way of greeting.
“Call the pilot. Jet prepped and fueled. Wheels up in three hours.”
A pause. “Where are we going?”
“The Bahamas.”
“The Bahamas,” Alex repeated slowly. “Where Martin Blackwell is currently shooting. The director you swore you’d never work with again. That Bahamas?”
Exactamente. “That’s the one.”
“And you need wheels up in three hours because . . . ?”
“I took the job.”
Silence. Stefan could picture him—loss for words, rubbing the bridge of his nose.
“You took the—Stefan, what the fuck?”
“Get me the bungalow next to Anneliese Morgan’s. I don’t care what it costs. Tell them it’s a security issue if you have to.”
“You hate Anneliese Morgan.”
“I know.” And her sister won’t leave my head. Fantastic.
Another pause, longer this time. Stefan could practically hear Alex recalibrating. “Bags?”
“Beach wear. A couple of suits. Workout gear. Everything for a long stay.”
“Script and pre-production schedule to your tablet.” Alex’s voice shifted into logistics mode. The we’re talking about this later was implied. “Anything else?”
“Let Sarah know I’ll handle Martin Blackwell myself.”
“Handle.” Alex let the word sit. “That’s a loaded verb.”
Stefan didn’t smile back. “It’s meant to be.”