10. Erika
ERIKA
The seaplane banked low over impossible blue water before touching down in a spray of white foam. Erika had spent the flight white-knuckling the armrest, running through Anneliese’s training like a prayer. Chin up. Two-beat laugh. Hands like butterflies, not spiders.
Her phone had buzzed five times since takeoff. She hadn’t looked at a single message.
The plane coasted to a stop beside a wooden dock where a water taxi idled. Erika climbed in on unsteady legs, the small boat rocking beneath her. The Bahamian heat pressed down hard, sweat already beading along her hairline.
When the taxi bumped against the main dock, she stepped off too quickly. Her ankle twisted on the wet planks, nearly sending her sprawling in front of the waiting film crew. She caught herself against a wooden piling, the rough surface scraping her palm.
Annie Banana:
Status update NOW
Erika’s thumbs hovered over the screen.
Annie Banana:
Are you ignoring me?? I’m dying here, Bean
Annie Banana:
Remember. Shoulders back. You are the sun. Everyone else is just orbiting you.
Annie Banana:
And Don’t do that thing where you hunch. It reads as “apologetic” on camera.
Olivia appeared beside her, not a wrinkle in her linen pantsuit despite the wall of humidity. “Showtime.” She nudged Erika forward as a crew member approached.
Eri:
Just landed. Fine. Crew coming.
The phone buzzed.
Annie Banana:
FINE??? That’s all I get? My CAREER is at stake!
Annie Banana:
Does the villa have security? Is it the one with the infinity pool? I specifically requested the one with the infinity pool.
Annie Banana:
Send pics. Now. And Bradley?????
Erika shoved the phone into her pocket as the crew member reached them, plastering on what she hoped was her sister’s camera-ready smile.
Olivia’s phone lit up with Anneliese’s face. Olivia answered with practiced efficiency. “Annie, she literally just texted you.” She turned away, voice dropping.
“No, she hasn’t fallen into the ocean . . . Yes, I’m watching her . . . Because hovering helps no one.” Olivia’s finger tapped against her thigh. “I’ll call before takeoff. Let. Her. Breathe.”
She hung up and fixed Erika with a look that could freeze champagne.
The crew member approached, all pressed linen and nerves. His eyes flicked to the clipboard in his hand—she caught a glimpse of her sister’s headshot stapled to the top—then back to her face. Recognition bloomed into something closer to awe.
“Welcome to the Albany, Miss Morgan.” He said her sister’s name like it was a brand he was proud to recognize. “I’m—wow, sorry—I’m such a huge fan. My girlfriend follows all your stuff.”
Erika’s mouth was dry. She forced her lips into the smile she’d practiced for hours in the mirror—the one Anneliese deployed when cornered by paparazzi.
But her laugh snagged somewhere between her chest and throat, emerging as something between a hiccup and a yelp.
Nailed it. She overcorrected her voice into a breathy soprano that belonged in a 1940s film.
“It’s lovely to be here.” She reached for the signature Anneliese tuck—her fingers tangled in the unfamiliar strands, leaving her pawing at her own head like she was swatting invisible mosquitoes.
Olivia slid between Erika and the crew member with the smooth ease of someone who’d spent years deflecting paparazzi. “You’ll have to excuse Miss Morgan,” she said, flashing a smile that revealed exactly thirty-two perfect teeth. “The turbulence was brutal.”
The crew member’s gaze lingered on Erika’s face a beat too long before he nodded. “Of course.” He gestured toward a waiting golf cart. “Mr. Blackwell wanted to welcome you personally, but he’s tied up with the DP. He did insist on the oceanfront villa, though.”
“Martin’s always so considerate when he wants something,” Olivia said as they settled into the cart’s leather seats. She leaned close. “I’ll sweep the villa for bugs, digital and otherwise, then smooth things over with Martin before my flight.”
“Flight?” The word stuck in Erika’s throat. “You’re leaving now?” Her voice cracked.
“I have to.” Olivia checked her watch. “The vultures are circling in LA, and Ariel Waves is having another meltdown—something about her label wanting to ‘rebrand her image.’” She softened.
“Lily knows everything. She’s got your back.
” Her hand briefly squeezed Erika’s shoulder.
“Remember, you’re Anneliese Morgan now.”
The attendant pulled up to a villa that looked like it had been plucked from a travel magazine—all gleaming wood and floor-to-ceiling windows that reflected a sky so blue it hurt to look at. “Someone will bring your luggage,” he said. “Costume fitting at three.”
“She’ll be there,” Olivia said, already swinging her legs out of the cart. She turned to Erika, voice dropping. “I need to handle some things with Martin before my flight. Are you good?”
Erika’s throat tightened. No. Absolutely not. Please don’t leave me here. “I’m fine,” she heard herself say.
Olivia studied her for a beat too long, then nodded. “Lily will be at the costume fitting. You won’t be alone.” She squeezed Erika’s shoulder—brief, businesslike—and climbed back into the cart.
The golf cart hummed away, leaving Erika clutching her sister’s designer handbag like a life preserver in open water.
Inside the villa, her sandals tapped across marble floors too pristine to walk on. White furniture gleamed under cathedral ceilings. She stumbled onto the terrace, gulping sea air, and froze. Through a gap in the bougainvillea, she could see into the neighboring villa’s open-air gym.
And then she saw him.
Stefan Cruz. Shirtless. Sunlight carved shadows along the planes of his back as he did a pull-up—shoulder blades shifting beneath his skin, the muscles of his arms coiling and releasing. A sheen of sweat traced the curve of his spine, disappearing into workout shorts that rode low on his hips.
Erika’s breath stopped.
He dropped from the bar and snatched a towel from a nearby bench. His chest rose and fell, abs flexing with each breath, and when he lifted the towel to his face, the muscles of his forearms rippled beneath a swirl of black ink.
A flush of heat crawled up her neck—nothing to do with the Bahamian sun.
No. Absolutely not. Her fingers curled into her palms, nails biting flesh.
His head turned—slow, deliberate—and he looked up at exactly the right moment. His lips curved into that infamous smirk, only sharper up close. He raised the towel in a mocking salute.
Her stomach flipped. Her feet stayed rooted.
She jerked back behind the terrace wall, breath short. Why is he here? Anneliese would have warned her.
Her phone buzzed—Anneliese, again—but what could she possibly say? The man who ruined your career is twenty feet away and I just stood there staring at his abs like an idiot?
She pressed her back against the warm stucco, willing her heartbeat to slow. Costume tent. Focus. But even as she repeated the words in her head, she knew without a doubt that nowhere on this island was far enough away from Stefan Cruz.
Erika stumbled into the costume tent, the arctic blast of air conditioning raising goosebumps along her sweat-slicked arms. Her hands wouldn’t stop shaking.
“Anneliese! There you are!” A familiar voice cut through the chaos of rustling fabric and murmured conversations.
Lily Martinez emerged from behind a rack of sequined gowns, measuring tape slung around her neck. Her smile faltered as she registered Erika’s expression.
The tent flap snapped open behind them. Conversations died. Hangers stopped clinking.
Martin Blackwell stood silhouetted against the fierce Bahamian sun, his pastel linen shirt damp with sweat. The veins in his temples throbbed visibly.
“What the hell is happening in here?” Martin’s voice cut the silence.
His gaze locked onto Erika—small eyes narrowing, cold and assessing. She’d heard the stories—every actress in Hollywood had—but nothing prepared her for the way his eyes traveled from her face to her chest, lingering a beat too long.
She clutched her script tighter, the pages crumpling against her chest as she retreated a half-step.
Lily slid between them, chin tilted upward. “Just starting the final fittings, Martin.” Her voice was honey over steel. “Something wrong?”
“What’s wrong is that we’re already behind schedule!
” Spittle gathered at the corners of his mouth.
“The wardrobe was supposed to be finalized days ago, but between the studio rushing pre-production and my revisions, nothing is where it should be!” He jabbed a finger in Erika’s direction.
“This film is bleeding money, and you’re playing dress-up! ”
Erika’s stomach hollowed out. Martin’s eyes never quite met hers—they fixed somewhere below her chin.
“Fix it.” The tent flap cracked behind him like a whip.
Erika exhaled. “Is he always like that?”
Lily snorted, fingers flying as she sorted through a rack of costumes. “Martin? That was him being charming. Wait until he starts throwing things.”
“Lily,” Erika whispered, gripping the designer’s arm. “Why is Stefan Cruz here?”
Lily’s perfectly penciled eyebrows arched over her cat-eye glasses. “Saw the neighbor already, did we?” Her gaze flicked to Erika’s death grip on the costume rack. “Breathe, honey. You look like you’ve seen—”
“A ghost with an eight-pack,” Erika whispered, the words escaping before she could catch them.
Her grip on Lily’s arm tightened. “That’s the lead actor’s villa.
Please tell me he’s just some . . . some stunt coordinator.
Or Bradley’s personal trainer.” Her voice broke.
“Or literally anyone except who I think it is.”
Lily glanced at the tent flap, then guided Erika behind a fortress of sequined gowns where a canvas director’s chair sat. “Sit before you fall.”
“Bradley’s coming, right? He’s just delayed or—”
“Bradley Smart,” Lily said, slowly,” . . . is currently on a private jet to New Zealand. Production got the call yesterday.”
Erika gripped the armrests of the director’s chair, knuckles whitening. “What?”
“‘Family emergency,’” Lily said, with air quotes.
“The rumor mill’s in overdrive. Some say he heard about your accident and bolted.
Others swear he and Martin nearly came to blows over the third act.
Bradley has the spine of a jellyfish. One whiff of delays and that ‘difficult director’ reputation, and poof—” she snapped her fingers “—New Zealand suddenly needed him desperately.”
“So the movie’s . . . canceled?”
Lily’s laugh was the sound of expensive jewelry against marble.
“Sweetie, this is Hollywood. They’d reshoot with sock puppets before they’d walk away from forty million in pre-production.
” She lowered her voice to a conspiratorial whisper.
“The studio exec literally threw his Spinzone bike through a window when Bradley bailed. They’ve been making calls all night. ”
“But who would—” The answer was already in her throat.
Lily’s crimson fingernails drummed against her tablet.
“They needed someone who could start tomorrow. Someone the camera worships.” Her eyes darted toward the tent’s entrance, in the exact direction of the neighboring villa.
“Someone whose tabloid history with Anneliese Morgan would have Page Eight camping on the beach before sunset.”
The dread in Erika’s gut solidified.
“They hired Stefan Cruz,” Lily said.
Erika thought she’d stopped breathing—the man who hated Anneliese more than anyone in Hollywood.
“Excuse me,” she whispered, stumbling to her feet. “I need to—” But there was nowhere to go. No escape. No convenient sinkhole to swallow her whole. Shit. This was a problem.
She could call Olivia. Confess everything. Get on the next flight home and let Anneliese deal with the fallout.
But she didn’t dial. Walking away meant Anneliese’s career was in ruins. And despite everything—the lies, the terror, the man next door—she wasn’t ready to be the sister who destroyed everything.
You are the sun. She exhaled. Fine. But even the sun has to fake it sometimes.