11. Stefan
STEFAN
What the hell is wrong with Anneliese Morgan?
Stefan froze mid-sip. He’d spent years despising this woman. Fantastic. His body had apparently missed the memo.
She paused to speak with a PA, her white summer dress catching the breeze.
From fifty yards away, the silhouette was unmistakable—honey-blonde hair tumbling past bare shoulders, that distinctive profile he’d memorized across red carpets and movie screens.
But the hesitation in her step, the way she held herself.
His instincts told him something had shifted.
This wasn’t the woman who’d thrown champagne in his face at PLUMP.
The Anneliese Morgan he knew moved like she owned the room.
When a production assistant intercepted her, Stefan expected Anneliese’s trademark dismissive head tilt. Instead, she smiled—not the dazzling, camera-ready grin that had launched a thousand sponsored posts, but quieter, almost shy—the kind of smile you'd give someone who held a door open for you.
Something tugged at the edge of his memory—a dim hallway. A woman’s startled eyes in the dark.
What happened to you? The fall couldn’t have changed her this much. Could it?
Stefan’s fingers crushed the plastic water bottle. She looked . . . vulnerable. Lost. And Martin—Christ, Martin would have her in pieces by lunch. The thought made his jaw clench.
Why do I care? He shouldn’t. But he couldn’t look away.
He tossed the bottle into a nearby bin and pushed away from the craft services table. Three steps toward her, rehearsing opening lines, when Martin’s voice stopped him.
“Stefan.” Martin’s lips curled. Almost a smile. “The studio’s last resort, I see.”
Stefan turned, shoulders squaring. “Martin.”
Martin wiped sweat from his upper lip. “The prodigal son returns. Tell me, did they even negotiate your rate, or did you just say yes to the first number?”
Stefan stepped closer, close enough to smell the sour coffee on Martin’s breath. “You know why I left your last set. You’re lucky I didn’t take what I saw to the press.”
Martin’s smile tightened. “And you’re lucky anyone still remembers your name after that box office disaster.” He leaned in, voice dropping to a whisper. “We both know you’re here because you’re one flop away from streaming service purgatory.”
Martin’s smile thinned. “I am the director, Stefan. My vision. My rules.” His gaze slid toward Anneliese, lingering a beat too long on the curve of her neck. “Your costar seems . . . delicate today.” He clicked his tongue against his teeth. “Shame if something were to crack.”
Stefan tasted metal. “Touch her, and we’ll see who breaks.”
The words came out before he could stop them. What the hell am I doing? He hadn’t signed on to play white knight for Anneliese Morgan. But Martin’s gaze on her neck made something flare in him. Hot, unwelcome.
Martin pressed closer, cologne and coffee breath mingling in the humid air between them.
“Careful, golden boy. One phone call from me, and you’re doing straight-to-streaming Christmas romcoms until you’re forty.
” His finger jabbed Stefan’s chest. “Remember who buried your career after you walked off my set. I can dig the grave deeper.”
“And I could whisper a few things myself, Martin,” Stefan said, leaning in until their shoulders nearly touched. “Remember that actress on our last set? The one who suddenly quit? I still have her texts.”
He hadn’t been able to protect Stasia. He’d been too late, too careful, too worried about his own career. He wasn’t going to make that mistake again.
Martin’s smirk vanished. Something flickered behind his eyes. His eyes went flat.
“Keep your memories to yourself, Cruz.” Martin adjusted his baseball cap, the brim casting his eyes in shadow. “I run a clean set now.” He turned and walked away, but not before his gaze slid one more time toward the woman in the white dress.
Stefan watched Martin swagger away. He stepped over a tangle of cables, sidestepping a PA with sweating water bottles.
Twenty yards. Fifteen. Ten. With each step, the strangeness sharpened—the bitten edge of her thumbnail, the faint tremble in her fingers, the way her eyes kept darting toward exits.
She spotted him. For a heartbeat, fear flashed across her face—real, unguarded—before her expression shifted. Chin lifting, spine straightening, lips curving into that familiar smirk. But something was off. The edges are too sharp. The smile is wrong.
“Stefan.” His name came out clipped. She paused, tried again with more honey in her voice. “I see you made it.”
“I wouldn’t miss it for the world,” he said, closing the distance between them until she had to tilt her chin up to meet his eyes.
A grip shouldered past with a C-stand, forcing her to step sideways—directly into his space.
Her perfume hit him then, like clean cotton warmed by the sun.
His breath caught. Dios. That scent—familiar, though he couldn’t place it.
The white fabric of her dress clung to her collarbone, where beads of sweat had gathered. When she shifted her weight, the plastic water bottle in her grip creaked under her fingers. Nervous. Since when was Anneliese Morgan nervous?
He leaned closer, his lips nearly brushing her ear.
“Listen, Anneliese. About the other night . . .” His voice dropped to a murmur meant only for her. “Things got out of hand.”
His tone softened. “I’m glad to hear the injury wasn’t very serious. I hope you received the flowers.”
“Flowers?” The word escaped her like air from a punctured tire. For three heartbeats, confusion clouded her eyes before recognition dawned. Her mouth curved into what should have been Anneliese’s signature smirk, but her knuckles whitened around the water bottle.
“How quaint.” The words landed with all the bite of a wet napkin. “I’m surprised you didn’t just send a press release?” The uptick at the end—turning the statement into a question—was pure amateur hour. The real Anneliese would have drawn blood with that line. This version barely left a scratch.
Her composure slipped—small, but impossible to miss. He’d never seen Anneliese Morgan flinch at anything.
Her eyes darted to his face—quick, searching. Looking for what? The corners of his mouth twitched. Whatever she wanted to see, she wouldn’t find it.
He advanced. The boom mic operator glanced their way, then suddenly found something fascinating on the ground. Stefan leaned down until his five o’clock shadow nearly grazed her temple.
“Don’t look so worried, Princesa.” He’d never called Anneliese that—had never wanted to give her anything, even a nickname. But the word slipped out, sharp and deliberate, a silk tie being slowly pulled from around a throat. “It’s just a movie.”
Her eyes flashed—not Anneliese’s practiced indignation. Something rawer. The muscle in her jaw jumped beneath skin too pale for someone who supposedly spent weekends on Malibu beaches.
Instead of volleying back, she looked at him like he’d struck her—and his chest twisted unexpectedly. He closed the distance.
“Don’t worry,” he murmured. “You seem different, Anneliese. Changed.” He let the observation hang between them. “I’m not sure I mind it.”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” she whispered, voice cracking on the last syllable.
“It’s a pleasure working with you . . . Anneliese.” He let her name land between them, weighted with something she couldn’t quite read.
“Likewise,” she shot back, but the word came out closer to a question than Anneliese’s usual exclamation point.
He gave her a curious smile. He’d never wasted a real one on Anneliese. “I have a feeling this is going to be a very . . . illuminating shoot.”
Stefan ducked behind the sound truck, his grin dissolving the moment he was out of sight. He pressed his back against the sun-hot metal, the wrongness of it still rattling through him. Something was wrong with Anneliese Morgan. He just couldn’t figure out what.
He pulled his phone from his pocket and tapped:
Boss Man:
I need you to find out where Anneliese Morgan actually is right now. Not her social media. Real confirmation.
He dug his heels into the sand, pacing under the palms as cicadas screeched. His phone buzzed almost immediately.
Alex M.:
. . . you’re literally on set with her?
Boss Man:
Just do it. Quietly.
Alex M.:
Okay, now I’m concerned. Are you feeling all right? Heatstroke? Existential crisis?
Boss Man:
Alex.
Alex M.:
Fine, fine. Give me twenty-four hours. But you’re explaining this later.
Stefan stared at the ocean, the same impossible blue as her eyes. Funny. He didn’t remember them being quite that shade. And the fear behind them—that had never belonged to the Anneliese he knew.