12. Erika
ERIKA
Asharp, brutally cheerful rap on her villa door jolted Erika from sleep. Her eyes flew open to unfamiliar shadows on a ceiling that cost more per night than everything Anneliese covered for her in a month.
“Rise and shine, goddess! Time to awaken your inner warrior and manifest those movie-star muscles! The universe rewards the early riser!”
Laura. The trainer. Erika’s mouth was dry as reality crashed in. Day one of being Anneliese Morgan had officially begun.
She peeled herself from sheets so smooth they felt liquid against her skin.
On the chaise lounge lay today’s workout gear—because apparently even sweating required couture: a scrap of neon fabric masquerading as a sports bra and leggings that might as well have been painted on.
The real Anneliese would have slipped them on without a second thought.
Erika stared at them like they might bite.
Her sneakers squeaked against the floor as she trudged toward the training area.
She rounded the corner and froze. Laura was already there, her ponytail swinging as she laughed, one tanned hand resting on Stefan’s bicep.
Her fingers lingered there, as she leaned in to murmur something that made him flash that magazine-cover smile.
Of course. Her shoulders went rigid. This was the man who’d destroyed her sister’s career, and here he was, charming the trainer like it was a reflex.
“Perfect form,” Laura said, circling him like a shark. “Let’s add five more pounds and really make those delts pop for the camera.”
Stefan Cruz stood with his back to her, shoulders flexing as he curled a weight that should have required a permit to lift. When he turned, sunlight caught the sheen across his collarbones. She squared her shoulders, channeling her sister’s swagger, and stepped into the gym.
“You are Anneliese Morgan,” she whispered to herself, tasting the lie. “You eat men like him for breakfast.”
“Look who finally decided to grace us with her presence,” Stefan drawled, letting the barbell drop with a metallic clang that made her flinch. “Didn’t think you’d show. Thought you’d be at the boutique trying on bikinis you’ll never wear in the water.”
Erika mounted the treadmill, her fingers hovering over the controls. She jabbed at the buttons, cranking the speed higher than she intended, forcing her legs to match its pace. Her calves burned in immediate protest.
“Some of us,” she said between controlled breaths, “don’t need to compensate with muscles.” She flicked her ponytail over one shoulder, the gesture pure Anneliese. “Though I suppose that’s all you have to offer.”
His laugh was low. He stepped closer, close enough that she caught the scent of sandalwood and gin, sweat-warmed. One hand braced against the treadmill frame, fingers inches from hers. “Careful. You might find out what else I have to offer.”
“Okay, beautiful people!” Laura clapped her hands. “Let’s start with some high-intensity vibrational sprints! Channel that A-list energy!”
Stefan cranked his treadmill to level nine. One eyebrow raised in silent challenge. The machine whirred beneath her fingers as she matched him level for level. Her lungs screamed protest as the humid air caught in her throat.
“Easy.” His breath came short. “Wouldn’t want you fainting on day one.”
“Save your concern.” She tasted salt on her upper lip. “I’d hate for you to strain something trying to keep up with me.”
His lips curled into something dangerous—not quite a smile. “Funny. I was about to say the same to you.”
When they slowed to catch their breath, he leaned across the gap between their machines.
“Getting tired already?” His voice dropped low enough that only she could hear.
“Just getting started,” she said, forcing her breath to steady. “Save your energy for someone who’s impressed. You’ll need it when I’m carrying this entire production on my back.”
His eyes darkened. Something too genuine to be called a smirk crossed his face. “We’ll see who carries who.”
The treadmills whirred louder as they both punched the speed higher.
Nine point five. Ten. Ten point five. Erika’s lungs burned, but her legs kept churning.
Laura paced beside them, shouting encouragement—all of it directed at Stefan.
Erika’s chin came up. She jabbed the button again.
Eleven. When she dared a sideways glance, she found Stefan already watching her, his expression shifting from surprise to something darker, more intent.
Not looking through her like Anneliese’s rival, but at her—whoever she really was beneath the designer workout gear.
The thought should have terrified her. It didn’t.
“Hydration break!” Laura sang out. Erika’s finger stabbed the stop button.
Her legs wobbled as she gripped the handrail, lungs heaving.
Three feet away, Stefan patted his face with a towel, his breathing controlled, the muscles in his forearm rippling beneath a swirl of black ink—something intricate, almost architectural, with what looked like Spanish script woven through.
“See something you like?” The words vibrated low in her ear, too close, too knowing.
Her eyes snapped up to his, caught. His knowing half-smile did something to her.
“I wasn’t—” The lie died as his eyebrow arched. Her gaze dropped to the tattoo—dark lines stretching from wrist to elbow. The lines were precise, deliberate. “Your tattoo. I was looking at your tattoo.”
He closed the distance, one hand braced against the treadmill beside her hip, caging her in. “Mi tatuaje?” His voice fell to a register that seemed to bypass her ears and travel directly to her spine. “And what’s your professional opinion?”
She channeled her sister’s steel. “It’s . . . a lot.”
His laugh was dark and rich, a sound she felt rather than heard. “Vaya, vaya. Such devastating criticism.” He leaned in, the smell of salt and heat on his skin. “I designed it myself.”
He designed it himself. That didn’t fit the playboy narrative she’d built in her head.
“Oh.” The word came out soft, unguarded—nothing like Anneliese. Anneliese was nowhere to be found.
His knuckles grazed her forearm as he reached past her for his water bottle. The world tilted. When she dared look up, his eyes had gone darker. Her gaze dropped to his mouth before she could stop it.
What if I weren’t her? The thought surfaced unbidden. What if I were just . . . me?
But she wasn’t. And Anneliese would never forgive her for wanting him to look at the real her like that instead.
“Anneliese! Stefan!” Laura’s voice shattered the moment like glass. “Hydration breaks over! Stefan, those delts are absolutely popping. Anneliese, honey, let’s see what you’ve got with the free weights!”
The spell broke. Erika stumbled back, her skin burning where his knuckles had grazed her. Stefan’s mouth quirked before he sauntered toward the bench press. She swallowed hard and looked away.
She grabbed a set of weights, nearly dropping one on her foot.
“Didn’t know you could keep up,” he called over his shoulder.
He settled onto the bench, the barbell rising and falling in his hands like it weighed nothing, veins mapping rivers across his forearms. “Always figured you for spa days and champagne cleanses.”
Playing to the crowd. Fine. Two could play that game.
“And I figured you for all brawn, no brain,” she shot back, curling her trembling fingers around a dumbbell. “Seems we’re both full of surprises.”
He watched her complete a set of perfect, controlled reps, her form surprisingly solid. A flicker of genuine surprise crossed his face, before he let out a short, intrigued laugh.
“Seems we are,” he said, lower now, his eyes tracing a slow path from her face to her form, lingering just long enough to make her skin prickle beneath her workout clothes.
The rest of the workout was a blur of competitive energy, each of them pushing harder, faster, trying to outdo the other. When she finished her final set, he handed her a towel, his fingers brushing hers a beat too long. “Same time tomorrow?” he asked, low. “Unless you’re afraid you can’t keep up.”
She should say no. Should channel Anneliese’s ice-queen dismissal and walk away. Instead, she heard herself.
“Wouldn’t miss it.” She pulled the towel from his grip, her fingers brushing his. The contact sparked up her arm. She turned before he could see her face.
Erika stumbled back to her villa, muscles humming. She collapsed onto the bed and reached for her phone. The explore page of GlamGram ambushed her with bold red text announcing Bradley Smart’s exit from the film—she froze. Shit.
She jabbed at Annie’s contact, heart hammering harder than it had during sprints. One ring. Two.
“Erika!” Anneliese’s voice burst through, breathless with excitement. “Tell me everything! Is the villa gorgeous? Did Bradley say anything about my VERVE cover?”
Erika’s throat tightened. “Annie—”
“Wait, did he mention the Temmys party? Because I swear that whole cocktail thing was—”
“Bradley’s not here.”
The line went so quiet Erika could hear the ceiling fan’s soft whir overhead.
“What?” Anneliese’s voice had dropped an octave. “What do you mean he’s not there?”
“He dropped out,” Erika said, pinching the bridge of her nose. Her reflection in the villa’s floor-to-ceiling windows looked like a stranger—blonde hair, designer workout clothes, someone else’s life. “They replaced him. With Stefan Cruz.”
“That backstabbing son of a—” Anneliese’s voice cracked, the venom dissolving into something rawer. “They knew. Martin knew what he did to me. This is how they fire me without actually firing me.”
Erika’s stomach twisted. “I need details, Annie. Not the tabloid version. What really happened between you two? I need to know exactly how to hate him.”
Anneliese’s breath hitched. “He got me fired from Glass Houses. My first real shot at being taken seriously as an actress.” Her voice hardened.
“Whispered something to the director, and two days later, I was replaced. Then I beat his costar at the Temmys in 2021, and instead of being gracious about it he told a reporter I was ‘undeserving.’ Made jokes about ‘accidentally becoming an influencer’ all season.”
The line went quiet. When Anneliese spoke again, her voice was raw. “He took the one thing I wanted people to see me as. Not just pretty. Not just famous. But good.”
“Annie . . .” Erika’s fingers tightened around the phone.
“That’s who you’re dealing with, Bean. Someone who takes things just because he can.” Anneliese exhaled. “So whatever he tries—the charm, the smirk, that whole brooding wounded-artist routine—don’t fall for it. He’ll use anything he can against you. Against me.”
“I won’t,” Erika said, though the phantom pressure of his knuckles still burned against her skin.
“Promise me.” Anneliese’s voice hardened. “Promise me you won’t let him get under your skin.”
Erika watched a gecko dart across the villa’s outer wall, disappearing into a crack between stones. “I promise.”
The line went dead. Erika set the phone face-down on the nightstand and caught her reflection in the bathroom mirror across the room—her sister’s face staring back, blonde hair falling in perfect waves where her own dark curls should be.
She touched her lower lip, remembering the way Stefan’s eyes had lingered there.
“Damn it,” she whispered, turning away from her reflection.