16. Stefan
STEFAN
Stefan’s knuckles hovered an inch from the door.
Qué cono estás haciendo, Cruz? Three precise taps, then silence.
His palm went clammy around the warm container of his tita’s sopa de lima, the same soup she’d made whenever he’d fallen ill or had his heart broken as a boy.
The lock clicked. Her face appeared in the crack—eyes red-rimmed and swollen. Arms wrapped tight around herself.
Mierda. He’d watched Martin tear into her on set. Stood there like a coward while she crumbled. Told himself it wasn’t his fight.
The door opened a few more inches, the chain still fastened. She stood in the gap, hair damp at the temples, face scrubbed clean. The sunset caught a constellation of freckles across her nose. Funny. He didn’t remember those from any photo shoot.
“Whatever you’re selling, I’m not buying.” Her voice was hoarse.
“Not selling anything.” He lifted the container, steam curling into the night air. “Sopa de lima. My Tita’s recipe. Figured you’d skip dinner and spiral instead.”
She almost smiled. Almost. “You tracked me down to deliver soup.”
“I tracked you down because you walked off set three hours ago looking like you wanted to disappear, and no one’s seen you since.” He kept his voice even. “The soup is just my cover story.”
Her chin lifted. For a moment, he thought she'd close the door in his face.
Then her stomach growled—loud enough that they both heard it.
The chain slid free.
She stepped back to let him in, but her eyes darted past him first, scanning the path. “If a single crew member spots you at my door, we’ll be the next tabloid headline. You know that, right?”
“Took the long way. Through the kitchen garden, past the maintenance shed. Very undignified.” He stepped inside. “No one saw.”
The door clicked shut behind him. He found the kitchen, ladled the soup into a bowl. When he turned back, she was still standing in the middle of the room, arms wrapped around herself, watching him like she couldn’t quite figure out the angle.
He set the bowl on the counter. “I can leave this and go—pretend I was never here. Or—” He nodded toward the glass doors. “We sit outside, don’t talk about any of it, and you eat something before you pass out.”
She followed him out into the air, thick with salt and bougainvillea. The plunge pool rippled with silver light. They settled at its edge, feet dangling in the water.
She took the first spoonful. Her eyes watered instantly, her whole face opening as the heat hit.
“Jesus,” she gasped, reaching for water that wasn’t there. “Are you trying to kill me?”
“My Tita’s recipe.” The corner of his mouth lifted. “For when someone needs their soul shocked back into their body.”
She took another spoonful despite herself. “Is it working?”
Before he could stop himself—
“First day I shot in Madrid,” he said, “I puked in a prop vase between takes. Seventeenth century. Museum piece.”
Her spoon paused halfway to her mouth. “A museum piece. You desecrated a museum piece.”
“The director found it fitting. Said my performance was equally valuable.”
A real laugh escaped her—startled, unguarded.
“Everyone pukes,” he said, softer now. “We just hide it better after a few years.” He glanced at her. “Your problem isn’t the acting—it’s that you’re trying too hard to hide what’s underneath. I could feel you vibrating with it today across the set.”
He held her gaze—just a searching, steady look. She jerked her eyes away, busying herself with the soup. There. That flinch.
“You know, I never set out to be Hollywood’s favorite bad boy. I wanted to design buildings. Places that outlast people.”
Her spoon stilled. “Architect Stefan Cruz.” She said it like she was testing the shape of it. “That’s . . . not what I expected.”
“Whole cities, maybe. When I was a kid, I’d stay up drawing floor plans instead of doing homework. Learning how things fit together. How to spot weak foundations.” His eyes found hers. “Guess I still do that.”
Something shifted in her expression. “Floor plans.” Her voice went strange. “I used to fill sketchbooks. Charcoal, mostly. Faces, hands, the way light hit things.” She caught herself. “Anyway. That was a long time ago.”
“Was it?”
“Keep going. You were about to tell me how you sold out.”
He let the deflection stand. For now. “Wasn’t good at it.
Numbers, not my thing.” He shrugged. “But it was honest work. Something that mattered. Then a casting agent saw me at a friend’s birthday and offered a gig.
Money was good. Rest is . . .” He gestured at everything—the villa, the moon, the absurdity.
“So you traded blueprints for blockbusters.” She wasn’t mocking—not quite. “Do you ever wonder who you’d be if you hadn’t?”
The question landed harder than it should have.
“Someone told me I had a face that could sell anything. Not much future in buildings when you grow up broke in small-town Spain.” His shoulders lifted, fell. “Acting was supposed to be a side hustle. Then it wasn’t. Then I liked it too much. The money, the way people looked at me.” He looked away.
“My sister used to say I—” She stopped, alarm flickering across her face. “She used to say she was like a canvas waiting for paint. That she could become anything, but hadn’t decided what yet.”
“Sounds like pressure,” he said carefully. “Living up to your own mythology.”
She traced her finger along the pool’s edge, watching ripples spread outward. “My sister’s the artist. Charcoal, mostly. She used to fill sketchbooks until her fingers turned black.” Her voice softened. “People always said she was the talented one. The real one.”
Stefan watched her face in the moonlight.
“Sounds like you miss her,” he said.
Her hand stilled on the tile. “Yeah.” A beat. “More than I thought I would.”
“I think we’re all just trying to convince ourselves we belong in the story we’ve been given,” he said, voice rough. “Even when we know it’s bullshit.”
“Then explain something to me.” She turned to face him. “If you understand what it’s like to be trapped in someone else’s story, why did you do what you did at PLUMP?”
The question landed hard. He looked away, staring at the dark horizon.
“My father cleaned office buildings in Madrid at night,” he said finally. “I’d help him sometimes. Emptying trash cans while executives’ framed diplomas stared down at us.” The water lapped at their feet. “Then I’d watch those same men tell him he should be grateful for minimum wage.”
“When I got to Hollywood, I was everyone’s favorite flavor.” His voice stripped itself bare. “Bad boy with the accent. Heartthrob who could actually act. Until—”
“Until Renegade Dawn tanked,” she finished, “and suddenly you weren’t bankable anymore.”
“Overnight, everything I touched turned to ash.” His gaze dropped to the water. “Tried directing—critics killed it. ‘stick to looking pretty, Cruz.’ When I finally gave them what they wanted—the bad boy, the heartthrob—they called me talentless. A stereotype with an accent.”
He exhaled slowly. “So yeah, when you got handed a lead role for a movie I auditioned for three times—because your StyleSnap numbers were better than my reviews—” He cut himself off. “It wasn’t personal. But you became the face of everything I couldn’t stomach about this industry.”
He pulled out his phone, swiped to a webpage, and handed it over. Her expression shuttered as she read.
A photo of them from rehearsal. Her expression contorted in what the caption called “barely contained hatred,” his hand at her waist.
“They need us to hate each other,” he said. “Or love each other. Either sells. ‘Stennalise’ is just this week’s product.”
She set the empty bowl on the tile with a hollow clink. “But none of it’s—” The confession stuck in her throat. She shook her head. “Never mind.”
He watched her wrestle with something she couldn’t say. Something was different about her—had been since the moment he arrived on this island. But whatever it was, she clearly wasn’t ready to share. And he wasn’t going to be the one to force it.
“We’re all performing something,” he said quietly. “Some of us just forgot where the script ends.”
“You could tell Martin I’m struggling.” Her voice cracked. “One word to the studio and I’m done.”
He held her gaze. “And what would that get me? Another headline? More drama?” He dismissed the idea with a wave. “Estoy harto de los dramas. I’m tired of the games.” His voice softened. “Whatever’s going on with you—I’m not interested in using it against you.”
The suspicion in her eyes didn’t fade. But hope flickered there, too.
The space between them shrank.
His hand hovered over hers—giving her time to pull away.
She didn’t. His fingers covered hers on the cool tile, his palm warm against her chilled skin. Her breath caught.
“You’re harder on yourself than Martin is.” His thumb traced the ridge of her knuckles.
She held his gaze. The air between them thickened. She jerked her hand away, the absence leaving his palm cold. A smile cut across her mouth, sharp. “Don’t mistake this for surrender. Tomorrow, we’re still enemies.”
“I wouldn’t dare forget it.” His laugh scraped the silence. “Enemies by daylight. I know the script.” The playfulness drained from his voice, leaving only ache. “Get some rest.”