21. Stefan
STEFAN
The door clicked shut behind her.
He’d been pacing since dawn, barefoot on the cool marble. The rescue boat kept replaying in his head—her body going rigid, her name in his mouth, the crew close enough to hear. Idiota. He’d given Martin everything he needed and still—the way she’d felt pressed against him in the water.
Now Erika stood in his living room, summoned by his guilt.
Bare-faced, hair escaping its ponytail in corkscrews that caught the morning light.
She’d changed—yoga pants, an oversized sweatshirt that swallowed her hands—but the dark circles under her eyes matched his own and the high color in her cheeks said she was ready to tear him apart.
“We need to talk,” she’d said at the door, and he’d stepped aside without a word.
What else could he do—pretend the last twenty-four hours hadn’t happened?
His body was still humming with that memory—her fingers digging into his shoulders like he was the only solid thing left.
Or maybe that was just what he wanted to believe.
The villa felt smaller with her in it. Warmer. She stood with her arms crossed, chin lifted, that stubborn line in her jaw. Her gaze swept the room—pausing at his Tita’s photo, the cold coffee he’d forgotten to drink.
Basta, idiota. He was in trouble, real trouble, and she was here to make sure he knew it.
This one saw too much. Had since that first week on set. And standing here now, watching her study his space like she was composing it—he realized he was far deeper than he’d meant to go.
Peligroso.
He leaned against the counter, mirroring her crossed arms. She had freckles Anneliese didn’t have and a mouth he couldn’t stop thinking about.
“So, talk.”
“On the jet ski.” Her voice was steady, but he caught the tremor in her fingers where they gripped her elbows. “You said my name.”
“Your engine was dead. You were stranded. It slipped out.” Not entirely true, but close enough.
“My real name.” She stepped closer, eyes blazing. “With a rescue crew ten feet away.”
“And not one of them heard it.” He held her gaze. “I was careful, Erika. I’m always careful.”
“Then why say it at all?”
He pushed off the counter and took one step toward her. She didn’t retreat—if anything, she squared her shoulders—and Dios, she was beautiful when she was angry.
“You tell me. You came all the way here to ask—so ask.”
Her chin lifted. “Fine. On the jet ski—you used my name. My real name. And when I asked, you said ‘not like this’ and let the rescue boat bail you out.”
“So I'm here. Like this. How long have you known?” The words came out hard.
He studied her face—the tight set of her mouth, the tension in her jaw. “The Beau Monde party,” he said finally. “When I asked about tequila. The silver dress.”
Her brow furrowed. “What Beau Monde party?”
“Exactly.” That little crease between her brows. “There was no party. I made it up. You went along with it because you didn’t know any better.” He shrugged. “Anneliese would’ve called bullshit in three seconds.”
She exhaled, almost a laugh. “So I failed a test I didn’t know I was taking.”
“You didn’t fail anything.” His voice softened. “You just weren’t her.”
“You’ve had since the jet ski to tell Martin. To call Page Eight. One anonymous tip, and my sister’s career is over. Mine too.” She stepped into his space, close enough that he could see the fury building behind her eyes. “So what’s the play, Stefan? What do you want from me?”
“I want you to stop looking at me like I’m the enemy. That’s what I want.”
“Everyone in this industry wants something. You don’t just sit on a secret like this out of the goodness of your heart.”
“No. You sit on it because the alternative is watching someone get destroyed, and you’ve already seen that happen once.” “I'm not Martin.” The words came out stripped bare.
“And maybe I’m tired of waiting for the other shoe to drop.” Her finger jabbed his chest. “I keep running scenarios—what I’ll say to Anneliese, how I’ll explain that I trusted the one person she told me to stay away from.”
“You think I’ve been holding this over you? Like blackmail?”
“Haven’t you?”
“No.” He caught her wrist before she could jab him again, fingers closing around the delicate bones. Her wrist shook against his palm. “I’ve been protecting you, you stubborn—”
“I didn’t ask for your protection.”
“You didn’t have to.” He released her wrist like it burned. “You think I enjoy staring at the ceiling at three in the morning, wondering why I give a damn what happens to you?”
“Why do you? You hate my sister. You’ve made that abundantly clear. So why protect her shadow?”
The word landed. Shadow. He saw the flash of pain she tried to hide—there and gone, swallowed by anger. His heart lurched.
“That’s not—”
“No.” She laughed, brittle and sharp. “That’s what I am. The invisible twin. The one nobody sees unless I’m standing next to her.” Her arms wrapped around herself, and just like that, the fury drained out of her. “I don’t know why I expected you to be different.”
“Erika—”
“Just tell me what you want.” The words cracked. “Money? A favor? Name it so I can stop wondering when the axe falls.”
She believed it—really thought he’d been cataloging her weaknesses, waiting for the right moment to strike. Joder. What had this town done to her? What had her sister done to make her think this was all she was worth?
“You want to know what I want?” His voice dropped. “I want to know why I can’t stop thinking about you. Why every time Martin looks at you wrong, I have to stop myself from putting him through a wall. Why—” He stopped, jaw clenching. Demasiado. He was saying too much.
She’d gone still, the fight draining from her face.
“Why what?”
“Forget it.”
“No.” She stepped toward him. “You don’t start that sentence and walk away. Why what, Stefan?”
He could see the flutter at her throat, every freckle scattered across her nose. She studied his face like she was trying to solve him. Dios. He wanted to let her.
“Why I see you,” he said. “Not her shadow. Not a scandal waiting to happen. You.” His hand rose, hovering near her jaw.
“The way you watch light like you want to paint it. The way you’d burn yourself alive for your sister and never ask for anything in return.
The way you stood up to Martin when you were shaking so hard you could barely breathe. ”
“That’s why I haven’t told anyone.” His thumb brushed her cheek—barely a touch. Her breath stuttered. “Because you’re the only real thing I’ve found in this whole goddamn place. And I can’t—” His voice roughened. “I won’t be the one who destroys that.”
Neither of them moved.
The air between them had weight—everything building since the cove, the pool, the rescue boat. His gaze dropped to her mouth. Her lips parted.
Walk away, Cruz.
But God, he wanted to kiss her.
Her hand rose, fingers brushing the open collar of his shirt, and the touch sent heat crackling down his spine. His hand slid from her cheek to the back of her neck, thumb tracing the line of her jaw. She shivered under his touch, and the small sound she made nearly broke him.
“Stefan—”
“You keep saying my name like you haven’t decided what comes after it.” The words came out rougher than he intended.
A startled laugh escaped her. “I haven’t. That’s the problem.”
“Story of my life, Princesa.”
Her fingers curled into the fabric of his shirt, pulling him closer. “This is a terrible idea,” she whispered.
“Add it to the list. Right after ‘impersonating my costar’s twin’ and ‘lying to a studio.’”
Neither of them moved. His forehead touched hers. The front door banged open.
“Oh, thank God.” Lily stood on the threshold, phone clutched in her grip, face drained of color. Her gaze ricocheted from his face to Erika’s, and her eyebrows shot toward her hairline.
Erika jerked back. Stefan’s hand fell to his side. Mierda.
“What happened?” His voice was raw.
“Corporate’s sending someone. Isabelle Vance.” Lily stepped inside, shutting the door behind her. “She lands tomorrow at two. Word is the studio’s not happy with Martin—budget overruns, timeline slips, the usual. They’re sending her to audit the production.”
“And if she finds problems?” Erika’s voice had steadied.
“She shuts us down. Or worse—she starts digging into why things have been ‘off.’” Lily’s gaze cut to Erika. “You see where I’m going with this.”
Stefan watched the fear flash across Erika’s face. Cono. Isabelle Vance. Of all the people corporate could have sent.
“Isabelle and I go back,” Stefan said. “I know what she looks for, how she digs. Let me run interference.”
“That’s not a plan. That’s you putting yourself between me and a problem again.” She squared her shoulders. “What happens when she asks you a direct question and you have to choose between lying for me or saving yourself?”
“Erika—”
“You said you see me.” Her voice wavered but held.
“So, see this. I’m terrified. I'm way over my head. But I didn’t come here to hide behind someone else while they fix my problems.” She took a breath.
“If she’s coming for this production, she’s coming for both of us.
So, we handle it together. Or not at all. ”
Together.
He held out his hand. She looked at it for a moment. Then her fingers slid into his.
“So we’re in this together,” she said. “Both of us. No more unilateral heroics.”
“I don’t know what that word means. I’m an actor, not a professor.”
“It means stop trying to save me without asking first.”
His hand was still holding hers. Neither of them had let go.
Lily cleared her throat. Loudly. “Great. Touching. Literally. Now, can we figure out how to survive the next thirty-six hours without someone getting fired or arrested?”
Erika pulled her hand back, pink flooding her cheeks. Stefan flexed his fingers. Estás jodido, Cruz.
But watching her square her shoulders and turn to face Lily, he didn’t mind as much as he should.