23. Stefan
STEFAN
Stefan’s cocktail glass slipped from his fingers, amber liquid splashing onto the hot stone of the villa’s patio. The setting sun cast long shadows across the infinity pool.
“I see you’re still enjoying the simple life, Stefan.”
He jerked upright as Isabelle Vance stood at the edge of his pool, her white pantsuit without a single crease, not a strand of her icy blonde bob out of place. The last time she’d appeared unannounced, Marcus Chen had been on a plane to rehab within six hours.
“Isabelle.” His tongue felt thick. He reached for the sunglasses he’d discarded. “?Quién murió?”
Her mouth curved. “Still with gallows humor. Some things never change.” She circled the pool’s edge. “You’re looking well. The island suits you.”
“You didn’t fly three thousand miles to compliment my tan.”
“No.” She settled onto the lounge chair across from him. “But I can appreciate the view while I work.”
He needed something in his hands. The rum bottle was closest. “The studio is providing oversight,” he said flatly. “That’s the official line?”
“Martin’s little passion project is twenty-six hours behind schedule and four million over budget.” She plucked the bottle from his grip before he could pour, examining the label. “And you’re still drinking this cheap swill. I thought Cabo cured you of that.”
“Cabo cured me of a lot of things.”
Her eyes held his before sliding away. Isabelle set the bottle down. “Martin has a history.” Her voice dropped. “The studio has cleaned up after him before. We’d prefer not to do it again.”
His hand tightened on the armrest.
“So no,” she continued, “I’m not here because of some trashy tabloid speculation about you and the Morgan girl. Though that little display was . . .” She smiled thinly. “Illuminating.”
“I’m here for the bottom line.” Isabelle stood, smoothing her pantsuit. “Stefan. I mean it, be careful. Martin’s not the only one who leaves wreckage behind.” Her voice softened. “I can protect you from a lot of things. But not from yourself.”
She was halfway to the gate when she stopped. Stefan followed her gaze.
Erika rounded the corner, head bent over her script. She glanced up, stumbled half a step backward. “Oh—hello.”
Isabelle’s eyes narrowed as they traveled from Erika's messy bun to the pen still clutched in her hand, ink smudged across two fingers where she'd been marking up her script.
“Anneliese.” Isabelle cocked her head. “How . . . unexpected. The woman who set fire to The Chateau pool cabana is usually louder than this.” She closed the distance. “The studio has invested considerably in you. I’d hate to see that . . . compromised.”
Erika swallowed hard. Then her chin lifted. “The studio’s investment is safe,” she said. “I always deliver.” She held Isabelle’s gaze, one beat, two, then slipped around the corner.
Isabelle watched her go, calculation flickering across her face. Then she turned back to Stefan. “Keep your eyes open. And keep them where they belong.” Her heels struck a slow rhythm as she disappeared into the evening.
He scrubbed his face. Joder. His phone was out before he’d consciously grabbed it.
Boss Man:
Dig up everything on Martin Blackwell. Complaints. NDAs. Anyone who left his productions under strange circumstances.
Boss Man:
Isabelle hinted at ugly history. I want to know what she knows.
He stalked the perimeter of the pool. His phone vibrated.
Alex M.:
On it. Also, you’re trending. #Stennalise is everywhere. That pier jump hug is everywhere.
Of course it was.
Alex M.:
And heads up, Bradley Smart was spotted in Malibu.
Boss Man:
So? The guy lives in the hills.
Alex M.:
He’s been hanging around a private wellness retreat. One that’s strictly off-grid. If he’s sniffing around there, the paparazzi are going to start asking why. They don’t have the scent yet, but Bradley is basically a neon sign for the press.
Boss Man:
Bradley’s a problem.
Alex M.:
Bigger issue. Bradley’s in Malibu, and you're both supposedly camped out with ‘Anneliese.’ Two places at once isn’t a rumor problem—it’s a math problem.
Alex M.:
Stefan. How is Anneliese in Malibu with Bradley Smart when she’s supposed to be stuck out there filming with you?
Stefan stared at the screen.
Alex M.:
Stefan.
Boss Man:
Drop it.
Alex M.:
I've been your business manager for fifteen years. I won’t drop it. Who is she?
A long pause. He didn't type anything.
Alex M.:
That's what I thought.
Boss Man:
Just keep me posted.
Alex M.:
Always do. But Stefan—a twin swap on a Martin Blackwell production? That’s not career suicide, that's a career homicide. Be careful.
His phone buzzed again before he could pocket it.
Sarah W.:
What is #Stennalise?? Call me. Verramago’s people just called for the first time in months. Along with two others.
He silenced it and tossed the phone onto a lounge chair. Isabelle watching Martin. Bradley a loose thread. Erika caught in the middle of all of it.
By the time he'd finished his second drink, she was back—cross-legged on the chaise lounge, phone propped against a pool float, filming.
The soft blue glow drew his eye first. Then her. Erika on the chaise lounge, smiling into the camera in a sundress, pool lights catching her neck.
Her whole face rearranged itself into someone else's smile. “Hello, my loves! Absolutely divine. Working with Stefan has been . . . an adventure.”
His towel hit the ground. She gasped. He dove in without a splash and surfaced at her edge.
“Adventure, huh? ?Una aventura, verdad?”
Her phone screen exploded: heart emojis, thirst, the ship name already trending.
“I’m filming, Stefan,” she said, fumbling to end the stream.
“Were. Past tense.” He rested his forearms on the pool’s edge. “Pretty sure you just gave them enough content to fuel a thousand fan edits.”
“You did that on purpose.” She clutched the phone to her chest.
“I was hot. It’s a pool.” He hadn’t stopped grinning. “Not my fault your audience has taste.”
“Your taste is what got us trending last week. My mentions are going to be nothing but thirst emojis and wedding date guesses for days.” But she was fighting a smile.
“You’re welcome, corazón.”
He eased himself out of the pool, not reaching for a towel. Water dripped from his hair onto the heated concrete between them. He tapped between his eyebrows. “You’ve got that little crease,” he said, “the one you get when Martin asks for take seventeen.”
Her hand flew to her forehead. “I do not have a crease.”
“You do. Right there.” His fingertip hovered just above the spot between her brows. “It’s how I know when you’re worried versus when you’re pretending to be annoyed with me.”
“Maybe I’m both.”
“Maybe.” He let his hand drop. “So which is it tonight?”
She glanced toward the spot where Isabelle had disappeared, hands going still at her sides.
“She’s very beautiful,” Erika said. “Isabelle.”
Stefan raised an eyebrow, waiting.
“She’s very . . . polished.”
“Isabelle’s had plenty of messy days.” He reached for the towel he’d abandoned, slung it over his shoulder. “She’s better at hiding them than most.”
“You two seemed close.” She tried for casualness and missed by a mile. “The way she touched you.”
“Are you asking if I’m sleeping with Isabelle Vance?”
The flush on her neck went scarlet. “No. I was just—noticing. I notice things. It’s an artist’s curse.”
He stepped closer, close enough that she had to tilt her chin up. “What else did you notice, then?”
She should step back. She didn’t.
“That she’s exactly the kind of woman who belongs in your world. Powerful. Connected. The sort of woman who could help your career instead of destroying it.”
He was quiet for a moment. The pool filter hummed between them.
“Isabelle and I have history,” he said carefully. “But that’s all it is. History.”
“You don’t owe me an explanation.”
“I know.” He brushed a strand of wind-blown hair from her face. “But I wanted you to have one anyway.”
“Why?”
“Because I’ve never explained myself to Isabelle Vance. And I’ve never wanted to.” He held her gaze. “Draw your own conclusions.”
“You can’t just—” She gestured at the space between them. “Say things like that while standing there looking like a cologne ad that gained sentience.”
His dimples appeared. “That might be the nicest thing you’ve ever said to me.”
“It wasn’t a compliment.”
“It was a little bit a compliment.” He stepped closer. “You’re cataloging me right now. I can see you doing it.”
“I’m an artist. I catalog everything.” But her voice had lost its edge.
“Isabelle and I are ancient history,” he said, his voice low. “She’s not the woman keeping me up at night.”
She held his gaze. Then she gathered her phone and her towel.
“Goodnight, Stefan.”
He watched her disappear into the dark.