25. Erika
ERIKA
The storm had turned mean. What had been rain and bluster an hour ago was now wind that knocked people sideways, palm fronds ripping loose and sailing across the lot like thrown knives.
Production had called the evacuation at four—last ferry to Nassau, all nonessential personnel, forty-five minutes. Half the crew had already packed out. Erika could see them streaming toward the dock with bags over their shoulders, heads ducked against the weather.
She should be with them. Instead she was scanning the chaos for Stefan, because the thunder had interrupted them mid-sentence and she’d spent every hour since replaying the look on his face when he’d said I know there are a hundred reasons we shouldn’t.
Her phone buzzed.
Lils:
Ferry in 40. If you’re not at that dock in 30, I’m telling Martin you have food poisoning and dragging you there myself.
Eri:
I need to find Stefan first.
Lils:
Production trailers. He’s helping secure equipment. Get him and get to the dock!
Eri:
I forgot my sketchbook at his villa. I have to go back.
Lils:
Are you insane? The storm is peak. Forget the book! Erika?
Eri:
I can’t. I’m going.
Lils:
Erika. I swear to God. Get to the dock. Do NOT make me come looking for you in this weather.
Erika stared at the screen. Lily was right. It was just paper. Just drawings. Except it wasn’t.
She shoved the phone in her pocket. The production trailers were ahead, half-obscured by the downpour. She was ten feet away when Martin stepped out from between them.
“Anneliese.” His voice cut through the wind. “Just the person I wanted to see.”
Erika stopped. He moved toward her, unhurried despite the storm plastering his linen shirt to his chest. The way he walked made the hair rise on the back of her neck. By the time she thought to move, he was already in front of her. Blocking the path to the trailers.
“You look exhausted.” He tilted his head, studying her face. “This pace isn’t for everyone.”
“I’m managing.” She tried to step around him. He shifted, casual as a dance partner, and she was blocked again.
“Are you?” His smile didn’t waver. “Your performance yesterday, it was off. Flat. Word got back to the studio. Isabelle's already asking questions.” He let that land. “She’s not here for the budget, you know. She’s here because corporate is nervous. About the film. About you.”
He stepped closer. She stepped back and felt cold metal against her shoulder blades. Cornered.
“I appreciate that.” Her voice came out thin. “But I should get to the dock. The ferry—”
“You’ve been distracted.” He kept talking like she hadn’t spoken. “Ever since Stefan Cruz decided to take you under his wing. Playing the mentor. The protector.” His lips curled. “It’s very noble. Very . . . Stefan.”
“I really need to go.”
Martin planted his hand on the equipment case beside her head, leaning in. Not touching her. Caging her with his body.
“Stefan Cruz.” He said the name as if he were tasting it. “Is getting close to him part of the job? Or extracurricular?”
The noise of the set dissolved.
“The way he looks at you. The way you look for him every time you walk on set.” Martin’s voice dropped. “It’s sweet. Really. But your protector has his own interests. His own history.” He tilted his head. “You’ve seen him with Isabelle, haven’t you? Old friends. Very old friends.”
She couldn’t speak. Could barely breathe.
“He’s not saving you, Anneliese. He’s using you to get back in her good graces.”
“Miss Morgan?”
The voice came from behind Martin. Lena stood a few feet away, clipboard held over her head. Her eyes darted between Erika and Martin, reading the scene.
“Lily’s losing her mind. Something about the ferry?” Lena’s voice pitched up at the end, making it an out. “She said the ferry leaves in five minutes.”
Martin straightened. Stepped back. His jaw unclenched. His eyes warmed.
“By all means.” He swept his arm toward Lena like he was granting permission. “Far be it from me to stand between a woman and her ferry.”
She was halfway to Lena before she caught up to herself. Her hands were shaking. Her whole body was shaking.
Lena fell into step beside her, close enough that their shoulders touched. “That looked intense,” she said, low. “You okay?”
“Fine.” The word stuck. “Thanks for the rescue.”
“Wasn’t a rescue. Lily really is freaking out.” But Lena’s sideways glance said she knew exactly what she’d walked into.
Behind them, Martin’s voice carried over the wind. “Don’t be a stranger, Anneliese. You know where to find me.”
Erika’s skin crawled. She didn’t look back. Lena walked her halfway to the dock before peeling off toward the equipment tents.
“Gotta help secure the cameras. Are you good from here?”
“Yeah. Go. I’m fine.”
She wasn’t, though. The way he’d said old friends like he was handing her a lit match. The way he’d watched her face for the moment it landed.
And she had seen Stefan with Isabelle. Yesterday by the pool, their heads bent together like conspirators. She stopped walking. The dock was ahead, barely visible through the curtain of rain. Crew members streamed toward it.
But Stefan was out here somewhere. Martin’s words wouldn’t stop circling. She needed to see Stefan’s face when she asked him about Isabelle.
She came around the corner of the storage unit and stopped dead. Stefan stood with his back half-turned to her. Isabelle faced him, pristine even now, her white blouse somehow untouched by the chaos. They were close. Too close.
Isabelle’s hand rested on Stefan’s forearm. Her fingers pressed into his sleeve, holding him there. And Stefan wasn’t pulling away. He was leaning in, head bent toward hers, listening with that fierce concentration Erika had thought was reserved for her.
She should leave. But she couldn’t make herself move.
Isabelle said something Erika couldn’t hear, and grief flickered across Stefan’s face before he looked away. He covered Isabelle’s hand with his own, just for a moment. Then the wind shifted, and their voices carried.
“—ready to go public.” Isabelle’s voice, sharp and clear in a lull between gusts. “Two weeks. Her lawyers confirmed it this morning.”
Stefan said something, his words swallowed by the wind. His hand curled into a fist at his side.
“Keep her safe until we’re ready to move.” Isabelle leaned closer. “If this gets out before we have everything in place, it ruins everything we’ve built. Everything.”
Rain streamed down Erika's face as she pressed herself against the storage unit. There had to be a thousand explanations for what she was hearing.
Then Stefan's voice cut through the wind, clear enough that she couldn't pretend she'd misheard.
“The Morgan situation complicates the timeline. If anyone finds out what she’s been hiding before we’re ready—”
The rest disappeared into thunder. She’d heard enough. Did they both know? Had Stefan told her?
The truth was supposed to belong to the two of them. Just them. Instead of telling her, instead of warning her that the studio's executive was dissecting her secrets, he'd been whispering with Isabelle about how to "handle" it.
Anneliese had warned her. She hadn’t listened. He’s playing you. Gets close to someone, makes them feel special, makes them think they’re the only person in the room who matters. And then he twists it into something he can use.
Stupid. Desperate to be seen. She’d let herself believe she was worth choosing. Isabelle laughed at something Stefan said, and the sound cracked through Erika. She stumbled backward, her heel caught on a cable and she barely kept herself upright. Neither of them looked up.
The sketchbook. Still out there in the rain, dissolving. The one thing on this whole island that had been real—not Anneliese, not a performance, not a secret to manage. Just her. And she was about to let it wash away with everything else.
She took the long way around, cutting behind the storage units and through the gap between two equipment trucks. The dock was south. She went north. Arms wrapped around herself.
His villa appeared through the deluge. The sketchbook was right where she’d left it and already ruined. She grabbed it anyway, pressed it against her chest.
She ran for the golf carts. The path had turned to mud, sucking at her shoes with every step. Lightning cracked somewhere close enough to taste, and she flinched but didn’t stop. If she stopped, she’d have to think.
The cart started on the third try. She floored it, wheels spinning in the mud before catching, and aimed for the dock. She made it maybe fifty yards from his villa before the engine sputtered.
It shuddered beneath her, losing speed even with her foot mashed against the pedal. She pumped it once, twice. The engine caught, surged, and died. “No, no, no—” She slammed her palm against the steering wheel.
She was trapped. Soaked through, shaking so hard her teeth chattered, clutching the waterlogged sketchbook, her drawings destroyed.
His villa was still right there. She could go back. Wait out the storm. Except she couldn’t go back, because he might return, and she wasn’t ready to face him. The dock was too far. Nowhere to go.
She sat there, the water mixing with her tears running down her cheeks, and stopped fighting it. All of it. She just let it happen.
She didn’t hear him coming. One moment, she was alone. The next, a figure was out of the grey, tall, broad-shouldered, moving toward her with purpose that didn’t leave room for escape.
Stefan. Of course it was Stefan.
He was soaked through, breathing hard. He must have been looking for her, must have spotted her stranded from the path and come running.
He stood beside her without a word. Rain hammered the plastic roof above her head. His shoulder leaned into hers, warm and unbearable.
“I went back for the sketchbook,” she said. Her voice sounded like it belonged to someone else.
He looked down at the ruined pages bleeding ink and charcoal into her lap. Every drawing of him dissolving into nothing.
“We’ll dry them out,” he said. “We can save them.”
She closed her eyes. He had no idea what she’d heard. No idea that the woman sitting next to him had already left. He was still being kind, still being the version of himself she’d almost believed in, and she wanted so badly to let him.
She leaned her head against his shoulder. Let herself have this one last moment while everything fell apart around them.
But then he reached for her, his hand moving as if to steady her or take the weight of the book, and the spell snapped. The memory of his voice whispering with Isabelle—managing her, “handling” the situation—surged back.
She jerked away, snapping her spine straight. She flinched before his fingers could even brush her skin, the warmth of his shoulder now unbearable.