31. Erika
ERIKA
The storm kept them for four days. Long enough for Erika to learn that Stefan was pathologically incapable of losing at anything—cards, Scrabble, a heated debate about whether Goya counted as a better artist than Velásquez that ended with him pulling up images on his dying phone battery to make his case.
Long enough to fill every scrap of paper in the villa—old call sheets, hotel stationery, the backs of napkins—with drawings of his hands, his jaw, the way his shoulders looked in the doorway, unaware she was watching.
He’d kept his promise about the date. Not dinner—they’d been living on whatever the villa’s pantry offered, which meant creative interpretations of canned beans and an argument about whether ketchup counted as a sauce.
The date was simpler. He’d cleared the debris from the covered cabana at the edge of the pool deck, strung up work lights powered by the generator, and sat across from her with a deck of cards and a bottle of wine that tasted like regret.
“Pretend we’re somewhere with tablecloths,” he said, dealing her in. “And that the wine doesn’t taste like industrial solvent.”
She laughed, and he looked at her. But as the wine went to her head and the wind kept battering the cabana's canvas sides, the lightheartedness frayed.
She knew where this night was heading. He’d made another promise in the pool—to be slow, to be deliberate, to watch her face.
Two days earlier, Lily had walked off the dock carrying two coffees, a garment bag, and a flat package wrapped in brown paper that she’d pressed into Erika’s hands without explanation.
“From your costar,” she’d said, one eyebrow raised to her hairline.
“Who apparently called me four times during a hurricane to ask where to overnight-ship art supplies to a Bahamian island with no functioning postal service.”
Inside was a sketchbook. Leather-bound, heavy stock, the kind she’d stared at in art supply stores and never let herself buy. No note. Just a pencil tucked into the spine.
She’d had to turn away so the crew wouldn’t see her face.
Two days of performing indifference across the set. Two days of Lily’s knowing looks, Martin’s suspicious attention, the constant exhausting work of being Anneliese Morgan when she wanted to be Erika—Stefan’s Erika, the one who existed only behind closed doors.
Lily's makeup brush swept across Erika's cheekbone, and she focused on the pull of bristles against skin. Lena hovered near the tent flap, clipboard in hand, half-listening to something crackling through her walkie.
Through the gap in the tent flap, Stefan crossed toward the equipment trucks, coffee cup in hand. He glanced sideways, just a flicker, and spotted her in the chair.
The bastard smirked, then pulled out his phone without breaking stride.
The vibration hummed against her inner thigh three seconds later. Then again. A third time. Lena's eyes flicked toward the movement—there and gone—before she turned back to her clipboard, giving Erika the moment she needed.
Stefan:
You’re doing that thing where you bite your cheek to keep from smiling. You’ve been doing it since I walked past.
Stefan:
It’s distracting. I almost walked into a lighting rig.
Eri:
You called Lily four times during a hurricane to find me a sketchbook. I don’t even know what to do with you.
Stefan:
Draw me. Preferably without clothes. I’ll hold very still.
Eri:
I already started. Last night while you were sleeping. Six pages.
Stefan:
You drew me naked while I was asleep? Should I be flattered or alarmed?
Eri:
Flattered. The light was doing something beautiful to your shoulders. I couldn’t help it.
Stefan:
And here I thought you only wanted me for my personality.
Eri:
Your personality is what kept me up. Your shoulders are what made me reach for the pencil.
Stefan:
?Dios mío! You can’t send me things like that while I’m standing next to the sound guy.
Stefan:
Tonight. Your villa. Bring the sketchbook. I want to see what you do with me when I’m awake.
A voice crackled through Lena's walkie—something about a wardrobe delay two tents over. Lena listened for a beat, then ducked out of the tent without a word.
Lily set down the brush and dropped into the empty chair across from the mirror.
“The whole crew has had a pool running since the jet ski scene. Jax has fifty on ‘before wrap,’ Lena put twenty on ‘already happened.’” She dropped into the empty chair. “Lena’s about to be fifty dollars richer, isn’t she?”
Heat flooded Erika’s face.
“That’s what I thought.” Lily’s expression softened. “I’ve watched him, the way he looks at you. Cruz is not who I thought he was. And I don’t say that lightly.”
The relief hit her before she'd expected it. Stefan telling her she mattered was one thing—he was compromised, obviously biased. But Lily had no reason to lie, and Lily saw it too.
“But something else is going on, and I need you to listen.” Lily’s voice dropped.
“I’ve been hearing things. LaVoz things.
There’s a name floating around—Stasia Larke.
She was the lead on Martin’s last film, Midnight Run.
Walked off set mid-production and disappeared from the industry completely.
At the time everyone said she had a breakdown.
” Lily’s voice went flat. “But the whispers I’m hearing now tell a very different story. ”
Erika’s skin went cold. Stefan’s voice in her head—there’s another woman. Someone Martin hurt. Years ago.
“What kind of story?”
“The kind that ends careers. The kind where lawyers get involved and NDAs have expiration dates.” Lily studied her face. “You know something. I can see it.”
“I can’t talk about it, Lily. It’s not my story to tell.”
“So Stefan told you.” Lily absorbed that. “Which means Isabelle’s involved—she and Stasia were close before everything went sideways. That’s what those little tarp meetings have been about.”
Erika said nothing, which was answer enough.
“Here’s what scares me.” Lily leaned forward.
“Martin’s paranoid right now. He’s cornering crew members, asking questions about you, watching your blocking like he’s looking for cracks.
If he’s sensing that something’s shifting—if he catches even a whiff of you and Stefan being real—he won’t just come for your relationship.
He’ll start pulling every thread he can find.
And if one of those threads leads him to whatever Isabelle and Stefan are building against him, the whole thing unravels. ”
It landed differently now. It wasn’t just about protecting a secret relationship anymore. It was about protecting Stasia.
“So when I say keep it invisible on set, I’m not just talking about your love life.” Lily grabbed her hand and squeezed. “Martin is circling. And if he figures out that the people around him are closing in, he won’t wait to be cornered. He’ll burn everything down first.”
The set was controlled chaos—grips hauling cables, lighting techs adjusting rigs. Erika stepped out of the tent with Lily’s warning still ringing in her ears.
Stefan was already at the monitor beside Martin. He didn’t look up when she approached, and he didn't seem to notice but his knuckles had gone white around the coffee cup.
Martin walked them through the blocking—where to sit, when to lean in, the exact moment Luna’s defenses were supposed to crack.
“This is the turn,” Martin said, circling them. “The audience needs to feel that she’s losing control. That she wants him even though she knows better.” His gaze lingered on Erika. “Think you can manage that, Anneliese?”
“I’ll do my best.” She gave him her sister’s voice—cool, faintly bored—and watched his smile falter before he retreated to his monitor.
The cameras rolled. Every time Martin’s attention drifted to the playback screen, Stefan found ways to make it impossible to think.
His knee brushed hers beneath the table and stayed there.
His fingers grazed her wrist when he reached for his wine glass—deliberate.
Her focus scattered. And when he leaned in to deliver his line about trust, his breath ghosted across the line of her neck: “That dress is going to be a problem for both of us.”
“It was wardrobe.” She blushed. “I didn’t pick it.”
“I know.” He held her gaze as he delivered Jake’s next line, and beneath the table, his thumb traced a slow circle on the inside of her knee. “I’m going to send the costume department a thank-you note. And then I’m going to peel it off you with my teeth.”
“You say that like you didn’t spend ten minutes fighting with a zipper last night.”
His composure cracked, a caught breath that wasn’t in the script. “That zipper was defective.”
“It was a side zip. They teach those in acting school?”
“I was distracted by what was underneath it.” His thumb pressed harder against her knee. “Which, if I recall correctly, was nothing.”
Her next line evaporated. Shit. Erika scrambled, found the thread, and delivered Luna’s response about not trusting men who smiled too easily.
Stefan’s smile flickered—barely perceptible, just for her—and she wanted to murder him, drag him behind the equipment trucks, and make him pay for every second of this. Same energy, really.
“—and cut.” Martin’s voice shattered the moment. Erika pulled back, certain they’d been caught.
But Martin was smiling. “That tension, that heat—exactly what I needed. Whatever you two are channeling, keep doing it.” He clapped once. “Print it. Moving on.”
The crew scattered. Stefan stood, but as he passed her chair, his hand brushed the back of her neck, there and gone, and he said against her ear, “Tonight.”
She didn’t trust herself to respond.
The break between setups stretched long enough for Erika to escape to craft services.
She was reaching for a bottle of water when Martin appeared beside her.
“Beautiful work today.” He said it lightly, not looking at her. “That last take especially. You found it.”
Her stomach dropped. She gave him Anneliese’s camera-ready smile. “Must be the island air.”
“Must be.” He turned to face her. “Though I have to say—and I mean this as a friend—some of the crew have mentioned you seem scattered lately. Forgetting names. Missing small cues. I’ve been covering for you, of course.
That’s what directors do.” He stepped closer.
“You can always come to me, you know. Privately. I don’t get distracted by other interests. ”
His cologne hit her, heavy, and every instinct she had said step back. But Anneliese wouldn’t step back. Anneliese would stand there and smile and file it away for later. So that’s what Erika did.
She followed his glance toward Stefan. Gave him nothing. “Stefan’s been a great scene partner. The chemistry reads, which is all that matters for the film.”
“Oh, I know.” Martin raised a palm. “I’ve just noticed he can be rather . . . intense with his costars. Protective. Attentive. It’s admirable, in its way. But he has a pattern of getting attached during shoots, and it rarely ends well for the women involved. Ask anyone who worked on Midnight Run.”
He patted her arm and stepped away. “Back to work. Let’s make something beautiful today.”
Across the set, Stefan caught her eye. His brow furrowed—you okay?—and she forced a smile.
But Martin’s words were already doing their work. Forgetting names. Missing cues. He has a pattern. That was the thing about poison. A few drops were enough.
The sun was sinking into the ocean by the time Martin called wrap, and Erika needed to breathe.
She slipped between the trucks at the edge of the beach, pressing her back against sun-warmed metal. Five minutes without performing for anyone.
Footsteps. She knew the rhythm before he rounded the corner—that particular unhurried stride that meant he knew exactly where he was going and who he’d find there.
Stefan caught her against the truck. His palms settled at her hips, thumbs finding the strip of bare skin between her shirt and waistband.
“You crossed your legs during that last take and I forgot a line I’ve known for three weeks.” His mouth hovered above hers. “I want you to know I’m holding you personally responsible.”
“You forgot your line because you’re old and your memory is failing.”
“I’m thirty-six.”
“Ancient. Practically retired.” She tugged at his collar, pulling him closer. “What did you want to say to me that couldn’t wait until tonight?”
His expression shifted, the teasing gone. “What did Martin say to you at craft services?”
She went cold. He has a pattern. But she didn’t want Martin here, between them, poisoning this.
“The usual director performance notes. Nothing I can’t handle.”
He studied her face, but he let it go. His grin came back—slower this time.
“Don’t forget. Eight o’clock tonight. Wear something that makes you feel like yourself. Not Anneliese.”
“You’ve been planning something all week, haven’t you?”
“I’ve been planning something since you looked me dead in the eye and called me ‘all brawn, no brain.'.” His voice dropped. “That’s when I knew I was in trouble.”
She laughed. “That’s what did it for you? Me telling you to fuck off?”
“Princesa, you have no idea.”
He kissed her then, hard, and she fisted his shirt and pulled him closer. He groaned against her mouth, pushing her back against the warm metal. She was seriously considering saying fuck the surprise when a walkie-talkie crackled nearby.
They broke apart, both breathing hard.
“Eight o’clock,” he said, voice rough. He stepped back, raking a hand through his hair, and he physically reassembled himself.
He slipped around the corner without looking back. If he looked back, they both knew he wouldn’t leave.
Erika pressed her spine against the warm metal and stared at the sky until her breathing evened out. A week since the storm, and she was already drowning in it, willingly, eyes open. A smarter woman would pump the brakes, remember that this had an end date.