34. Stefan
STEFAN
They made it back to his villa without being seen—a minor miracle. She was covered in sand and wearing nothing but his T-shirt.
The morning had shifted while they were on the beach. The light was higher now, sharper. Somewhere beyond the palm line, a generator hummed to life. The real world reassembling itself around them.
“Shower,” she announced, already peeling off his sand-crusted shirt. She was backlit by the window, sand dusting her shoulders. A bruise bloomed on her hip where the tree bark had scraped. He’d have to be more careful next time.
“I have sand in places sand should never be,” she said, tossing the shirt at his face. He caught it, too busy watching her stretch—arms overhead, spine arching.
“I could help with that. I’m very thorough. You may have noticed.”
She paused at the bathroom door and glanced back over her shoulder. “You’ve helped enough this morning. Any more help and I won’t be able to walk to set.” Her eyes dropped to his chest, his stomach, lower. Lingered. “Try not to fall apart without me.”
The door clicked shut. Water hissed on.
Stefan stood in his villa, grinning like an idiot. Sand everywhere, her shirt still warm in his hands. He lifted it to his face. Salt, sweat, coconut. Her.
Christ.
He couldn’t remember ever feeling this way.
He was in love with her. Joder. No going back now.
His phone lit up on the counter. Three missed calls from Alex, each thirty seconds apart—the pattern that meant something was on fire.
Through the bathroom door, Erika had switched from humming to singing—badly, confidently. He turned away from the door and answered.
“Alex.”
“Bradley Smart. A freelance paparazzo caught him leaving the Malibu wellness center yesterday—time-stamped, geotagged, the whole thing. He’s shopping it to three tabloids and a gossip site.
” Alex’s voice was clipped. “If this runs, someone’s going to ask why Anneliese Morgan is in Malibu with Bradley when she’s supposed to be filming in the Caribbean.
And once they start asking that question, Stefan, they don’t stop. ”
The warmth drained out of him. He pressed his palm against the cool glass of the window. Beyond it, the ocean glittered.
“Buy it. Whatever he wants.”
A long silence. He could hear Alex calculating.
“That’s eight hundred thousand. Maybe more if he smells desperation.” Another pause. “This is her mess, Stefan. Her sister’s mess. Not yours.”
Eight hundred thousand. For a woman he’d known for weeks. For a secret that wasn’t even his.
“It’s mine now.”
“Because of Erika.” Not a question.
Stefan didn’t answer. Didn’t have to. Through the door, she was singing louder now, mangling the lyrics with cheerful disregard.
“I’ve watched you throw money at problems before,” Alex said. “I’ve watched you blow up your own life for women who weren’t worth the matches. But this is fraud, Stefan. If the switch comes out, you’re not collateral damage—you’re complicit. You understand that?”
“And Sarah’s going to lose her mind when this hits the books,” Alex added. “That’s a conversation you’re having, not me.”
“Wire the money today, Alex.”
“Fine. I’ll make the calls.” A long exhale. “But Erika deserves to know what you’re doing for her. She’s not going to thank you for this.”
The shower shut off. The sudden quiet felt louder than the water had.
The door opened. Steam billowed out. Erika emerged wrapped in his towel, skin flushed pink, still smiling. She mouthed “Who’s that?” and gestured at the phone.
He covered the speaker. “Alex. Work stuff.”
She nodded and padded toward the kitchen. Like she belonged here.
“I’ll handle it,” Stefan said into the phone, and the line went dead.
The easy domesticity of it cut into him—her bare feet on his tile, her wet hair leaving dark spots on the towel, the way she reached for the top shelf, the towel slipped, she caught it without breaking stride.
He’d spent eight hundred thousand dollars to keep this woman safe and she was standing in his kitchen debating whether his crackers were expired.
She looked over and caught him staring. The teasing died on her face.
“That wasn’t a work call.” Not a question. “Something’s wrong and you’re doing that thing where you decide I can’t handle it.”
“It’s handled. I promise.” He crossed the kitchen and pulled her in, pressing his lips to her forehead, breathing her in. Coconut and his soap. She let him hold her a beat too long, which meant she didn’t believe him but was giving him the grace to tell her in his own time.
He loved her for it. The needing was the part he couldn’t forgive himself for.
She stepped back, and the grace period ended. “Forty minutes to call time and I’m standing in your kitchen in a towel with no clothes, no makeup, and what I’m fairly certain is a hickey the size of Rhode Island on my collarbone.”
Her clothes had scattered across his villa like evidence at a crime scene—her shirt crumpled by the bathroom door, one shoe by the couch, the other inexplicably on the kitchen counter. Her underwear had vanished entirely.
“I think your bra is on the ceiling fan,” he offered. “I’m choosing not to examine how it got there.”
“This is a crime scene, Stefan. An actual crime scene. CSI could reconstruct our entire evening from the forensic evidence in this room.” She was scanning for options, when her gaze landed on his robe hanging on the door. Monogrammed.
She grabbed it, shoved her arms through the sleeves. It swallowed her whole, the initials blazing across her chest.
“I look like I’m doing a walk of shame sponsored by your publicist.” She caught her reflection in the window and winced. “Lena is going to take one look at me and retire from the industry.”
He closed the distance. Cupped her face in his hands. Kissed her—slow, deep. When he pulled back, her eyes were soft. Trusting him with a version of herself that no one else got to see.
“Tonight,” he told her. “Dinner. Just us. You’re going to sit on my counter, steal my wine, tell me about every terrible thing that happened on set today. And I’m going to pretend I’m not staring at you the whole time.”
“That’s a very specific evening.”
“I’ve been thinking about it since you walked through my door in that Radiohead shirt.” He kissed the corner of her mouth. “Go. Before I make us both unemployable.”
She slipped out the door. He watched her go. Her bare feet on the stone path, the morning light catching her hair.