35. Erika
ERIKA
Erika clutched the robe tighter, speed-walking past palm trees and what felt like seventeen thousand potential witnesses. The gold SC practically glowed in the morning sun—cadmium yellow, her brain supplied unhelpfully.
Oh god. Oh god oh god oh god.
Her bare feet slapped the stone path. Her clothes were still somewhere in his villa, laughing at her.
Just get to the villa. Don’t run. You’re fine. Just a woman in a robe at seven in the morning.
She rounded the corner by the main garden and nearly collided with Lena. Shit.
The PA stood frozen on the path, script pages clutched to her chest. Her gaze traveled from Erika’s tangled hair, to the monogrammed robe, to her feet—a full journey of professional assessment.
One perfectly arched eyebrow rose approximately half a millimeter.
“Miss Morgan.”
“Lena!” Erika’s voice came out two octaves too high. “Hi. Good morning. Beautiful morning.” She gestured vaguely at herself. “Spa emergency. Very . . . recovery-oriented.”
Lena’s expression remained neutral.
“Mr. Blackwell wanted you to have these.” She extended the script pages. “Revised call sheet. Hair and makeup in thirty minutes.”
“Perfect. Great. Excellent.” Erika reached for the pages, but a rogue sheet caught the breeze and fluttered free. She lunged—the robe’s belt situation becoming suddenly precarious—and snatched it mid-air. Her cheeks burned.
Lena, to her eternal credit, pretended not to notice the flash of thigh.
“Thirty minutes, Miss Morgan.”
“Got it. Thirty minutes.” Erika clutched the pages. “Thank you for these. I should go. Be professional. Do . . . things.”
Stop. Talking.
“Have a good morning, Miss Morgan.” Lena’s voice was even, but as she turned to leave, Erika caught it—the tiniest twitch at the corner of her mouth.
As Lena disappeared around the corner, Erika broke into a sprint. Her feet hit stone until she reached her villa door, wrenched it open, and slammed it behind her.
She sagged against the wood and exhaled.
You’re fine. That was fine. Lena didn’t—she knew. She absolutely knew.
Fuck. Fifteen minutes later, Erika slid into Lily’s makeup chair, hair still damp from Stefan’s shower.
Lily tilted Erika’s chin toward the light. “Hold still. You have a hickey the size of a golf ball on your collarbone and I need three layers of concealer and a prayer.”
Erika groaned and closed her eyes. Her phone buzzed in her lap. She ignored it.
“That’s the third time it’s gone off since you sat down,” Lily said, not looking up from her brushes. “Anneliese or Olivia?”
“Does it matter? Either way it’s my sister wanting something I don’t know how to give her right now.”
Lily was quiet for a moment, blending concealer with practiced strokes. “You know I’m the last person to tell you how to handle your family. But the longer you dodge her, the bigger the conversation gets when it finally happens.”
“I know that.” Erika stared at the ceiling of the trailer. “I just need one morning where I don’t feel guilty for being happy. Is that too much to ask?”
Lily’s brush paused. Her expression softened. “No,” she said. “It’s not too much to ask.” The brush resumed. “But you don’t get forever, babe.”
The phone sat in her lap. She picked it up before she could talk herself out of it.
Erika:
How is she?
Olivia:
She watched the dailies. Said you’re “overplaying Luna’s vulnerability.” Direct quote. She also cried during the market scene but she’d murder me if I told you that.
Erika stared at the screen. Anneliese, propped up in a Malibu recovery suite, picking apart Erika’s performance with one hand and wiping tears with the other. That was her sister in a single text.
Erika:
Did she ask about me?
Olivia:
She asks every day. She just doesn’t know how to do it without turning it into a note.
Olivia:
Call her. Please. I love you both but I can’t keep translating your sister into a language you’ll accept.
Erika shoved the phone into her pocket. Lily glanced at her face, then back at her brushes. “We’ll fix it later,” she said.
She picked up a smaller brush and started working on her under-eye bags.
The beach set hummed with activity—crew shouting over each other, the smell of sunscreen and coffee mixing in the salt air. Erika found her mark, sand already warm under her feet despite the early hour.
They were reshooting a scene from last week. Luna watching the sunset, alone, before Jake finds her. Simple. The kind of scene Martin loved to run fifteen times until everyone was raw.
Focus. Be Luna. Be Anneliese being Luna.
“Places in five!” someone called.
“I want to try something different with this scene.”
Martin was beside her. She hadn’t heard him approach—he had that ability, appearing like smoke.
“Instead of playing Luna’s isolation, I want you to play her anticipation.
She knows Jake is coming. She’s pretending she doesn’t care, but her whole body is waiting for him.
” He circled behind her, and his hand settled on her shoulder—adjusting her posture, the way a director would.
Except his thumb pressed into the bare skin at the base of her neck and stayed.
“Drop your left shoulder. There. The camera needs to see the tension in this collarbone.”
Every instinct screamed move. But directors touched actors. It was the industry’s oldest excuse, and Martin used it always just professionally enough to make her doubt whether she was reading it right.
“There’s a scene coming up,” he said. “Luna’s confession on the beach. Dawn light. Very intimate.” His thumb traced a slow arc across the nape of her neck. “I’d like to rehearse it privately. Before the crew arrives. Just the two of us, so you can find the vulnerability without an audience.”
“I think I can find it with the crew present.” She kept her voice Anneliese-light, Anneliese-easy. “An audience usually helps me perform.”
“This isn’t about performing.” His hand dropped. He stepped around to face her, aviators reflecting her own face back at her. “This is about trust. The kind you can’t manufacture in front of forty people.”
She met his reflected gaze in those mirrored lenses and held it. “Send the details through Lena. I’ll look at my schedule.”
Not yes. No, no. Anneliese’s specialty—the non-answer. Martin studied her for a beat, then smiled that thin smile that made her skin crawl.
“I’ll do that.” He turned toward the monitors. “Places, everyone. Rolling in two.”
The scene passed in three takes. Martin called cut each time with the flat disinterest of a man who’d already gotten what he wanted. Erika hit her marks, delivered her lines. Nothing registered except the phantom pressure of his thumb at the base of her neck.
She was heading for the water station when Isabelle intercepted her.
“Walk with me.” Not a question.
Erika fell into step beside her. They passed craft services, the controlled chaos of a set between setups. Isabelle led them to the shade behind the lighting truck.
“How are you finding Martin?” Isabelle asked. No preamble. No small talk.
Erika kept her expression neutral, but Isabelle’s directness made the Anneliese mask harder to hold. “He’s a visionary. Demanding, but that’s what makes the work good.”
“That’s a very polished answer.” Isabelle’s gaze was steady. “I’ve given that exact answer myself, for years. It’s the answer that keeps things smooth.”
The breeze shifted. Erika said nothing, because saying nothing felt safer than saying the wrong thing.
“I’ve worked with Martin for fifteen years,” Isabelle continued. “He’s brilliant. He can also be a lot, especially with his lead actresses. The attention, the private notes, the way he makes you feel like you’re the only person in the room.” She paused. “It’s intoxicating until it isn’t.”
“He suggested a private rehearsal this morning.” The words were out before Erika could stop them. “Dawn call. Skeleton crew. Just the two of us.”
Isabelle’s expression didn’t change, but her eyes went very still.
“Eight years ago, I produced Midnight Run with Martin.” Her voice was steady, but there was weight behind it now.
“We had a young actress—Stasia Larke. First major role, talented as hell. Martin took a shine to her. Private rehearsals, personal notes, called her his muse. At first, she was flattered—we all were. Martin’s attention could make a career. ”
Erika’s skin went cold. Stefan’s voice in her head—someone Martin hurt. Years ago.
“By the second month, she was falling apart. When she finally tried to tell someone what had been happening, the studio buried it. Called her difficult, unstable. She hasn’t worked since.”
The breeze died. In the distance, someone shouted for a C-stand.
“I didn’t speak up when I should have.” Isabelle’s voice dropped. “I told myself it wasn’t my place. That I didn’t know for sure.” Her mouth flattened. “I’ve carried that for eight years. So now I say something, even when it’s uncomfortable.”
Martin’s thumb on her neck. The patience in his voice.
“He touched me today.” Erika’s voice came out barely above a whisper. “During blocking. His hand on my neck. It was—he made it look like a direction. But it wasn’t.”
Isabelle closed her eyes. Just for a second. When she opened them, Erika recognized the look.
“I believe you,” Isabelle said. “And my door is open. Day or night. Whatever you need.”
They stood in the shade of the lighting truck, the set bustling around them. The weight wasn’t hers alone anymore.
Three secrets, she thought, watching Isabelle walk back toward the monitors. The fraud. Stefan. And whatever was building with Martin.
She wasn’t sure which one would bury her first.