39. Stefan
STEFAN
Five minutes in her villa, staring at the indent she’d left on the bed and the glass of water she hadn’t touched, and Stefan couldn’t sit still anymore.
He checked the path before stepping out. Clear. He walked back the long way, and made himself slow down because a man walking fast away at seven in the morning was a story someone would tell.
I’m scared. Not from the article.
She’d given him that much. Two sentences, stripped down to the bone, and he’d taken them because they were real and because pushing harder would have lost her entirely.
Of something I can’t tell you about yet.
Yet. He couldn’t shake the thing he hadn’t said to her—the thing he’d been turning over since yesterday, since Martin’s little chat with her at the edge of the set, since she’d come back from that conversation like someone had rearranged her from the inside.
Martin had talked to her. And then she’d shut down. And those two things were not a coincidence.
Alex picked up on the first ring, which meant it was bad.
“Before you ask, no. The buyout’s dead. Someone offered more, moved faster, and had the photo syndicated to a dozen outlets before my guy even got in the room.” Alex’s voice had the clipped rhythm it got when he was angry. “This wasn’t a pap shopping for the highest bidder. This was a chess move.”
“Martin.”
“I can’t prove that yet. But whoever it was knew about our offer, knew our timeline, and had the relationship with the outlet already in place.
” A beat. “Isabelle Vance has called me three times. Breach of contract is on the table, but the timeline photos are manageable—Olivia’s pushing the doctored timestamp angle.
The bigger problem is the behind-the-scenes footage from yesterday.
The rooftop scene is everywhere, and Stefan—I’ve watched you sell chemistry with every costar you’ve ever had.
I know what you look like when you’re working. That’s not what I saw.”
He leaned back and stared at the ceiling fan.
"How long has this actually been real?" Alex asked. "Because sleeping with someone and looking at them like that on camera are two different problems."
"The storm, technically. But if I'm honest, probably before that. I just didn't let myself call it anything." He didn’t dress it up. “This isn't a phase, Alex. I don't know how else to say it.”
Silence on the line.
“You have a history with costars, Stefan. Tell me this is different.” Alex said it carefully.
"It's different." He didn't elaborate, and Alex didn't push—which was its own kind of answer. “She told me she was scared today. Not from the article. And it started after Martin pulled her aside on set.”
“If Martin is behind this—and we both know he is even if I can’t prove it—then he’s not trying to embarrass you. He’s trying to control her.”
“I know. I just don’t know how to prove it yet.”
Alex laughed—short, tired, real. “How long have I known you? Still think you can just charm your way through the hard parts?”
“It’s worked so far.”
“It has literally never worked. I’ve worked. You just showed up and smiled.” A pause. “Keep your head down today. Give Vance nothing she can use. And don’t go back to her villa.”
“I already went.”
“Of course you did.” A sigh—fond, exasperated. “I’ll handle Vance. Try not to make my job harder for the next six hours.”
“No promises.”
“There never are.”
He opened the door to Isabelle Vance, and the look on her face told him Alex’s six hours had just become zero.
She walked past him without waiting for an invitation—and stood in the middle of his villa like she was assessing its resale value.
“The studio wants to invoke the morals clause. Fire Anneliese Morgan, sue for delays, make an example.” She turned to face him. “I’ve spent the last two hours convincing them to wait forty-eight hours before doing something irreversible. You’re welcome.”
“And you came here to tell me that in person.”
“I came here because this situation is more complicated than the studio knows, and I think you know that too.” She held his gaze. “I saw your face on set today, Stefan. When Martin pulled her aside. When she came back from that conversation like someone had taken something out of her.”
He kept his expression neutral. Isabelle watched him do it and wasn’t impressed.
“I’m not here to play games, Stefan. We both know why I’m here.” She sat on the arm of his couch without being asked. “Stasia’s NDA runs out in two weeks. And now, this same week, Martin’s suddenly escalating against your costar. That's not a coincidence, and we both know it isn’t."
He looked at her—really looked.
“What are you asking me?”
“I’m asking what he has on her. Because whatever it is, I think it’s connected to what happened to Stasia, and I am not losing our best chance in eight years because Martin’s protecting himself on two fronts at once. Your turn.”
Isabelle had just shown him her hand. The question was whether to show him.
She’d given him Stasia. Alex had given him the pattern—someone moving behind the scenes to control Erika, not embarrass him. He couldn’t protect her alone.
“The woman in that photo in Malibu—that’s Anneliese Morgan.”
“Obviously. That’s the problem.”
“The woman who’s been on your set for the past month. The woman who performed that scene today.” He held Isabelle’s gaze. “Is not.”
Isabelle didn’t move. Didn’t blink.
“Her name is Erika. She’s Anneliese’s twin sister. She’s been here since week one, covering for Anneliese.” He paused. “And Martin knows. And he’s using it against her.”
“Using it how?”
“Martin pulled her aside on set yesterday and whatever he said broke her. She’s been flinching when I touch her, shutting me out, lying about being fine. She told me this morning she’s scared of something she can’t tell me about yet.” He paused. “Something Martin did.”
Isabelle stood. Walked to the window.
“So the morals clause doesn’t apply to someone who doesn’t have a contract.” He said it before she could. “The studio’s entire legal threat is built around Anneliese. If the woman on set isn’t Anneliese, the framework collapses.”
Isabelle turned around. “You’re ahead of me.”
“I’ve had a long morning.”
“The legal angle is the short game. The longer problem is Martin.” She crossed her arms. “His leverage depends on the switch staying secret. If the studio knows about the switch and chooses to accommodate it, his hold on her disappears.”
“Which puts Martin in a corner. He either escalates or he loses control of her.” He leaned forward. “And men like that don’t give up control.”
“No. He doesn’t.” Isabelle was careful now. “Which means the studio needs a reason to protect the switch instead of punishing it. They need Erika’s performance to be worth more than the liability.”
“Pull the dailies from the last two weeks. Then tell me it’s not worth protecting.”
“I’ve seen the dailies.” Her face shifted—not warmth, exactly, but the absence of calculation. “The studio will see it too, if they’re looking at the right footage.”
He waited. The negotiation was coming—the part where Isabelle laid out what she needed and what it would cost.
She sat back down on the couch arm. “In eight years, I’ve never had this. Someone inside Martin’s orbit, experiencing his pattern in real time, with someone outside that orbit who already knows what it means.”
“She’s not a witness, Isabelle. She’s a person.”
“I know the difference.” Quietly. “I’ve spent eight years learning it.”
The silence between them had a different quality now.
“I’ve been trying to protect her from the full picture for days and all it’s done is leave her alone in it.
” He rubbed the back of his neck. “Talk to her. Lay out what you know, what you’re building, what the options are.
Let her decide.” He met her eyes. “But if at any point she’s in danger, I’m putting a stop to this.
I don’t care what it costs the case, the production, or your eight years of work. ”
“I’d expect nothing less.” She walked toward the door. Paused. “For what it’s worth, I think the fact that she’s held this together as long as she has, under this much pressure, tells you everything about who she is.”
“I already know who she is.”
“I know you do.” She opened the door. “That’s why I came to you first.”
The door closed behind Isabelle, and the villa was quiet—the silence after a detonation.
Joder.
He’d just told a studio executive that the lead actress on a fifty-million-dollar production was a fraud. That the woman he was in love with had been living under a false name for weeks. That the director they all worked for was using blackmail to keep her compliant.
There was no taking that back. He sat on the couch. The drink he’d poured for himself when Isabelle arrived was still on the table, ice melted, untouched. He left it there.
Alex was right. He’d never been good at the hard parts.
He showed up and smiled and let other people do the work that required patience, strategy, and the willingness to sit still while something played out.
And now he’d made a move that required all three, and the woman it would land on hardest was the one person on this island who hadn’t asked him to save her.