Chapter 7
Lizanne
The bathroom at Luna de Sangre was a sanctuary of cool tile and dim lighting, a sharp contrast to the golden, wine-soaked haze of the patio.
Lizanne stood over the farmhouse sink, the antique brass fixtures humming as she turned the handle.
She cupped the frigid water in her palms and pressed it against her face, holding it there until the skin went numb.
What are you doing?
The question echoed in the quiet of the small room.
Touching Rose’s arm had been a reflex, a desperate reach for the warmth of the first genuine laugh she’d shared with another person in months.
But the jolt that had followed—that sharp, electric spark that had made Rose spill her wine—wasn’t part of the script.
Lizanne was a professional. She spent her life mimicking chemistry on camera with leading men she often couldn’t stand, but this was different.
This felt uncomfortably, dangerously real.
She stared at her reflection in the spotted mirror.
She looked like Lizanne Connors, the woman the world wanted: polished, even in a slight state of inebriation.
But beneath the surface, there was a growing hollow.
She and Trina had been the it couple for six years, but lately, the it felt more like a business.
Their conversations had flattened into a series of logistical hand-offs.
Did the caterer call? What time is the red carpet?
It wasn’t fair to compare a six-year partnership to a spark with a wedding planner she barely knew.
Relationships evolved; they settled. But as Lizanne leaned against the sink, she couldn’t ignore the stinging realization that Trina hadn’t even stayed for the wine.
The most important day of their lives was being treated like a chore Trina had to delegate so she could get back to the studio.
After splashing water on her face, she sat in the chair in the waiting room outside the wine tasting room.
She saw Rose talking to the owner and Lizanne indicated she’d just be sitting here, doom scrolling while Rose was doing whatever she was doing.
Hopefully the trip to the bathroom had sobered her up enough to negotiate on Lizanne’s behalf.
Lizanne scrolled through her emails, checked the Gilden Duchess group chat to see what her co-stars were up to now that they were on hiatus, and then logged into Instagram. There, she checked for any hints of Derek Jones again.
A generic name like that meant he was impossible to find. She tried Google and added an assortment of words. Entertainment lawyer, corporate law, LA, Derek Jones + Rose Delaney + Coachella…
A sharp, rhythmic knock startled her.
“Lizanne? It’s Rose. The ride is here.”
How long had she been sitting here? It was at least a twenty-minute drive from the Hollywood Hills to here. Trina had exaggerated when she’d claimed it took an hour, still… She glanced at the clock on her phone and realized she had been sitting there for almost 30 minutes.
Lizanne took one last breath, smoothed her hair, and stepped out into the evening air.
The sun was dipping below the vine-covered hills, and the view was just as spectacular as promised.
Waiting near the tasting room was a man who looked like he’d stepped off a rugged outdoor apparel catalog.
He was tall, with a lopsided grin and eyes that held the same sharp astuteness as Rose’s, though his were framed by a mess of dark hair.
“This is my brother, Quinn,” Rose said.
Lizanne blinked, her brain foggy from the four glasses of red. She looked from Rose to this towering, broad-shouldered man. “You two don’t look anything alike,” she noted, her filter long gone.
Quinn let out a hearty laugh, a sound that seemed to vibrate in the quiet valley. He opened the back door to Rose’s car. “I take after dad.”
Lizanne settled into the back seat, the scent of leather filling the cabin.
They climbed in, though Quinn exited again, walked to the front door and picked up a brown bag.
Upon returning, he placed the bag on the center console.
He reached inside and pulled out a bunch of popcorn, munching on it while placing the key in the ignition with his free hand.
“Quinn, are you kidding me?” Rose’s voice was a harsh whisper. She was staring at a large, crinkled bag of white cheddar popcorn sitting in the center console. “You’re getting kernels all over the upholstery. I just had this car detailed.”
“I haven’t eaten since six AM, Rosie, cut me some slack. Besides, a little cheddar dust never killed anyone. It adds character.”
“It adds a cleaning fee!” Rose swatted at his hand as he reached for a fistful.
“You should be grateful I got in an Uber and drove all the way out here within the hour of you calling, you know? Just because you decided to engage in day drinking with celebrities.”
“Will you stop?” She slapped him on the arm.
Lizanne watched them from the back, her head resting against the cool window. Their bickering was a symphony—practiced, effortless, and underpinned by an obvious, unbreakable affection. A small, wistful smile tugged at her lips.
“What’s the joke back there?” Quinn asked, catching her eye in the rearview mirror as he navigated the winding vineyard road.
“I’m just jealous,” Lizanne admitted. “I always wanted a sibling to squabble with. I’m an only child.
My parents were already in their late forties when I was born, and there were some pretty severe complications.
My mother had to have a hysterectomy right after.
I was the miracle baby, which sounds great until you realize you’re the only one left to hold the memories when they’re gone. ”
The car grew quiet, the playful tension between the siblings evaporating into a soft, empathetic silence.
“They passed away a few years back,” Lizanne continued, the wine making her more honest than was strictly safe. “Now, it’s just me. And Trina. And my manager, Pat. It’s a small circle. Sometimes it feels more like a fortress than a family.”
She didn’t say the rest: that the fortress felt like it was under siege. That Trina, the person who was supposed to be her co-commander, seemed to be spending more and more time outside the walls.
Lizanne leaned back and let her eyes wander.
From her position in the backseat, she saw Quinn lean toward the center console, his profile silhouetted against the fading twilight outside.
Rose was turned toward him, her hand resting on the back of his headrest, her posture relaxed in a way it never was when they were talking business.
A cold, sharp clarity pierced through Lizanne’s buzz.
She knew that silhouette. She had studied it on her iPad when she was vetting Rose. It was the exact same angle, the same slope of the shoulders, and the same way the man’s hair curled at the nape of his neck. It was the photo from Rose’s wedding registry—the one of her and her fiancé, Derek.
Heart racing, Lizanne pulled her phone from her clutch. She didn’t use the flash. She just framed the back of their heads and snapped a high-resolution photo.
Just as the shutter clicked, Rose’s phone erupted with a bright, poppy ringtone. Rose jumped, nearly dropping the device before pressing it to her ear.
“Hello? Yes, this is Rose Delaney.” Her voice suddenly transformed, becoming vibrant and professional, though there was an underlying tremor of excitement. “Wait, really? Next Tuesday? No, that’s perfect. We will be there. Thank you so much, Clara.”
She hung up and spun around in her seat, her face illuminated by the passing streetlights. “Lizanne! That was the bakery—the bakery. I have a contact there from a gala I did last year, and she managed to squeeze us in for a cancellation. We have a tasting for the cakes next Tuesday.”
Lizanne felt a genuine spark of joy, pushing the suspicion to the back of her mind for a moment. “That’s incredible, Rose. Truly.”
“I’m going to make sure they have the lavender-honey sponge you mentioned,” Rose said, her eyes dancing. “It’s going to be perfect.”
“And no lemon. Not a lemon drop in sight.”
“Noted.”
When Quinn finally pulled up to the gates of Lizanne’s sprawling estate, the high of the news had settled into a heavy, thoughtful silence. Quinn helped her out of the car with a wink and a “Get some sleep, Hollywood,” while Rose waved from the passenger seat, looking exhausted but triumphant.
Lizanne entered her house, the marble floors echoing with the click of her heels. The lights were dimmed, and the silence was absolute. She went straight to the kitchen, poured herself a glass of water, and sat at the island.
She pulled out her phone. First, she called Trina.
“Hi, you’ve reached Katrina Holmes. I’m either in the booth or at a meeting. Leave a message.”
“Hey, babe. Just got home. The vineyard was... interesting. We got a cake tasting for Tuesday. Call me when you’re done.”
She set the phone down and opened her laptop. Bakery or not, the detective work had to go on.
She started with Quinn. It didn’t take long to find his Instagram—he was a working actor with a decent following.
She scrolled through years of photos. There were pictures of him on sets, pictures of him and Rose at what looked like a dive bar, and pictures of him holding a toddler who had to be Daisy.
Then she looked for “Derek.” Nothing. Either Quinn and Derek weren’t friends, Derek didn’t do social media or…
Lizanne opened the registry photo she had saved and held her phone up to the screen, displaying the photo she had taken in the car.
She compared the two. The jawline was identical. The slight scar near the left ear—Quinn’s ear—was a perfect match.
The “fiancé” in the photo wasn’t an attorney named Derek. It was Rose’s brother, Quinn.
Rose had faked her entire engagement. She had faked the registry, the fiancé, and the “romantic stability” that had been the very reason Lizanne hired her.
Lizanne leaned back in her chair, the discovery settling over her.
She should be furious. She should call Pat and have Rose fired by morning for breach of contract and fraud.
But as she stared at the screen, she found herself lingering on the memory of Rose’s face when she talked about her engagement.
It was a lie, but it was a beautiful lie. It was a performance—the kind of desperate, high-stakes acting Lizanne respected.
She tried calling Trina one more time. Voicemail again.
“Trina, it’s me,” Lizanne said, her voice dropping to a whisper.
“I found out something... insane about the wedding planner. She’s not who she says she is.
Turns out, her fiancé is fake! The photo I showed you?
That’s her brother, not some attorney. He’s not real.
Oh my goodness, it’s so juice. Call me.”
She shut the laptop and walked to her bedroom, the house feeling larger and emptier than usual.
As she climbed into the oversized bed and pulled the silk sheets to her chin, she didn’t think about the fraud.
She didn’t think about the legal ramifications.
She thought about the way Rose’s arm had felt under her hand—the heat, the jolt, and the way the world had seemed to narrow down to just the two of them for a single, breath-stealing second.
She fell asleep with the ghost of that warmth still humming in her skin.