The smell of cinnamon and melting brown sugar filled the kitchen. I sat at the marble island of my Malibu home, a new script open in front of me. I wasn’t really reading it. I was just enjoying the quiet.

Briggs placed a ceramic bowl down in front of me. Steam rose from the warm oatmeal.

For months, he had made me avocado toast with poached eggs. It was Evan’s favorite breakfast. Evan, my first love. The man I buried years ago. When I brought Briggs into my life, it was because his face was an uncanny mirror of Evan’s. I wanted a ghost. Briggs played the part perfectly. But a few weeks ago, I offhandedly muttered that I actually craved warm oatmeal. I never asked him to change the menu. But the very next morning, the toast was gone. The oatmeal was there.

It was a small shift. But it meant Briggs was looking at me, not the ghost I wanted him to be.

I looked up from my script. Briggs stood across the counter, wearing a soft, eager smile. He looked like he always did—gentle, compliant, waiting for my approval. I reached across the island to brush a stray curl from his forehead.

My fingers stopped an inch from his skin.

I stared at his face. Right beneath his left eye. The skin there was smooth and faintly pink.

His teardrop mole was gone.

It was the one feature that perfectly matched Evan. The detail that made the illusion complete. I blinked, my hand hovering in the air. The pink patch looked raw, fresh from a laser clinic.

He had burned a piece of his own face off. He did it to deepen the resemblance. He did it to make himself more indispensable to my grief.

The air in the kitchen suddenly felt too thin. My stomach turned to ice. He wasn't just playing a part anymore. He was erasing himself.

I slowly pulled my hand back. I didn't scream. I didn't ask why. The silence stretched between us, thick and suffocating. Briggs's smile faltered. His eyes darted to my hand, then back to my eyes. He swallowed hard.

I picked up my spoon, took exactly one bite of the oatmeal, and set the spoon down.

I stood up and walked away.

I moved through the rest of the morning with mechanical efficiency. I stepped into the shower and turned the water scalding hot. I put on my armor—a tailored silk blouse, sharp trousers, impeccable makeup. I sat at my desk and answered emails from my agent. Two Academy Awards sat on the shelf behind me, watching the room. I was Saylor Montgomery. I controlled my world.

Briggs hovered. He paced the hallway outside my office. He leaned against the doorframe, his knuckles white as he gripped the wood. Panic rolled off him in heavy waves. He knew he had made a mistake, but he didn't know how to fix it because I wouldn't give him the words to fight with.

By evening, the silence had choked the life out of the house.

"Get in the car," I told him.

I drove us down the Pacific Coast Highway. The sun was setting, painting the sky in bruised shades of purple and black. Briggs sat in the passenger seat, staring at my profile. His breathing was shallow.

I pulled over at a secluded stretch of beach. The wind was fierce, whipping my hair around my face as I stepped out. The ocean crashed violently against the rocks below. Briggs followed me down to the wet sand. He looked small against the vast, dark water.

"Saylor, please," he finally choked out. His voice was raw. "I thought it was what you wanted. I thought it would make you happy."

I stopped at the water's edge and turned to face him. The faint pink scar under his eye caught the dying light. My chest tightened, but I didn't let it show. I kept my face perfectly still.

"You were never him," I said. My voice was quiet, cutting clean through the sound of the waves. "And now you're not even you."

He flinched like I had struck him. His mouth opened, but no sound came out. Tears welled in his eyes, spilling over the smooth, altered skin of his cheek.

I didn't wait for a response. I turned my back on him and walked up the sandy incline. I got into my car, started the engine, and drove away. In the rearview mirror, I watched his silhouette standing alone against the crashing tide until he disappeared into the dark.

The house was empty when I got back. But it still smelled faintly of cinnamon and brown sugar.

I locked the front door. I walked down the hall, went straight into the master bathroom, and sank to the floor. The marble tiles were freezing against my legs. I pressed my back hard against the bathtub, pulling my knees to my chest.

I reached over with my right hand and pressed two fingers hard against the inside of my left wrist. The pulse fluttered there, fast and erratic. It was my tell. The one physical leak in my dam.

I closed my eyes. I gave myself exactly ten minutes. Ten minutes to mourn the boy who learned how to make my oatmeal. Ten minutes to grieve the illusion.

When the time was up, I stood. I washed my face in the sink. I rebuilt the wall, brick by cold brick.

At four in the morning, I picked up my phone.

"Maya," I said when she answered. Her voice was thick with sleep, but she was instantly alert.

"Saylor? What's wrong?"

"Scrub him," I said flatly. "Change the gate codes. Tell security his name is off the list. Clear his things out by noon."

Maya didn't gasp. She didn't ask questions. She was my assistant, my anchor. "Understood," she said quietly. "I'll take care of it."

I was about to hang up when she spoke again. Her voice shifted, losing its professional edge.

"Saylor. Wait."

"What is it?"

"I need to tell you something. I should have told you weeks ago."

I gripped the edge of the bathroom counter. "Tell me."

"When you were napping in your trailer last month on set," Maya said slowly. "You were dreaming. You were talking in your sleep."

"I don't care about my dreams, Maya."

"You were saying his name, Saylor," she pushed back gently. "You were calling for Briggs. Not Evan. You haven't said Evan's name in months."

The silence rushed back into my ears, deafening and bright. I stared at my own reflection in the mirror. My perfect, untouchable face.

I pressed my thumb hard into my left wrist.

"Thank you, Maya," I whispered.

I hung up the phone. I didn't cry. But the truth lodged deep in my chest, sharp and immovable, where I could never reach it.

I didn’t stop moving. If I stopped, the silence of my Malibu house would catch up to me. So I threw myself into the machine.

I booked a grueling international press tour for my new thriller. London on Monday. Paris on Wednesday. Tokyo by the weekend. I packed my days with fittings, morning shows, and endless script reads. I smiled for the cameras. I wore sharp tailored suits and backless silk gowns. I answered the same questions from fifty different journalists with the exact same polished laugh.

I was Saylor Montgomery. I was Hollywood royalty. I was untouchable.

My days were loud and blindingly bright. But my nights were a void. I drank black coffee at two in the morning and memorized lines until my eyes burned. I didn't sleep. Every time I closed my eyes, I smelled cinnamon and brown sugar. I saw a raw, pink patch of skin under a boy's left eye.

Maya watched me closely. She was my shadow, handing me bottled water and fixing my schedule. Sometimes she just stood in the corner of a green room and stared at me. She knew I was bleeding out. But I played the role of the untouchable queen so flawlessly that even Maya bought the act most days. I didn't cry. I kept my right thumb pressed hard against the inside of my left wrist, feeling my frantic pulse. That was my only leak.

I told Maya to cut Briggs off completely. Change the gate codes, alert security, scrub him from my life. But Hollywood is a very small town. Gossip always bleeds through the cracks.

Three weeks after I left him on the beach, I was in a makeup chair in a New York hotel room. Maya stood by the window, scrolling through her tablet.

“He sold the watch,” she said quietly.

I opened my eyes. The makeup artist paused, holding a brush in mid-air. “Give us a minute,” I told her.

The artist nodded quickly and left the room. The door clicked shut.

“What watch?” I asked, keeping my voice perfectly flat.

“The vintage Rolex you gave him for his birthday,” Maya said. She didn't look up from her screen. “He took a massive loss at a pawn shop in the Valley. Word is he’s completely broke, Saylor.”

I stared at my reflection. My face was perfectly contoured. Cold and hard like marble. “Why are you telling me this?”

“Because he’s desperate,” Maya pushed back, finally meeting my eyes. “He called his agent yesterday and begged for anything. Commercials, walk-ons, extra work. He said he doesn't care about the pay. He’s taking cash advances on his credit cards.”

I felt a sharp prick in my chest. I pushed it down. “People run out of money, Maya. That isn't my problem anymore.”

“He made a huge payment forty-eight hours before a deadline,” she added. Her voice was gentle, but her eyes were sharp. “To some long-term care facility upstate. Greenfield, I think. I don't know what it’s for. But he's drowning.”

A facility? For a brief second, my mind spun. A rehab? A sick relative? A secret debt? I gripped the padded arms of the makeup chair. My knuckles turned white.

“I don't care,” I said firmly. “He made his choices. I made mine. Don't bring his name up again.”

Maya sighed. She recognized the tone. It was the tone that ended conversations permanently. “Understood,” she murmured.

But the universe wouldn't let me forget him.

A month later, I was back in Los Angeles. I was sitting alone in my trailer on the Sony lot, reading over a new script. My phone buzzed on the glass coffee table. The caller ID flashed. It was Robert Mitchell, the legendary director of *Forged in Fire*.

I had pulled strings to get Briggs his supporting role in that movie. After the breakup, I thought about making a call and having him fired. It would have taken one sentence. But I didn't. I wasn't that petty. I let him keep the job.

I picked up the phone. “Robert. Tell me you're wrapping on schedule.”

“Saylor,” Robert’s gruff voice boomed through the speaker. “I owe you a drink. A very expensive one.”

I leaned back on the velvet sofa. “Oh? Did the studio finally up your budget?”

“Better,” he chuckled. “It's about the kid. Briggs.”

My breath hitched. My right hand immediately flew to my left wrist. I pressed my fingers into my pulse. “What about him?”

“I don't know what happened to that kid,” Robert said, his voice dropping into a tone of absolute awe. “But I'm not wasting it.”

“What do you mean?” I asked. I kept my words slow and measured.

“We shot the orphanage scene today. The big one. Where his character loses his mentor.” Robert paused, exhaling heavily. “Saylor, the kid just broke down. It wasn't acting. It was something else entirely. It was dangerous. Raw. The whole crew went dead silent. He was shaking, crying like he had absolutely nothing left to live for. It was the most authentic grief I've seen on a camera in ten years.”

I closed my eyes. The trailer felt suddenly freezing. The image of Briggs standing alone on the dark Malibu beach flashed in my mind. The wind whipping his hair. The tears spilling over his laser-scarred cheek. *You were never him. And now you're not even you.*

“I rewrote two more scenes for him tonight,” Robert continued, oblivious to the silence on my end. “I'm expanding his role. He’s going to steal this entire movie, Saylor. I just wanted to call and thank you. Shoving him my way was the best favor you could have done for me.”

A heavy knot formed in my throat. He was hurting. He was channeling the absolute wreckage I left him in, and he was turning it into art. He was using the pain I caused him to survive.

“You're welcome, Robert,” I whispered. “I have to go to set now.”

“See you at the premiere, Saylor.”

I hung up the phone. The trailer was dead silent again. I looked at the script in my lap, but the words just blurred together into meaningless black shapes.

My chest burned. I wanted to call him. For one weak, pathetic second, I wanted to pick up the phone and ask him if he was eating. If his cheek still hurt. If he was okay.

But I didn't. I forced myself to stand up. I walked over to the full-length mirror on the door. I smoothed down the front of my designer dress. I checked my red lipstick. It was perfect.

I rebuilt the wall, brick by cold brick. I opened the door and stepped out into the blinding California sun. I had a scene to shoot. I was Saylor Montgomery, and I never looked back.

Three weeks after I left Briggs on the beach, I went to a private industry dinner. It was held at a massive estate in Beverly Hills. The room was hot and loud. Crystal glasses clinked. Waiters in black vests carried silver trays of champagne. I stood near the marble bar, sipping sparkling water. I wore a sharp black suit. I wanted to look like armor.

Sterling Gibson found me. He always did. He walked up to the bar and ordered a scotch. He smelled like expensive cologne and arrogance.

He turned to me and frowned softly. "You look tired, Saylor," he murmured.

I stared straight ahead. I didn't look at him.

He stepped closer. His hand hovered an inch from the small of my back. "This press tour is bleeding you dry. You're working too hard. You need someone steady right now. Let me take care of you."

I finally turned my head. His smile was polished and practiced. He framed his pitch as concern. But it was just ego. He couldn't stand that I had left him. He wanted me to fall apart so he could put me back together.

"I’m perfectly fine, Sterling," I said evenly. My voice was quiet, but it had an edge.

"You don't have to do this alone," he pressed. He leaned in, trying to create a bubble of intimacy in the crowded room.

"Excuse me," I said. I didn't step back. I just turned and walked away toward the host. I didn't look over my shoulder. But I could feel Sterling staring at my back. His jaw was tight. He looked like a man who never learned how to read a closed door.

Two days later, I drove to the Sony lot. I told myself it was just a courtesy call. I needed to check on the production of Forged in Fire. I needed to know if securing Briggs that role was a catastrophic mistake.

I wore dark sunglasses and a trench coat. I slipped into the soundstage through the heavy back doors. The thick walls cut off the bright California sun. The air inside smelled like hot dust and ozone from the lighting rigs.

The set was dead silent. I walked quietly past the thick black cables and camera monitors. Then I saw him.

Briggs was in the middle of a scene. He sat on a dirty mattress in a mock-up of a rundown apartment. He wore a faded t-shirt. His shoulders shook. He wasn't crying loudly. It was a quiet, suffocating kind of grief. He clawed at his own chest. He looked completely shattered.

My breath hitched in my throat. The pain radiating from him wasn't acting. It was too raw. It was the absolute wreckage I had left him in. He was taking the open wound I gave him and bleeding it out for the camera.

Across the dark room, Robert Mitchell caught my eye. The director sat in his tall chair. He didn't say a word. He just gave me a slow, heavy nod. He knew he was watching gold.

I stood in the shadows. I watched Briggs for exactly four minutes. My chest ached with a strange, heavy pressure. I reached over and pressed my thumb hard against the inside of my left wrist. I found my racing pulse. I couldn't watch him do this anymore. I turned around to leave.

I made it to the edge of the set before a hand caught my arm.

"Leaving so soon?"

It was Sterling. He had been circling the production all week. He used mutual industry contacts to get a visitor's pass. He was doing everything he could to stay in my orbit.

I ripped my arm out of his grip. "Don't touch me, Sterling."

He stepped into my path. The director yelled "Cut!" in the background. The crew started to mill around for a break. Heads began to turn toward us.

"Saylor, please," Sterling said. He dropped his voice to a low, intimate whisper. He reached out and touched my arm again. "Stop this act. We both know you're lonely. We belong together. Let me take you home."

I felt a spike of pure, blinding irritation. I looked past Sterling's shoulder.

Briggs was standing ten feet away. He had stepped off the set to get water. His face was still smeared with fake dirt and real tears. The pink laser scar under his eye was visible under the harsh studio lights. He was staring right at us. His eyes were wide and dark. He tracked Sterling’s hand on my arm. His jaw clenched so hard a muscle feathered in his cheek.

I looked at Sterling. Then I looked at Briggs.

I didn't think. I just moved.

I walked right past Sterling. I marched straight up to Briggs. He froze. His breath hitched audibly as I stepped into his personal space.

I reached up and grabbed the collar of his worn flannel jacket. I pulled him down roughly. I pressed my mouth hard against his.

He tasted like salt and stale coffee. For a split second, his entire body went rigid with shock. Then a ragged, desperate breath escaped his throat. His hands twitched. They rose instinctively, wanting to hold my waist. He wanted to pull me closer.

I broke the kiss before his fingers could land.

I let go of his collar. I didn't look at his face. I didn't look at Sterling. I just smoothed down the front of my trench coat.

The entire crew was staring in stunned silence. Nobody moved. Nobody spoke.

It wasn't a kiss of love. It was a weapon. It was a deliberate, violent use of his body. It was a door slamming shut in Sterling's face, leaving no room for ambiguity.

I turned on my heel and walked out the heavy soundstage doors. Sterling didn't follow me.

I walked out into the blinding afternoon sun. My driver was waiting by my black SUV. I got into the back seat and shut the door.

"Drive," I told him.

As the car rolled slowly through the massive parking lot, I looked out the tinted window. Briggs had followed me outside. He was standing by his own beat-up sedan a few rows away.

He didn't look at my car. He just opened his door and got in.

My driver stopped at the lot's exit gate, waiting for the guard to lift the arm. I kept watching Briggs through the dark glass.

He didn't start his engine. He just sat there in the driver's seat. His hands gripped the steering wheel so hard his knuckles were stark white. He stared straight ahead into the empty lot.

I knew exactly what I had done. I knew he understood what that kiss was. He knew it was a performance. He knew I used him to crush Sterling's ego.

But I also knew the truth. It was the first time I had touched him since I left him on the beach. I still felt the phantom heat of his mouth on mine. The sudden, desperate way he tried to hold me.

I pressed my thumb into my left wrist again. The pulse there was frantic.

The gate lifted. My driver pulled out onto the street. I looked back one last time. Briggs was still sitting in the dark car, totally unmoving.

He was going to sit there for a long time. He wasn't going to sleep tonight.

And neither was I.