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.

It was raining in London. It always was. I sat on the edge of my plush hotel bed. My laptop was open on my lap. The screen cast a cold blue glow in the dark room. Outside, city lights blurred through the wet glass.

Forged in Fire premiered at the fall festival two days ago. The reviews were everywhere. I told myself not to look. I told myself I didn't care. I was Saylor Montgomery. I had two Oscars. I didn't need to read blogs about a supporting actor. But I pulled up the browser anyway.

Every major outlet led with his name. Briggs Owens.

"A staggering debut."

"The revelation of the season."

"Briggs Owens bleeds on screen."

I clicked on an article from Variety. There was a photo of him on the red carpet. He wore a simple, sharp black suit. His hair was pushed back. The pink laser scar under his left eye was covered by expensive makeup. He didn't look like the quiet boy who made my oatmeal. He looked like a movie star. He looked untouchable.

A strange, heavy feeling twisted in my chest. It was pride. Complicated, unwelcome pride. I gave him that role. I made the call to Robert Mitchell. But Briggs earned the applause. He took the absolute wreckage I left him in, and he spun it into pure gold.

I hated it. I hated that I felt proud. I hated that his face still made my stomach drop.

I snapped the laptop shut. The room went pitch black. I picked up the hotel phone and ordered room service. I asked for a steak and a glass of red wine. Twenty minutes later, a waiter wheeled a silver cart into my room. I tipped him and locked the door behind him.

The food smelled rich and warm. I sat in the chair and stared at the plate. My stomach was tied in knots. I didn't take a single bite. The steak grew cold. The fat hardened. I drank the wine, but it tasted like ash in my mouth.

Two months later, I was back in California. I sat at a round table inside a massive white tent on the Santa Monica beach. It was the Independent Spirit Awards.

The tent was loud. Crystal glasses clinked. People laughed and kissed each other's cheeks. I wore a backless silver gown. My hair was pulled back tight. I smiled at the right people. I clapped at the right times. I was playing my part perfectly.

Then the lights dimmed. It was time for Best Breakthrough Performance.

The presenter opened the envelope. She leaned into the mic. "And the Spirit Award goes to... Briggs Owens, Forged in Fire."

The tent erupted. People cheered loudly. My chest tightened so fast I couldn't breathe. I kept my face perfectly still.

Briggs stood up from a table near the front. He buttoned his dark suit jacket. He walked up to the stage. He moved differently now. The timid, eager boy was completely gone. His steps were measured. His shoulders were broad. He radiated a quiet, magnetic power. He looked dangerous.

He took the trophy from the presenter. He stepped up to the microphone.

"Thank you," he said. His voice was deep and steady. It echoed through the huge tent.

He thanked Robert Mitchell. He thanked the cast. He thanked the crew and the studio. He spoke for exactly forty-five seconds. He was composed. He was polished.

He never said my name.

I felt a sharp sting. I told myself it was what I wanted. I wanted a clean break. I wanted him to move on.

But then, right before he stepped back from the mic, he stopped. The applause started to build in the room. He didn't move. He just looked out into the sea of faces.

His eyes found mine.

It was exactly one second. No more. But the current that passed between us was violent. It hit me like a physical strike. The noise in the tent vanished. In my kitchen, he used to look at me like he was waiting for permission to breathe. On that stage, he looked at me like he owned the air in the room. He was looking right through my armor.

I didn't blink. I didn't look away. I slipped my right hand under the table. I pressed my thumb hard against the inside of my left wrist. My pulse was frantic. It beat like a trapped bird against my skin.

He turned and walked off the stage. The spell broke. The room breathed again.

In the weeks that followed, Briggs's transformation was complete. It was public.

I couldn't escape him. His face was on the cover of GQ. His billboard was on Sunset Boulevard. He was the topic of every industry dinner. His agent called him Hollywood's most exciting new voice. The offers poured in. Scripts, campaigns, leading roles. The boy I kept hidden in my Malibu house was now the center of the world.

I was in my office one afternoon. Maya walked in holding a stack of mail. She set it on my glass desk.

"He got the lead in the new Fincher project," she said quietly.

I didn't look up from my script. "Good for him."

Maya lingered. She shifted her weight from one foot to the other. "He got his first major studio paycheck yesterday, Saylor."

I stopped reading. I knew she was going to tell me anyway. Maya always knew everything. "And?"

"He didn't buy a sports car. He didn't buy a watch," she said. Her voice was soft. "He wired a massive sum to that facility in upstate New York. Greenfield. He paid for six months of care in advance."

I stared at the black words on my page. They blurred together. Greenfield again. The mystery debt. I didn't know who was at Greenfield. I didn't know what kind of sickness or debt required that kind of money. But it proved one thing. He belonged to someone else's tragedy.

"Where is he living?" I asked. The question slipped out before I could stop it.

"He rented a penthouse in West Hollywood," Maya replied. "But my friend at his agency says he doesn't go out. He doesn't go to parties. He doesn't celebrate."

"What does he do there?"

"Nothing," Maya whispered. "He just goes home. He sits in the empty apartment. And he stares at the wall for a long time."

I swallowed hard. The silence in my office felt heavy and thick.

The power dynamic was gone. He wasn't my secret anymore. He wasn't a nobody who needed my money or my connections. He was my equal now. The whole world wanted him.

But he was still paying off a ghost. And I was still running from mine.

"Thank you, Maya," I said. My voice was completely flat. "That will be all."

She nodded and left the room. The door clicked shut.

I dropped my pen on the desk. I pressed my fingers to my wrist. I closed my eyes. I could still feel the heat of his gaze from the stage. He was out there. He was huge. And for the first time, I felt like I was the one hiding.

Diana Cho sat across from me and dropped a thick, glossy folder on my glass desk. “Aurel & Voss,” she said flatly.

I looked at the gold lettering. They were a legacy jewelry house. A global campaign with them was a crown in this industry.

“They want you,” my publicist continued. She leaned forward, resting her elbows on the desk. “And they want Briggs.”

I didn’t blink. I pushed the folder back toward her with one finger. “No.”

“Saylor, listen to me,” Diana said. Her voice was sharp. She didn’t coddle me. It was why I paid her. “If you decline this, it becomes a story. The blogs will say you’re threatened by his sudden fame. Or worse, they’ll say you’re heartbroken and hiding. You cannot give them that narrative.”

I stared at the folder. I hated that she was right. I had spent my entire career building an armor of pure, untouchable ice. Backing out of a massive campaign because of a twenty-something actor would crack it.

“Fine,” I said quietly. “But I have terms. Strictly professional. Separate dressing rooms. No lingering on set. No joint press interviews. We shoot the photos, and we leave.”

Diana nodded. “I’ll send it to his agency.”

She relayed the demands that afternoon. Briggs’s agent responded an hour later. He didn’t argue. He didn’t push back. He just said Briggs understood. I told myself I was relieved.

The shoot took place over two days in a massive, cold studio in Manhattan.

The room smelled like hot lighting gels and expensive hairspray. Dozens of crew members buzzed around us. Racks of designer clothes lined the walls. Armed security guards stood by velvet trays of millions of dollars in diamonds.

I stepped onto the white backdrop. I wore a backless black silk gown.

Briggs walked onto the set a minute later. He wore a tailored charcoal suit. His hair was styled back. The pink laser scar under his eye was perfectly concealed. He didn’t look nervously around the room like he used to. He didn’t wait for my cue. He walked with heavy, measured steps. He looked like he owned the building.

“Alright, let’s make magic!” the photographer, a French man named Luc, shouted. “Stand together. Closer. Give me heat. Give me possession.”

Briggs stepped into my space. The air between us vanished.

I looked up at him. I expected him to drop his gaze. The boy in my Malibu house always dropped his gaze. But this man didn’t. He looked right into my eyes. His stare was dark, direct, and completely unyielding. It was almost confrontational.

“Hand on her collarbone, Briggs,” Luc directed.

Briggs raised his hand. His warm fingers brushed my bare skin. A sudden, violent shiver threatened to run down my spine. I locked my knees. I kept my face perfectly still. I gave the camera a cool, detached stare. We were close enough that I could smell him. He didn’t smell like cinnamon and brown sugar anymore. He smelled like vetiver and cold rain.

We moved through the poses for hours. He didn’t speak to me. I didn’t speak to him. It was a silent, brutal tug-of-war. Every time he touched my waist, he gripped a little too firmly. Every time I turned my face away, I did it a little too sharply.

On the second day, we shot the close-ups.

I wore a heavy, blinding diamond choker. We sat at a small table draped in black velvet. An open jewelry case sat between us. Our hands were supposed to be laced together over the diamonds.

“Intimate,” Luc called out from behind his lens. “Like you have a secret. Touch her arm, Briggs. Look at her lips.”

Briggs shifted his weight. His broad shoulder brushed mine. He reached out and wrapped his hand around my forearm. His grip was warm and solid.

Then, slowly, his hand slid down my arm.

His thumb moved past my palm. It slipped to the inside of my left wrist.

He stopped. He pressed his thumb down, right over my pulse.

My heart slammed against my ribs. It was my secret tell. The exact spot I touched whenever I was falling apart. The spot I pressed on the beach when I left him. The spot I held when I watched him win his award. I thought no one ever noticed.

He knew. He had been paying attention the whole time.

My breath caught. It was a tiny, invisible gasp. But under his thumb, my pulse went absolutely frantic. It battered against his skin like a trapped bird.

Briggs didn’t look at the camera. He looked down at my face. His dark eyes locked onto mine. He didn’t smirk. He didn’t say a word. He just held his thumb there, letting the frantic beat of my heart hammer against his skin. He was letting me know that he felt it. He was letting me know that my armor was a lie.

“Beautiful! Hold that!” Luc yelled. The camera flashed blindingly fast.

“Got it. We’re wrapped!”

I ripped my arm out of his grip instantly. The cold studio air hit my damp skin. I didn’t look back at him. I turned on my heel and walked straight to my dressing room.

I shut the heavy door behind me and locked it.

The room was dead silent. I walked over to the vanity mirror and gripped the marble edges. My chest was heaving. I stared at my own reflection. My eyes were wide. My perfectly painted lips were parted. I looked terrified.

He wasn’t a ghost anymore. He was real, and he was hunting me.

My phone buzzed on the counter.

I picked it up. It was a text from Maya. She had been standing by the monitor feed all day. She saw everything the camera saw. She saw his thumb on my wrist. And she saw that I didn’t pull away fast enough.

The text was one sentence.

*You don’t have to go to the after-party.*

I stared at the glowing screen. I could tell my driver to take me straight to the hotel. I could lock my door, order black coffee, and fly back to Los Angeles in the morning. I could run. It would be the smart thing to do. It would be the safe thing to do.

I set the phone face-down on the marble counter.

I looked back in the mirror. I picked up a tube of dark red lipstick. I applied it slowly, perfectly tracing the sharp lines of my mouth. I smoothed down the front of my silk gown. I forced my breathing to slow down.

I wasn’t going to run. I was Saylor Montgomery. I didn’t hide from anyone.

I dropped the lipstick into my clutch. I unlocked the door, stepped out into the hallway, and walked toward the party.