The master bedroom was dark, lit only by the amber glow of a single bedside lamp. Serena stood by the floor-to-ceiling window, wrapped tightly in her silk robe. Outside, the city lights of Los Angeles sprawled like a glittery, indifferent ocean.

The bathroom door opened. Steam billowed out, carrying the scent of sandalwood and expensive soap.

Julian walked out. He wore only a towel low on his hips. His torso was a landscape of lean muscle and scars-faint white lines across his ribs, a jagged mark on his shoulder from a polo accident years ago, a testament to a sport as brutal as it was refined.

He didn't look at her immediately. He walked to the crystal decanter on the dresser and poured two fingers of amber liquid. He drank it in one swallow, the muscles in his throat working.

Then he turned.

He didn't speak. He just crooked a finger.

Serena's breath hitched. She turned away from the window and walked toward the bed. Her legs felt heavy, like she was wading through water. Every step was a battle between her pride and her necessity.

When she reached him, Julian set the glass down. He reached out and untied the sash of her robe. He didn't rush. His movements were methodical, efficient.

The silk pooled at her feet. Serena crossed her arms over her chest, a reflex of shame. She felt exposed, not just physically, but emotionally flayed.

Julian took her wrists and pulled her arms down to her sides. His grip was firm, bordering on painful.

"Don't hide," he commanded.

He guided her onto the bed. There was no romance in it. No soft words. No gentle caresses to warm her up. He moved over her with a weight that was suffocating and grounding all at once.

Serena kept her left arm pressed firmly against the mattress, burying her wrist into the soft Egyptian cotton sheets. Even in the dim light, she wouldn't risk him seeing the ink. It felt like a brand, a mark of ownership from a past life she was desperate to erase.

He kissed her, but it wasn't a kiss of affection. It was a claiming. His lips were hard, his tongue demanding. He tasted of whiskey and mint.

Serena lay passive, staring up at the shadowed ceiling. Her mind drifted, unbidden, to the restaurant. To Harrison's hand on her arm. To the lie that she still loved him.

Julian stopped.

He pulled back, propping himself up on his elbows. His eyes were black holes in the dim light, searching her face. He looked angry.

"Look at me," he growled.

Serena focused her eyes on him.

"Who are you thinking about?" he demanded. He shifted, his hips pressing harder against hers, a sharp reminder of his presence.

"No one," she gasped.

"Liar." He moved again, a friction that dragged a gasp from her throat. "Say my name."

Serena bit her lip. She wouldn't give him that satisfaction. Not when this was just a transaction for him.

Julian stopped moving completely. The stillness was worse. He waited. He had all the patience in the world, and he held all the cards.

"Serena," he warned. Low. Dangerous.

"Julian," she cried out, her voice cracking. A tear escaped the corner of her eye and tracked hot into her hairline. "It's you. It's only you."

Something in his face fractured. The hardness around his mouth softened for a fraction of a second. He lowered his head and kissed the tear away. His lips lingered on her wet skin, surprisingly soft, a stark contrast to the roughness of his body.

When it was over, Julian rolled away immediately. He sat on the edge of the bed, his back to her, broad and impenetrable. He reached for his robe and put it on, tying it tightly.

Serena pulled the duvet up to her chin, curling into a ball on the far side of the massive mattress. She felt used. She felt hollow.

Julian walked to the balcony door. He slid it open and stepped out into the night air. She watched the silhouette of him lighting a cigarette. The tiny cherry of the burning tobacco glowed in the darkness.

Exhaustion pulled at her. Her eyelids felt heavy as lead. Within minutes, the emotional toll of the day dragged her into a deep, dreamless sleep.

...

Julian waited until her breathing evened out into the slow rhythm of deep sleep. He stubbed out the cigarette, half-smoked, and stepped back into the room.

He walked to the side of the bed and looked down at her. In sleep, the tension had left her face. She looked younger. Softer.

His eyes caught a purple bruise blooming on her upper arm-where she had slammed into the doorframe earlier.

He frowned, his jaw clenching.

He went into the bathroom and returned with a small jar of arnica salve. He sat on the edge of the bed, moving with a ghost-like silence. He gently pulled the duvet down to expose her arm.

Serena murmured something in her sleep and shifted.

Julian froze, his hand hovering in mid-air. He waited until she settled again.

Then, with agonizing slowness, he began to rub the salve into the bruise. His thumb circled the dark mark, his touch infinitely lighter than it had been an hour ago. He did it for five minutes, until the salve was fully absorbed.

He pulled the duvet back up, tucking it around her shoulders.

He walked to the nightstand and picked up his phone. A message from Gavin, his head of security, was waiting.

Gavin: The agency has agreed. All photos from The Ivy have been purchased. Exclusive rights transferred to Sterling Corp. The servers have been scrubbed.

Julian typed a single word reply: Done.

He set the phone down, turned off the lamp, and lay down in the darkness. He didn't touch her. He just lay there, listening to her breathe, guarding the space between them.

The sand was hot, burning the soles of her feet. Serena tried to run, but the desert floor was shifting, turning into quicksand. Harrison was there, standing on a dune, holding a blood bag. It was full, dangerously full, bursting at the seams. He was laughing, squeezing it, red liquid dripping over his fingers.

"You owe me," he chanted. "You owe me."

"No!" Serena screamed. She thrashed, trying to pull her legs free. "Let me go!"

"Serena!"

A voice cut through the heat. A hand gripped her wrist, anchoring her.

Serena's eyes flew open. She gasped, sitting bolt upright in bed. Her chest was heaving, sweat sticking her silk pajamas to her back.

"Stop! Get away! Harrison, stop!" she cried out, the terror of the dream bleeding into reality.

The hand on her wrist went rigid.

The room was bathed in the grey light of dawn. Julian was sitting next to her, his hand wrapped around her forearm. His hair was tousled from sleep, but his eyes were wide awake, and they were freezing over.

He let go of her arm as if she were contagious. He had heard the name. He hadn't heard the fear.

"It was a nightmare," Serena stammered, clutching the sheets. "I... I was dreaming about the movie set."

Julian didn't say anything. He stared at her for a long, uncomfortable moment. The hurt in his eyes was there, buried deep under layers of indifference, but Serena was too panicked to see it.

He threw the covers off and got out of bed. "Get dressed."

He walked into the bathroom and slammed the door.

Serena put her head in her hands. Stupid. Stupid.

She grabbed her phone from the nightstand, bracing herself for the morning headlines. She opened Twitter. She searched for her name.

Nothing.

She searched for "Harrison Knox The Ivy."

Nothing.

The links from last night were dead. "Page Not Found." The TMZ article was gone. It was as if the internet had been wiped clean.

Confusion knit her brows together. Harrison wouldn't have done this. He wanted the press.

She dressed quickly in a pair of slacks and a silk blouse and went downstairs.

Julian was already at the head of the dining table. He was reading the Financial Times, a cup of black coffee steaming by his hand.

"Morning," Mrs. Higgins said, placing a plate of avocado toast and a bowl of berries in front of Serena.

Serena sat down. "Thank you."

She looked at Julian. He turned a page of the newspaper, the crisp snap of the paper echoing in the room.

"The photos are gone," she said tentatively.

Julian didn't lower the paper. "Are they?"

"You know they are. Did you... did you do that?"

He finally lowered the paper. His face was impassive. "Sterling stock cannot afford volatility based on your tawdry past. It was a business decision."

The words stung. Of course. It wasn't for her. It was for the shareholders.

"Right," Serena said, her voice dull. "Thank you anyway."

"Don't thank me," he said coldly. "Just stop dreaming about him."

Serena's fork clattered against her plate. "I told you, it was a nightmare about the shoot."

"You scream his name when you're scared," Julian said. He picked up his coffee cup, his knuckles white against the ceramic. "It's very telling."

He stood up, leaving his breakfast untouched. He buttoned his suit jacket.

"I have meetings all day. Don't go out."

He walked toward the door, then stopped. He pointed to a small glass bottle on the sideboard where Mrs. Higgins was organizing a tray.

"Mrs. Higgins, ensure she takes her supplements," he ordered, his voice clipped. "She looks anemic."

He walked out.

Serena stared at the bottle. It was a custom blend of vitamins for stress and fatigue. He noticed everything, even when he was furious.

She swallowed the pill with a gulp of cold coffee.

...

In the hallway, Gavin was waiting with Julian's briefcase.

"Sir," Gavin said, keeping pace with Julian's long strides toward the garage. "We have a problem. Harrison Knox is in contact with Canvas Media. He's trying to bypass the blockade. He has a video."

Julian stopped at the driver's side of his Maybach. He opened the door, his expression darkening.

"Let him try," Julian said. "Keep monitoring. If he releases anything, I want his production company audited by noon."

"Yes, sir."

Julian got into the car. He looked back at the house, at the dining room window where Serena was sitting alone. He hated leaving her like this. But every time she said that man's name, it felt like a knife twisting in his gut.

He slammed the car door and gunned the engine.

The lobby of Aurora Pictures was a cathedral of glass and steel, designed to make visitors feel insignificant. Serena walked to the reception desk, her heels clicking with a confidence she didn't feel.

"I have an appointment with Charles Chen," she told the receptionist.

The young woman behind the desk looked up. Her eyes widened slightly-recognition. Then pity.

"Mr. Chen is in a meeting," she said.

"I'll wait," Serena said.

She sat on a leather sofa in the waiting area. She waited for an hour. Then two. People bustled past-producers shouting into phones, actors clutching headshots. No one looked at her. She felt invisible.

Finally, an assistant scurried out. She didn't invite Serena back. She handed her a manila envelope.

"Mr. Chen asked me to give you this," the assistant said, avoiding eye contact. "The funding for Loving You has been placed on indefinite hold."

Serena stood up, the envelope crinkling in her grip. "What? We have a contract."

"Strategic realignment," the assistant recited. "Corporate policy."

"Is this because of the photos?" Serena demanded. "Because of the rumors?"

The assistant shrugged helplessly. "I just work here, Mrs. Sterling."

Serena stormed out of the building. The sun was high and brutal. She felt exposed. Without the Sterling seal of approval, she was toxic.

She drove to Soho House in West Hollywood. She needed a drink, or at least a friend.

Harper was waiting on the terrace, nursing a kale smoothie.

"They pulled the plug," Serena said, collapsing into the chair opposite her.

"I told you," Harper said, shaking her head. "This town has no loyalty. They smell blood in the water. Or in your case, divorce papers."

"We're not getting divorced," Serena said automatically.

"Does Julian know that?" Harper raised an eyebrow. "Look, Ren. Why are you doing this the hard way? You're married to a billionaire. Just ask him for the money. He spends more on car insurance than your budget requires."

"No," Serena said firmly. "I want this to be mine. If I take his money, it's just another thing I owe him. It's just another way I'm... kept."

...

Thirty feet away, behind a dense partition of climbing ivy, Julian Sterling stood perfectly still.

He was walking with two executives from Warner Bros, heading to his private table. As he passed the divide, the familiar cadence of her voice had stopped him cold. He had signaled the executives to continue without him and stepped closer to the greenery, hidden from view.

He listened.

"I don't want his money," Serena's voice drifted through the leaves, low and strained. "It makes me feel like a prostitute. Like I'm selling myself for lifestyle maintenance."

Julian's face went rigid. The temperature around him seemed to drop ten degrees.

He felt a sharp, stabbing pain in his chest. A prostitute. That was how she saw their marriage? That was how she saw his support?

He turned on his heel.

He didn't confront her. He didn't make a scene. He simply walked away, his stride long and furious, the words echoing in his mind like a curse.

...

"Oh my god," Harper whispered, looking over Serena's shoulder. "Ren. Don't look now."

"What?" Serena turned.

She caught a glimpse of a grey suit jacket disappearing around the corner of the building.

"Was that...?"

"That was Julian," Harper said, her eyes wide. "He looked pissed."

Serena's heart sank. She pulled out her phone and texted him.

Serena: Were you at Soho House?

No reply.

She waited five minutes. Ten.

Nothing.

She put her phone down. She felt sick. He had heard. He had heard her complaining about him, rejecting him.

"I have to fix this," she murmured. But how? She couldn't ask him for money now. It would prove his point-that she was just a gold digger.

She needed cash. Fast. Independent cash.

She looked at her purse. It was a Birkin, a gift from her father for her 21st birthday.

"Harper," Serena said slowly. "Do you still have the number for that consignment shop on Melrose?"

Harper stared at her. "You're going to sell your bags?"

"I'm going to fund my own movie," Serena said. "Whatever it takes."