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."

The duvet was ripped off her body.

Serena gasped, the sudden cold air hitting her skin like a slap. She curled into a ball, shielding her eyes from the morning light.

"Up," Julian's voice was a bark.

She blinked him into focus. He was dressed for work, immaculate in a navy suit, but his eyes were wild.

"What time is it?" she mumbled.

"Time for you to stop feeling sorry for yourself," he said. "Breakfast. Now."

He turned and walked out.

Serena dragged herself out of bed. She put on a robe and followed him.

In the dining room, Julian was standing, not sitting. He was leaning against the sideboard, arms crossed.

Serena sat down. Mrs. Higgins placed a plate of eggs in front of her. Serena picked up her fork, but her hand was shaking. She put it down.

"Not hungry?" Julian sneered.

He walked over to her. He picked up a slice of dry whole-wheat toast from the rack, breaking off a small corner. He held it to her lips.

"Eat," he ordered. His voice was harsh, but the food was bland, something her stomach could actually handle.

Serena pressed her lips together. "Julian, stop."

"You need your strength," he said, his voice dripping with sarcasm. "Carrying all those boxes of old handbags must be exhausting work."

Serena froze. She looked up at him. "How did you..."

"I know everything you do, Serena. Did you really think you could pawn your jewelry and bags without my security team flagging it?"

"They're mine," she said, her voice trembling. "I can do what I want with them."

"They were bought with Vance money," Julian said. "Which, for the last five years, has been Sterling money. So technically, you're selling my property to pay for your vanity project."

Serena stood up, knocking her chair back. "It's not vanity! It's my career! And I'd rather sell every stitch of clothing I own than ask you for a cent after the way you've treated me."

"The way I've treated you?" Julian laughed, a harsh, humorless sound. "I've given you a palace. I've given you a life. And you call yourself a prostitute."

The air left the room.

"You heard," she whispered.

"Every word."

He reached into his inner pocket and pulled out a card. It was black, metal, heavy. A Centurion card.

He tossed it onto the table. It slid across the wood and spun to a stop in front of her.

"There," he said. "The PIN is your birthday. Take it. Fund your little movie. Stop embarrassing me by hawking used goods on Melrose."

Serena looked at the card. It represented freedom. It represented her movie.

It represented defeat.

She reached out, picked up the card, and held it out to him.

"No," she said.

Julian stared at her hand. His jaw ticked.

"Take it," he warned.

"I said no. I don't want your money, Julian. I want a husband who respects me. And you can't buy that."

She dropped the card on the floor.

The silence that followed was deafening. Julian looked at the card on the rug, then back at her face. His eyes were blazing with an emotion she couldn't name-rage? Pain?

He stepped closer, invading her space until she had to tilt her head back to look at him. He gripped her chin in his hand, his fingers digging in.

"You have a lot of pride for someone with nothing," he whispered. "Fine. Do it your way. But tonight is the Vance dinner. You figure out how to get me there. Because I'm not going as a favor. Not anymore."

He released her abruptly and stormed out of the room. The front door slammed so hard the windows rattled.

Serena sank back into her chair. She put her head on the table and let the tears come.