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.

The afternoon sun slanted through the windows of Serena's small rented studio space in Silver Lake. It was dusty, hot, and smelled of stale coffee.

She was staring at a spreadsheet on her laptop. The numbers were red. All red. Even with the bag sales, she was short. By a lot.

Her phone rang. An unknown number.

"Hello?"

"Ms. Vance? This is Elias Thorne from Moonlight Ventures."

Serena sat up straighter. "Yes?"

"We've been tracking your project, Loving You. We've read the script. We think it has... potential."

"You do?" Serena's heart skipped a beat.

"We'd like to offer full financing. Five million dollars. Creative control remains with you. The only condition is that Aurora Pictures handles distribution."

Serena frowned. "Aurora? But they just rejected me."

"We have a distribution deal with them," Elias said smoothly. "We handle the production; they handle the release. It guarantees you screens."

It sounded too good to be true. "Why? Why me?"

"Let's just say... we believe in the underdog."

Serena closed her eyes. A lifeline. "Okay. Send the paperwork."

She hung up and let out a scream of joy. She spun around in her chair. She did it. She did it without Julian.

She checked the time. 5:30 PM.

The dinner.

Her stomach dropped. She still hadn't fixed the Julian problem. He wasn't answering her texts.

She packed up her things and drove home. The house was empty. Julian hadn't come back.

She showered and dressed in a navy blue gown-her mother's favorite color. It was conservative, high-necked, boring. Armor for the Vance family firing squad.

She went downstairs. No Julian.

She texted him again.

Serena: I'm leaving for my parents'. Please.

Nothing.

She walked out to the driveway. The chauffeur, Arthur, opened the door of the Mercedes.

"To the Vance estate, Arthur," she said softly.

The car pulled out. Serena stared out the window, watching the palm trees blur. She felt a profound loneliness. She was going into the lion's den alone.

The car wound its way down the private road connecting the Sterling estate to the main thoroughfare. Just before the gate, Arthur slowed the Mercedes to a crawl.

"What is it?" Serena asked.

"Mr. Sterling's car is ahead, Ma'am," Arthur said.

Serena looked up. The black Maybach was idling by the exit gate, its taillights glowing like angry eyes in the dusk.

The rear door of the Maybach opened. Gavin stepped out. He walked over to the Mercedes and opened Serena's door.

"Mrs. Sterling," Gavin said. "Mr. Sterling requests you join him."

Serena let out a breath she didn't know she was holding. She gathered her skirts and stepped out. She practically ran to the Maybach.

She slid into the backseat.

Julian was there. He was wearing a tuxedo. He was typing on his phone, the blue light illuminating his sharp cheekbones. He didn't look up.

"You came," Serena breathed. "Thank you."

Julian kept typing. "Don't flatter yourself," he said, his voice flat. "I saw the report on your bag sales. Selling your inheritance to strangers... it's pathetic. I won't have my wife looking like an abandoned stray in front of her vultures of a family."

"I... I got funding," she said, wanting to share her news. "A company called Moonlight Ventures."

Julian's thumb paused over the screen for a millisecond. Then he continued typing.

"Good for you," he said. "Maybe now you can buy your own handbags."

Serena turned away, biting her lip to keep from crying. He was here, but he wasn't with her.

...

Julian put his phone away. He looked at her reflection in the darkened window. He wanted to tell her. He wanted to tell her that he was Moonlight Ventures. That he had set up the shell company three hours ago. That he had threatened the head of Aurora to take the distribution deal.

But he couldn't. Not when she looked at him with that mixture of fear and defiance. Not when she still dreamt of another man.

He reached out and took her hand. His grip was loose, impersonal.

"Look happy," he said as the car turned into the Vance driveway. "It's showtime."