The heavy wooden door of the dressing room violently slammed open.

The brass handle cracked against the drywall with a deafening thud.

Catalina jumped, her body physically launching off the velvet sofa. Her pulse spiked in her throat.

Her manager, Fran Key, marched into the room. Her sharp stilettos stabbed the carpet with every step. Fran's face was a mask of absolute fury. Her skin was pale, and her lips were pressed into a thin, bloodless line.

Fran's hands were wrapped tightly around two smartphones. Both screens were lit up, vibrating relentlessly.

Without a single word, Fran slammed an iPad face-up onto the glass coffee table.

The screen flared to life.

There it was. The TMZ photo, blown up and glaringly bright.

Catalina's eyes locked onto the image. Her throat instantly closed up. It felt like she had swallowed a handful of sand.

"Fran, I can explain," Catalina started, her voice shaking. "It was an accident. I tripped-"

Fran held up a hand, slicing through the air to cut her off.

"Nobody cares about the truth, Caty," Fran said, her voice dripping with ice. "They only care about how you managed to seduce the most eligible, untouchable bachelor in America on the night of your biggest win."

Catalina reached out with a trembling finger and swiped down on the iPad screen.

The Twitter comment section loaded.

A barrage of vile, toxic words assaulted her eyes. Her stomach plummeted. The blood drained from her face, leaving her skin freezing cold.

Green tea bitch.

Clout chaser.

Shameless whore.

Brogan's massive, rabid fanbase was tearing her apart. The data stream was moving so fast the iPad screen stuttered.

Catalina's fingers shook violently. She couldn't look away.

Fran snatched the iPad off the table and hit the power button, plunging the screen into blackness.

"Stop torturing yourself. That's an order," Fran snapped.

Fran spun around and immediately dialed her PR team. She paced the length of the room, her heels clicking sharply.

"I need full sentiment monitoring," Fran barked into the phone. "Bury it. I don't care what it costs."

A pause. Fran's jaw tightened.

"What do you mean you can't suppress it? It's a single photo!" Fran yelled, her voice cracking with frustration.

Fran pulled the phone away from her ear and aggressively rubbed her temples. She took a deep, ragged breath.

She opened her contacts. Her thumb hovered over a name buried deep at the very bottom of her contacts list, a ghost from the past she rarely acknowledged.

She pressed call.

She lifted the phone to her ear. It rang three times. Every ring felt like a physical weight pressing down on Fran's chest.

"Dwayne," Fran said, her voice dropping into a flat, robotic monotone.

On the other end, Dwayne Dickerson, CAA's top agent, answered. His voice was deep, smooth, and entirely devoid of emotion.

Fran gripped her phone so tight her knuckles turned stark white.

"We need a joint statement," Fran demanded, keeping her tone strictly professional. "Your client ambushed mine."

Dwayne let out a low, dark chuckle. The sound vibrated through the speaker.

"Ambushed?" Dwayne's voice dripped with subtle mockery. "Fran, your girl is the only one benefiting from this exposure. Brogan doesn't need her press."

Fran's eyes flashed with anger. She planted her feet firmly on the carpet.

"If you don't cooperate, Dwayne, I will leak a draft saying Brogan has been harassing her for months," Fran threatened, her voice dropping an octave. "Don't test me."

The temperature in the room seemed to drop ten degrees.

After a tense, silent standoff that stretched for ten agonizing seconds, Dwayne finally sighed.

"Fine," Dwayne said coldly. "We release a unified front. They don't know each other. It was pure gentlemanly conduct. Nothing more."

Fran hung up. She didn't take a breath before dialing her contact at Variety. Within two minutes, she locked in a time for an exclusive, definitive denial.

A heavy knock pounded on the dressing room door.

A massive bodyguard poked his head in. "Ms. Key. There are over a hundred paparazzi swarming the lobby and the loading dock. We have to move her now."

Catalina's stomach churned. She grabbed a pair of oversized black sunglasses and shoved them onto her face. She pulled a black mask up over her nose, hiding almost every inch of her skin.

Four massive bodyguards surrounded her, forming a tight, physical wall of muscle.

They pushed out of the room and headed for the back exit.

The second the metal doors pushed open to the alley, the night exploded.

Thousands of camera flashes went off simultaneously. It was like staring into a strobe light. The blinding white light seared Catalina's retinas even through the dark lenses of her sunglasses.

"Catalina! Are you sleeping with Brogan?"

"How long have you been hiding it?"

"Did you plan this for publicity?"

The paparazzi shoved heavy microphones directly toward her face. The screaming was deafening. It physically hurt her ears.

The bodyguards shoved back, using their shoulders to violently tear a path through the mob.

Catalina kept her head down. She couldn't breathe. The air was thick with sweat and aggression.

They finally reached the black SUV. A bodyguard yanked the door open and shoved her inside.

The heavy door slammed shut.

The chaotic screaming was instantly muted. The heavy silence of the soundproofed car wrapped around her. The engine roared, and the driver slammed on the gas, throwing Catalina back against the leather seat.

Ten minutes later, Fran's phone buzzed. The Variety statement was live.

It explicitly denied any romantic involvement.

Fran let out a long, shaky breath.

But the relief didn't last. Fran refreshed the analytics page. Her face hardened.

The fans weren't buying it. They were taking screenshots of the statement, analyzing every single word. The conspiracy theories mutated and grew stronger.

Brogan's fans decided the denial was a manipulative tactic from Catalina's team playing hard to get.

They swarmed Catalina's Instagram.

Catalina's phone, sitting on the seat next to her, began to vibrate. It didn't stop. It buzzed continuously, a relentless physical reminder of the hate pouring in.

Notifications flashed across the screen. Death threats. Slurs.

Catalina reached out and flipped the phone face down against the leather. Her hands were shaking uncontrollably.

Fran stared at the data. Conventional PR was useless against this level of hysteria. She needed a different angle.

Outside the tinted windows, the neon lights of Los Angeles blurred past.

Catalina stared at her own reflection in the glass. She looked exhausted. Her eyes were hollow.

Tonight was supposed to be the pinnacle of her career. She had won a Golden Globe.

Instead, it was a living nightmare. She gripped the fabric of her dress, her fingernails digging deep into her own palms.

Suddenly, a different sound cut through the silence.

Deep inside her designer clutch, a secondary, hidden phone vibrated.

It was a specific, customized chime. A sound only three other people in the world knew.

Catalina's eyes snapped wide open. Her breath hitched in her throat.

Catalina dragged her feet across the hallway and pressed her thumb against the biometric scanner of her Los Angeles penthouse.

The electronic lock chimed a crisp beep.

She pushed the heavy door open, stepped inside, and slammed it shut behind her with enough force to rattle the hinges.

She kicked her feet violently. The expensive Jimmy Choo stilettos flew across the room and smacked hard against the pristine white wall, dropping to the hardwood floor.

Her legs gave out. She collapsed onto the massive velvet sofa, her body sinking into the cushions as if all her bones had dissolved.

She reached into her Hermes Birkin bag and pulled out the unmarked, matte-black secondary phone.

The screen illuminated her face in the dark room.

The Signal app icon sat in the center of the screen, glaring at her with a bright red badge, the number rapidly ticking upward as dozens of unread messages flooded the screen in real-time.

She tapped the app. She opened the encrypted group chat named Famiglia.

Her thumb swiped frantically up the screen.

The entire chat was flooded. Jame had sent dozens of screenshots of the TMZ photos, zooming in on different angles of Brogan holding her arm.

Jame followed the photos with a string of whistling emojis.

Jame: Someone's chivalry tonight is truly bringing tears to my eyes.

The text hit Catalina like a physical slap. Her blood boiled.

Right below it, Denisse had dropped a thirty-second voice memo.

Catalina tapped play.

Denisse's high-pitched, ear-piercing scream blasted from the speaker, followed by rapid-fire interrogation. "Oh my god! Caty! Did he actually kneel? What did he say? Are you guys finally doing this? Tell me everything!"

Catalina's entire body shook with rage. Her chest heaved.

She gripped the phone with both hands, her thumbs flying across the keyboard. She typed out a massive paragraph explaining that it was a stupid accident and her heel got stuck.

Her hands were shaking so badly she hit the wrong letters. The text was a jumbled mess.

She let out a frustrated growl, highlighted the whole thing, and hit delete.

She pressed and held the microphone icon.

"He is a walking disaster!" Catalina screamed into the phone, her voice echoing off the high ceilings of her empty living room. "He ruined my perfect night! I won a Golden Globe and all anyone cares about is his stupid face!"

She let go of the button. The voice note sent.

The chat went dead silent for exactly two seconds.

Then, Jame replied.

She sent a cropped, hyper-zoomed image of Brogan's face from the hallway. It focused entirely on Brogan's eyes looking up at her. The look was undeniably, sickeningly tender.

Jame drew a massive red circle around Brogan's eyes.

Jame: If it was just an accident, why didn't he just step on your dress to rip it free? Why did he get down on one knee?

The logic hit Catalina right in the chest.

Her breath hitched. Her lungs seized.

Unbidden, the memory of the hallway flashed in her mind. The smell of cedar. The heat of his hand on her ankle. The intense, focused way his jaw set as he looked up at her.

She shook her head violently, trying to physically dislodge the image from her brain.

She pressed her thumbs to the screen, hitting the keys so hard the glass tapped loudly.

Catalina: Because he has OCD! He can't stand seeing Oscar de la Renta tulle tangled!

It was a pathetic excuse. She knew it the second she hit send. It was a desperate shield to cover the sudden, erratic pounding of her heart.

Denisse instantly replied with a GIF of a woman laughing hysterically.

Denisse: A three-year-old wouldn't buy that bullshit, Caty.

The air in the living room felt suffocating.

Catalina swiped out of Signal and opened Twitter just to check.

Her stomach violently dropped.

Brogan's fans had taken her profile picture and photoshopped it onto a tombstone. There were hundreds of them.

The anger that had been simmering in her veins finally breached the boiling point. Her vision actually blurred with red-hot fury.

She swiped back to Signal. She jabbed her finger into the screen.

Catalina: Listen to me. From this second on, if anyone in this chat mentions that bastard's name again, I am blocking you permanently.

The absolute finality in her text was palpable.

Jame sent a GIF of a mouth being zipped shut. He surrendered.

The chat fell into an eerie, unnatural stillness.

But the heavy, tight feeling in Catalina's chest didn't go away. She sat up straight, her muscles coiled tight.

She tapped the settings icon in the top right corner of the chat.

She stared at the warm, familiar group name: Famiglia.

She hit backspace. She deleted the entire word.

The system prompted her: Are you sure you want to change the group name?

She jammed her finger onto Yes.

She typed in the new name.

Brogan is Dead to Me.

She hit save.

A small gray system message popped up in the center of the chat for everyone to see.

Catalina changed the group name to "Brogan is Dead to Me".

The chat remained dead. Even Denisse didn't dare type a single letter.

Catalina tossed the phone onto the thick Persian rug. It landed with a soft, muffled thud.

She pressed the heels of her hands into her eyes and took a deep, shaky breath.

She stood up and walked over to the open-concept kitchen. She yanked the stainless steel refrigerator door open and grabbed a bottle of ice water.

The freezing plastic shocked her warm skin, grounding her slightly.

She twisted the cap off and chugged the water. A stray drop escaped her lips, trailing down her chin and pooling in the hollow of her collarbone.

She closed her eyes, trying to force her brain to formulate a plan.

Suddenly, the black screen of the phone on the rug lit up.

In the dark living room, the glow was blinding.

Catalina froze. The water bottle stopped halfway to her mouth.

She stared at the screen. Her heart skipped a violent, terrifying beat.

A notification banner hung at the top of the screen.

The person who almost never spoke had suddenly broken the long, heavy silence.

Brogan Cohen's solid black silhouette avatar was sitting next to a new voice message.

He had broken his silence right after she changed the name.

Catalina's fingers gripped the plastic water bottle so hard it crinkled loudly. Her knuckles turned stark white.

She stared at the three-second audio file on the screen.

A massive, suffocating weight of anticipation pressed down on her chest.

Catalina slowly lowered the water bottle to the marble kitchen counter.

She took a deep, shuddering breath, her chest expanding as she prepared herself for whatever was waiting on that screen.

She walked over to the rug, her bare feet silent against the floorboards. She bent down and picked up the black phone.

Her thumb hovered over the play button next to Brogan's voice note.

She pressed it.

The phone's speaker emitted a faint, static hiss as the file loaded. Catalina subconsciously held her breath, her lungs burning.

Brogan's voice exploded into the quiet room.

It was incredibly deep, thick with sleep, and raspy. He sounded like he was lying flat on his back in bed.

"Dress was heavy. Brain was empty. Changing your fate might be easier than changing the group name, stutterer."

The audio cut off.

The words hung in the air, dripping with that signature, toxic American sarcasm he perfected.

But it was the last word that did it.

Stutterer.

It was a childhood nickname from when she was seven and couldn't pronounce her R's when she was nervous. He was the only one who ever called her that.

The sound of it shattered the last remaining thread of Catalina's sanity.

All the blood in her body rushed straight to her head. Her ears rang. Her jaw clamped shut so hard her teeth ground together.

Her thumb flew to the top right corner of the screen.

She didn't type a response. She refused to give him the satisfaction of a single punctuation mark.

She tapped the group settings. She scrolled straight to the bottom.

Her finger hovered over the bright red text that read Leave Group.

She slammed her thumb down on it.

The system threw up a warning box: Are you sure you want to leave this encrypted group?

She stabbed the Confirm button.

The screen instantly snapped back to her empty chat list. The group was gone.

A vicious, hot surge of vindictive pleasure rushed through her veins.

She reared her arm back and hurled the phone violently into the deep cushions of the sofa.

Before she could even exhale, the muffled phone shrieked.

It was her custom ringtone for incoming calls.

Catalina's eyes narrowed. She assumed Brogan was calling to scream at her for leaving the chat.

She lunged across the coffee table like a feral cat, digging her hands into the cushions to retrieve the phone. She was ready to scream until her throat bled.

She yanked the phone out and glared at the screen.

The fire in her veins instantly turned to ice water.

The caller ID flashing on the screen didn't say Brogan.

It said Saul Grandpa.

Brogan's grandfather. The patriarch of the Cohen family. The man who had practically raised her alongside Brogan during their summers in the Hamptons.

Catalina swallowed hard. Her throat was bone dry.

She frantically cleared her throat, trying to dislodge the panic. She forced her facial muscles to relax, painting on a mask of pure innocence even though he couldn't see her.

She swiped the green accept button and pressed the phone to her ear.

"Good evening, Grandpa Saul," Catalina answered.

Her voice was sickeningly sweet. It was soft, melodic, and completely unrecognizable from the woman who was just screaming into a voice note.

A booming, hearty laugh echoed through the earpiece.

"Caty, my girl! Congratulations on the globe! I knew you'd take it home," Saul's strong voice vibrated with genuine pride.

"Thank you so much, Grandpa," Catalina murmured, her stomach tying itself into a painful knot.

Please don't mention the internet. Please don't mention the internet, she chanted in her head.

"I saw the news," Saul pivoted seamlessly, his tone dropping into a teasing lilt. "Looks like my idiot grandson finally learned how to act like a gentleman in public."

Catalina's cheeks burned hot. She forced a hollow, awkward laugh.

"Oh, that. It was just a coincidence. My heel got stuck," she lied smoothly, trying to brush past it.

Saul didn't let her.

"Coincidence or not, it's a cause for celebration," Saul declared, his voice leaving absolutely no room for argument. "I'm hosting a family dinner this weekend at the Hamptons estate. You are coming."

Catalina's eyes widened in horror.

"Grandpa, I would love to, but I can't," she lied frantically, her mind racing. "I'm about to go into production for my new indie film. My schedule is completely packed."

She needed to avoid the Hamptons at all costs. Going there meant seeing Brogan. It was a suicide mission.

Saul let out a sharp, dismissive snort.

"Don't bullshit an old man, Caty," Saul said ruthlessly. "I played eighteen holes with your producer this morning. I know the production is suspended."

The lie shattered.

Catalina's face flushed a deep, humiliating crimson. Her palms began to sweat, making the phone slip slightly in her grip.

Saul softened his voice, deploying his ultimate weapon.

"My heart hasn't been doing too well lately, sweetheart," Saul sighed heavily. "I haven't seen you in months. Just come for dinner."

The guilt hit her like a physical blow to the stomach.

This man had treated her like blood. He had funded her first acting classes when her own parents refused.

Her psychological defenses crumbled entirely.

She squeezed her eyes shut. Her shoulders slumped in total defeat.

"Okay," she whispered through gritted teeth. "I'll be there."

Saul laughed triumphantly.

"Excellent. I'll send the Gulfstream to LAX to pick you up on Friday. Don't be late," he ordered, instantly locking down the logistics so she couldn't back out.

The line clicked dead. The dial tone hummed in her ear.

Catalina let her arm drop. Her knees buckled, and she slid down the side of the sofa, hitting the rug with a soft thud.

She buried her hands in her hair, gripping the roots until her scalp stung.

She knew exactly what this weekend was going to be. It was a trap. A perfectly executed, inescapable trap.

She looked out the massive floor-to-ceiling windows at the dark Los Angeles skyline.

She grabbed her physical planner off the coffee table, uncapped a black Sharpie, and drew a massive, thick black skull and crossbones over the upcoming weekend.