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.

The tires of the black Maybach crunched loudly against the white gravel driveway as it passed through the towering wrought-iron gates of the Cohen family's Hamptons estate.

The car glided to a smooth stop.

Catalina pushed the heavy door open and stepped out.

The cool, salty breeze coming off the Atlantic Ocean immediately hit her face, a stark contrast to the dry heat of Los Angeles.

Hector, the family's elderly butler, stepped out of the grand entrance with a warm smile. He smoothly took the handle of her Louis Vuitton duffel bag.

"Welcome back, Miss Campbell. Mr. Saul is currently taking his afternoon nap upstairs," Hector informed her softly.

Catalina nodded politely. "Thank you, Hector. I won't disturb him."

She turned away from the main house. She needed to burn off the anxious energy vibrating in her chest. She walked down the stone path, cutting through the perfectly manicured hedge maze that led to the backyard terrace.

The afternoon sun was blinding. She squinted her eyes against the glare as she rounded a massive marble fountain.

Her feet suddenly stopped moving. Her shoes felt glued to the stone pavers.

By the edge of the infinity pool, lounging on a white teakwood chair, was Brogan.

He was shirtless.

He was leaning back, casually flipping through a thick, French-language paperback.

Droplets of pool water glistened on his skin, tracing the deep, sharp cuts of his abdominal muscles before disappearing into the low-slung waistband of his black swim trunks.

The sheer, raw physical impact of the sight made Catalina's breath catch in her throat. Her lungs momentarily forgot how to function.

As if sensing the shift in the air, Brogan's long fingers closed the book with a soft snap.

He reached up and slowly pulled his dark Tom Ford sunglasses down the bridge of his nose.

His bottomless black eyes locked onto her instantly. A wicked, mocking gleam flashed in his pupils.

The air between them instantly turned freezing cold.

Catalina's defensive instincts flared. The hair on her arms stood up. She marched over to the lounge chair, stopping just inches from his legs, glaring down at him.

"What are you doing here?" she demanded.

She kept her voice to a harsh, venomous whisper, terrified of waking Saul on the second floor.

Brogan didn't flinch. He lazily sat up, the muscles in his back shifting smoothly under his skin. He grabbed a white towel and carelessly rubbed it through his wet, dark hair.

He looked up at her like she was the dumbest person on earth.

"This is my house, Miss Campbell," Brogan stated, deliberately dragging out the syllables of her last name.

He dropped the towel and leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees.

"Besides," he added, his voice dropping lower, "didn't you say I was dead? Are you here for the funeral?"

The memory of her dramatic exit from the group chat hit her. Heat rushed to her cheeks, turning them a furious shade of pink. She curled her hands into tight fists at her sides, her nails biting into her palms.

She took a sharp breath, forcing her spine straight.

"While I'm getting slaughtered by the entire internet because of you, you're hiding out on the East Coast getting a tan," she sneered, her voice trembling with suppressed rage.

Brogan's eyes darkened for a fraction of a second. The mocking light vanished, replaced by something heavy and dangerous.

But he masked it instantly.

He stood up.

The sheer size of him was overwhelming. At over six-foot-three, his proximity created a massive physical barrier. His shadow completely engulfed her.

Catalina was forced to tilt her head back just to maintain eye contact. Her neck ached.

"If I hadn't caught you, you would have face-planted on national television," Brogan stated coldly, looking down at her.

"I would rather break my nose than take your pathetic pity!" Catalina fired back, her temper exploding.

She raised her hand and shoved her index finger hard into the center of his chest.

The moment her fingertip made contact with the hard, hot muscle of his pectoral, a jolt of electricity shot up her arm.

She yanked her hand back as if she had touched a hot stove. Her breath hitched, and she took a frantic half-step backward.

Brogan tracked the panicked movement. The corner of his mouth curled up into a cruel, devastating smirk.

He took a slow, deliberate step forward, forcing her to back up again. Her heel hit the wet, slippery tile bordering the pool.

"You don't need my pity?" Brogan asked softly.

He leaned down. His face was so close she could feel the heat radiating off his skin. His warm breath brushed against the sensitive shell of her ear.

"Then why are you standing here, Caty? Hoping to use the Cohen name to scrub your reputation clean?"

The words were a calculated, brutal strike to her pride.

The insult sliced through her chest. Tears of pure frustration instantly pricked her eyes.

She shoved both hands against his chest with all her strength.

"You are a bastard, Brogan!" she yelled, her voice cracking.

She spun around, desperate to get away from the suffocating heat of his body.

But she moved too fast.

Her designer heel hit a puddle of pool water. The rubber sole lost all traction.

Her leg shot out from under her. Gravity yanked her backward toward the deep end of the pool.

A scream tore from her throat.

Brogan's arm shot out like a whip.

His thick forearm wrapped tightly around her narrow waist. He yanked her forward with terrifying force.

Her body slammed violently against his wet, bare chest.

Brogan let out a low grunt as the impact knocked the wind out of him. His other hand flew up, cradling the back of her head to protect her skull.

They were plastered together.

Catalina's hands were fisted tightly in the fabric of his towel. Her cheek was pressed against his collarbone. She could hear the rapid, heavy thud of his heartbeat drumming against her ear.

The air around them went completely still. The only sound was the wind rustling the leaves of the oak trees.

She tilted her head up. Their faces were inches apart. His dark eyes were wide, staring down at her with an intensity that made her stomach flip.

The tension stretched, pulling tighter and tighter until it was almost unbearable.

Suddenly, a loud, booming cough echoed from the second-floor balcony.

Catalina and Brogan sprang apart like two magnets forced into reverse polarity.

Catalina stumbled back, her chest heaving, her face burning hot.

She looked up.

Saul Cohen was standing on the balcony, leaning over the railing, a massive, knowing grin plastered across his wrinkled face.