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.

Night fell over the Hamptons, casting deep shadows across the manicured lawns.

Inside the grand formal dining room, a massive crystal chandelier poured warm, golden light over the long mahogany table.

Silent, uniformed staff moved seamlessly around the room, placing plates of perfectly seared beef Wellington in front of them.

Saul sat at the head of the table. He picked up his crystal glass filled with vintage Château Lafite.

"To Catalina," Saul beamed, raising the glass. "Our very own Golden Globe winner."

Catalina, who had changed into a modest, elegant silk slip dress, forced a bright, flawless smile. She raised her own glass.

"Thank you, Grandpa," she said softly, taking a sip. The wine tasted like ash in her mouth.

Brogan sat directly across from her.

He was slouched back in his chair, exuding a lazy, arrogant energy. He picked up his silver knife and fork. The metal scraped against the fine porcelain plate with a sharp, grating sound.

He didn't look at her, but out of the corner of his eye, he caught the rigid tension in her jaw. His lips twitched into a faint, mocking sneer.

Saul took a slow sip of his wine. He set the glass down onto the table with a definitive thud.

He cleared his throat.

"My investment fund is fully financing a new S-tier sci-fi blockbuster," Saul announced casually, as if talking about the weather. "The director is Nolan-level."

Catalina's knife stopped moving.

Her professional instincts flared to life. Her eyes widened slightly. A project like that was a guaranteed Oscar contender. It was the kind of role actresses killed for.

Saul leaned forward, resting his forearms on the table. He looked back and forth between the two of them.

"The only condition," Saul said, his voice dropping into a tone of absolute authority, "is that the two of you co-star as the leads."

The dining room went dead silent. The air pressure in the room seemed to drop. Even the staff standing by the walls stopped breathing.

Catalina and Brogan both dropped their silverware. The heavy silver clattered loudly against the plates.

"Absolutely not," they said in perfect, aggressive unison.

Their voices echoed off the high ceiling.

Catalina turned to Saul, her eyes wide with panic.

"Grandpa, I can't," she lied rapidly, her voice tight. "My schedule is completely locked for the next two years. I couldn't possibly take on a project of this scale."

Brogan leaned back, crossing his massive arms over his chest. His posture was a physical fortress of rejection.

"Saul, don't joke around. You know I despise mixing work with family," Brogan said coldly. He shifted his dark gaze to Catalina, his lips curling into a taunting smirk. "What, looking for a shortcut just because you won a shiny new award?"

Catalina's head snapped toward him. Their eyes locked across the table. The air between them practically sparked with hostility.

Under the long, heavy tablecloth, Catalina shifted her leg. She aimed carefully and kicked Brogan's shin as hard as she could with her bare foot.

Brogan didn't even blink. His face remained a mask of bored indifference.

But beneath the table, his long, muscular leg moved with terrifying speed.

Before Catalina could pull her foot back, Brogan's calves clamped down on her ankle like a steel vice.

She gasped quietly, trying to yank her leg free. It was useless. He had her completely pinned. The heat of his skin burned against hers. Her face flushed a deep, angry red as she glared daggers at him.

Saul, sitting at the head of the table, watched the subtle jerking of their shoulders. His eyes crinkled with secret amusement.

He waved his hand dismissively at the staff to clear the plates.

"Just think about it," Saul said mildly, diffusing the bomb he had just dropped. "No pressure."

The rest of the dinner was agonizing. The second dessert was cleared, Catalina muttered an excuse about jet lag and practically sprinted out of the room, fleeing to her guest suite on the first floor.

Brogan stood up, his face dark, and walked up the grand staircase to his master bedroom.

He stepped inside and slammed the heavy oak door shut. He twisted the deadbolt until it clicked loudly.

He ripped the silk tie from his neck and threw it onto the king-sized bed. His chest heaved with unexplained frustration.

He reached into his tailored slacks and pulled out a silver custom lighter. He didn't smoke often, but the mechanical click grounded him. He flipped it open and shut. Click. Click. Click. He stared at the light spilling from Catalina's window. His jaw was as tight as coiled steel. The thought of her sitting in that room, reading those toxic comments, made a dark, violent anger twist in his gut. He wanted to march down there and shake some sense into her, to tell her to stop fighting him.

But he knew she would only bite back harder. She was a feral cat backed into a corner.

He walked over to the mahogany bar cart, poured two fingers of neat scotch into a crystal glass, and downed it in one smooth swallow. The alcohol burned a hot trail down his throat, but it did nothing to extinguish the fire in his veins. He tossed the empty glass onto the desk. He stared at his own cold, hard reflection in the windowpane, gripping the edge of the sill until his knuckles turned white, and cursed under his breath.