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.

Monday morning broke over Los Angeles with a harsh, glaring sunlight.

Catalina sat at the small wooden dining table in her apartment. She wore an oversized grey hoodie, her hair tied up in a messy knot.

She held a mug of black coffee in both hands, letting the heat seep into her cold fingers.

She stared at the iPad propped up on the table.

The Twitter trending page was a bloodbath. The negative hashtags, the vicious comment threads, and the paparazzi photos of her and Brogan were still multiplying like a virus.

She hadn't slept a wink. Every time she closed her eyes, she saw the vile words burning into her retinas. The tight knot of anxiety in her chest felt like a physical weight, crushing the air out of her lungs.

Suddenly, her cell phone vibrated violently against the wood table.

The caller ID read Mark - Assistant Director.

It was the indie film she had spent six months preparing for. The role that was going to prove she was more than just a pretty face.

Catalina immediately swiped to answer. She sat up straight, clearing her throat to sound professional.

"Hi Mark, good morning," she said brightly. "Are we locking in the call times for next week?"

On the other end of the line, Mark hesitated. The silence stretched. In the background, Catalina could hear the loud, chaotic sounds of heavy equipment being moved.

"Caty..." Mark started, his voice thick with awkwardness. "I'm so sorry."

Catalina's grip on the ceramic mug tightened. "Sorry for what?"

"The primary financier pulled out at 3 AM," Mark confessed, his words rushing out in a panicked breath.

Catalina's hand jerked.

The heavy ceramic mug slammed down hard onto the table. A loud thwack echoed in the kitchen. Hot black coffee sloshed over the rim, burning her knuckles, but she didn't even flinch.

"What? Why?" she demanded, her voice rising in panic. "I'll take a pay cut. I'll work for scale. We can make the budget work."

Mark sighed heavily. The sound was full of pity.

"It's not the money, Caty. The investors ran a risk assessment. With the current public sentiment... you're deemed an uncontrollable commercial liability. The studio shut the production down indefinitely."

The words hit her like a physical punch to the throat.

The line went dead. The monotonous beep of the dial tone filled her ear.

Catalina's arm dropped. The phone slipped from her fingers and clattered onto the table.

She slumped back into her chair. All the strength drained from her muscles.

She had won a Golden Globe, the highest honor of her career, and within a week, she was completely unemployed. The injustice of it burned in her chest, a hot, suffocating pressure.

She grabbed her phone and opened Signal. She tapped into the three-person group chat with Jame and Denisse.

Her thumbs hit the screen with aggressive force.

Catalina: The movie is dead. They pulled the funding. I lost the role.

Denisse replied instantly.

Denisse: WHAT?!

Denisse: [Angry Face Emoji] [Knife Emoji]

Denisse: Hollywood executives are brain-dead cowards! I am so sorry, babe.

Jame's icon popped up.

Jame: I'm bringing the most expensive tequila I own to your place tonight. We are getting blackout drunk.

Catalina stared at the screen. A tiny fraction of the crushing weight lifted.

Catalina: Okay.

A few seconds later, Denisse sent another text.

Denisse: By the way... has a certain Mr. Cohen bothered you since the Hamptons?

Catalina's eyes locked onto the name. A cold sneer twisted her lips.

Catalina: We screamed at each other by the pool and I haven't seen him since.

Jame sent a voice note.

Catalina tapped play.

"Well, don't expect an apology anytime soon," Jame's voice rang out, laced with a hint of dark amusement. "He hopped on his private jet last night. Fled to Europe to dodge the paparazzi. Word is he's hiding out in the South of France for half a month."

Catalina stared at the audio waveform on the screen.

Her finger hovered frozen over the keyboard.

Her stomach plummeted, dropping so fast it made her nauseous.

He ran away.

The man who caused this entire apocalypse, the man who ruined her career, had simply packed his bags and flown to the French Riviera to drink wine while she lost everything.

A violent cocktail of betrayal and pure, unadulterated rage exploded in her chest.

She bit down on her lower lip so hard she tasted the sharp, metallic tang of copper.

She typed furiously.

Catalina: I hope he rots in Europe. I never want to see his face again.

She hit send. She locked the phone and slammed it face-down onto the table.

Thousands of miles away, cruising at forty thousand feet in the quiet, luxurious cabin of his Gulfstream jet, Brogan stared at a confidential email from his LA fixers. The subject line read: CAMPBELL INDIE PROJECT SUSPENDED - INVESTOR PULLOUT. His dark eyes narrowed into lethal slits. The realization that his mere presence had shattered her hard-earned opportunity hit him like a physical blow.

He reached into his pocket and dialed a highly encrypted number. It rang once.

"Boss," Alex, his executive assistant, answered.

"Call the executives at Twitter. Call the head of TMZ," Brogan ordered, his voice as cold and hard as ice.

"Sir?" Alex sounded confused.

"I want every single negative hashtag, every trending topic, and every unauthorized photo of me and Catalina wiped from the internet immediately," Brogan commanded. His tone left zero room for negotiation.

Alex gasped loudly. "Brogan, that's impossible. The manpower required... the bribes... you're talking about a seven-figure PR wipe."

"Pull it from my personal offshore accounts," Brogan snapped. "Do not route this through CAA. This has to remain strictly personal. Dwayne, that old fox, can never be allowed to get his hands on anything that could be used to speculate on my motives or leverage against Catalina."

"But from a business standpoint-"

"If it's not gone by the time she wakes up, Alex, I'll accept your resignation," Brogan interrupted, dropping his voice to a lethal whisper. He hung up the phone.

Back in Los Angeles, Catalina pushed her chair back and marched into the bathroom. She turned the silver faucet, cupped her hands, and splashed freezing cold water onto her face.

The shock of the cold snapped her out of her spiral.

She looked up at the mirror. Her eyes were bloodshot, but her jaw was set in stone.

In this industry, no one was going to save her. She had to fight back herself.

She grabbed a towel, dried her face, and walked back to the living room. She picked up her iPad, ready to email Fran to demand new auditions.

The moment her finger swiped the screen to unlock it, a breaking news banner dropped down from the top.

It was from The Hollywood Reporter.

Her name was in the headline.