Alex didn't knock. He had a key, and he used it like a weapon, throwing the door open and slamming it shut behind him before the flashes from the hallway could penetrate the gloom of Ivy's apartment.

He looked like he'd been electrocuted. His hair was standing on end, his shirt half-tucked.

"You," he breathed, pointing a shaking finger at her. "What goes through that head of yours? Hmm? Did you think, 'Hey, there's Holt Nicholson, let me just grab a handful'?"

"It was an accident," Ivy whispered. She was sitting on the couch, wrapped in a blanket, though it was seventy degrees in Los Angeles.

"Accident?" Alex laughed, a high-pitched, hysterical sound. He threw his tablet onto the coffee table. "Tell that to the court of public opinion! They're calling you a predator, Ivy! A thirsty, D-list predator!"

"The carpet was loose," Ivy said, her voice sounding hollow even to her own ears. "I tripped."

"And you landed on his dick?" Alex scrubbed his face with his hands. "His team is going to eat us alive. You know who represents him? Erich Calderon. That man doesn't send cease-and-desist letters; he sends airstrikes."

"He won't sue," Ivy said softly.

Alex stopped pacing. He stared at her. "Oh? You're a legal expert now? You think because it was a 'trip' he won't sue for sexual harassment? He's Holt Nicholson! He protects his image like it's the nuclear codes!"

He won't sue because he can't sue his wife for tripping.

The memory hit her then, unbidden.

Three years ago. A conference room in Century City that smelled of lemon polish and old money.

Ivy was twenty-two, wearing a dress she'd bought at Target. Across the mahogany table sat Holt.

He hadn't looked at her. Not really. He was reading a document thick enough to be a novel.

"The trust merger requires a legal union," his lawyer had explained, as if discussing the acquisition of a warehouse. "Tax code 409A implies significant benefits if the assets are consolidated under a marital umbrella."

Ivy had signed her name. Ivy Snow.

Holt had signed his. The pen scratched loudly in the silence.

Then, he had looked up. His eyes were the color of a stormy sea, dark and unreadable.

"Stay quiet, Mrs. Nicholson," he had said. His voice was low, devoid of any emotion other than mild fatigue. "Live your life. I'll live mine. Just don't make noise."

Don't make noise.

Ivy looked at Alex, who was now hyperventilating. She had made the loudest noise possible.

"We need to get ahead of this," Alex muttered, pacing again. "Apology video. No makeup. Tears. Real tears, Ivy. Can you cry on command? Of course you can't, that's why you didn't get the soap opera gig."

"I'm not doing an apology video," Ivy said, gripping the blanket. "I didn't do anything wrong."

"This isn't about truth!" Alex roared. "It's about survival! Do you want to go back to waiting tables in The Valley? Because that's where you're headed!"

Ivy's phone buzzed in her hand.

She looked down. A text message. No number. Just a sender ID: E.

Stay inside. Do not speak to anyone. Await instructions.

Erich.

Her heart skipped a beat. Await instructions.

Instructions for what? Divorce papers? A public statement disowning her? Or...

She remembered the sensation from last night again. The gala. The moment she fell.

When his hand had gripped her elbow, she had smelled him. Cedar and something sharp, like rain on pavement. And just before she pulled away, his fingers had tightened on her waist. A squeeze.

It wasn't a push. It was... possessive.

Or maybe she was delusional. Maybe she was projecting feelings onto a man who looked at her like a bad investment.

"I need you to think," Alex pleaded, crouching in front of her. "Do you know anyone who knows him? Anyone? A makeup artist? A gaffer? We need a backchannel."

Ivy looked at Alex's desperate face. If she told him the truth-Alex, I'm married to him-he would have a stroke. And then he would tweet it. And then she would be in breach of the NDA she signed, which carried a penalty that would bankrupt her for three lifetimes.

But she couldn't just sit here.

"I..." Ivy licked her dry lips. "I don't know him."

The lie tasted like ash.

"But," she continued, her brain scrambling for a foothold, "I think... I think I can fix this."

"How?" Alex looked at her like she was insane.

"I need to make a call," Ivy said. "Privately."

Alex stood up, throwing his hands in the air. "Fine! Call the Pope for all I care! I'm going to draft a statement where we blame your shoes."

He stormed into the kitchen.

Ivy looked at the text from E again.

Await instructions.

Holt Nicholson didn't handle things for D-list actresses. He erased them.

Unless...

She unlocked her phone and scrolled past the hate comments, past the death threats, to a contact saved simply as "Landlord."

They hadn't spoken in six months. Not since she moved into the "guest wing" of his estate for a week while her apartment was being fumigated-a privilege granted by the contract, not by affection.

She stared at the blinking cursor.

If she reached out, she was breaking the rules. Stay quiet.

But silence was drowning her.

"The L'Oreal deal is dead."

Alex walked back into the living room, his phone pressed to his ear, his face gray. He didn't even look at Ivy as he ended the call. "They said you're 'brand poison.' Their words."

Kia, who was sitting on the floor with her laptop, looked up with tear-filled eyes. "And the web series... the producer just emailed. They're going in a 'different direction.' They said you look too... mature."

"Mature?" Alex let out a sharp, bitter laugh. "That's code for 'we don't want the slut-shaming mob coming after our show.'"

Ivy felt a physical blow to her chest. That web series was supposed to be her break. It was a gritty drama. She had auditioned four times. She had learned to cry on cue for that role.

"Is there anything left?" Ivy asked, her voice trembling.

Alex scrolled through his tablet, his finger jabbing the screen angrily. "Let's see. The teeth whitening ad? Gone. The cameo in the sitcom? Cancelled. Oh, here's one. The audition for Darius Clark's new movie."

Ivy's head snapped up. "The jazz film?"

"Yeah. Blue Note." Alex sighed, tossing the tablet onto the cushion. "Forget it. Kennedy Gilmore is circling the lead. And Darius is an auteur. He cares about 'artistic integrity.' He won't hire a girl who's famous for grabbing crotches."

Kennedy Gilmore.

Ivy's hands curled into fists under the blanket. Kennedy. The "America's Sweetheart." The girl who smiled like a ray of sunshine and whispered poison in the makeup chair. She had sabotaged Ivy's last two callbacks by spreading rumors that she was difficult to work with.

If Kennedy got that role, she would win. And Ivy would be the joke of the industry forever.

"I want that audition," Ivy said.

Alex looked at her with pity. "Ivy, honey. You can't walk into a room with Darius Clark right now. He'll smell the scandal on you."

"Not if we change the narrative," Ivy said. The idea was forming in her head, reckless and stupid, but it was the only raft in this ocean.

"Change it to what? That you have a balance disorder?"

"No." Ivy stood up, the blanket falling to the floor. "That it wasn't sexual."

"The video shows you grabbing his-"

"It shows a familiar intimacy," Ivy interrupted, her heart pounding so hard she thought they could hear it. "It shows... family."

Alex froze. "Family?"

Ivy took a deep breath. This was it. The point of no return.

"I lied before," she said, her voice steadying. "I do know him. Sort of."

Alex's eyes widened. "You do?"

"He's... my cousin," Ivy lied. "Distant. Second cousin, twice removed. On my mother's side."

The room went dead silent. Kia stopped typing.

"Cousin?" Alex whispered the word like a prayer.

"We don't talk about it," Ivy added quickly, building the lie brick by brick. "He hates nepotism. He made me promise never to use his name. That's why I ignored him on the carpet until I fell. And when I fell... I grabbed him because I knew he would catch me. It was instinct. Familial instinct."

Alex stared at Ivy for three seconds. Then, a slow, manic grin spread across his face.

"Oh my god," he breathed. "Oh my god. This is genius."

"It is?"

"It explains everything!" Alex began to pace again, but this time with energy. "The awkwardness! The lack of a lawsuit! The way he didn't push you away immediately! It's not sexual harassment; it's an awkward family reunion! And the Nicholsons are so notoriously private, so old-money reclusive, that no tabloid could ever disprove it! It's perfect!"

"But," Ivy interjected, "Holt has to confirm it. Or at least not deny it."

Alex stopped. "Right. The Monk. Will he play along?"

"I... I can ask him," Ivy said, feeling sick. "I have a number for his assistant."

"Do it," Alex commanded. "Do it now. If we can leak this 'cousin' angle to TMZ, the narrative flips. You go from 'predator' to 'clumsy little cousin.' It's cute! It's relatable!"

Ivy picked up her phone. Her hands were sweating.

She was digging a grave. She was going to tell the most powerful man in Hollywood that he was now related to the D-list actress who groped him.

But looking at Alex's hopeful face, and thinking of Kennedy Gilmore's smug smile, Ivy knew she had no choice.

She opened the message thread with "Landlord."

The studio in Santa Monica was freezing, kept at a precise sixty-five degrees to keep the makeup from melting under the lights.

Kennedy Gilmore sat on a high stool, her blonde curls cascading perfectly over one shoulder. She smiled for the camera, that famous, crinkling-eye smile that had sold millions of movie tickets.

"Beautiful, Kennedy! Just like that! Innocent but knowing!" the photographer shouted.

The flash popped. Kennedy held the smile for exactly one more second, then dropped it like a heavy coat.

"Water," she snapped.

An assistant materialized with a bottle of Voss. Kennedy took a sip, her eyes scanning the room until they landed on her agent, Mark.

"Did you see?" she asked, her voice low.

Mark smirked, holding up his phone. "Trending for twelve hours straight. IvySnowMolester."

Kennedy let out a short, sharp laugh. "God, she's pathetic. I always knew she was trash, but actually grabbing Holt Nicholson? That's suicide."

"It's good for us," Mark said, tapping the screen. "Darius Clark was considering her for the role of Elena. He liked her tape. Said she had 'raw vulnerability.'"

Kennedy's grip on the water bottle tightened. "Vulnerability? She has the range of a toaster."

"Well, she's radioactive now," Mark said. "Darius won't touch her. The role is yours."

Kennedy relaxed, a smug satisfaction settling in her chest. She had hated Ivy Snow since they were both extras on a sitcom three years ago. Ivy had improvised a line that made the director laugh. Kennedy had been cut from the scene.

She never forgot.

"Let's make sure she stays dead," Kennedy said. "Give me my phone."

Mark handed it over. Kennedy opened Twitter. She composed a tweet, her fingers flying.

Heartbroken to see the lack of respect in our industry. Personal space is sacred. Sending love and strength to H. He deserves better. RespectBoundaries

She hit send.

"Perfect," Mark said. "Classy. Supportive. And it reminds everyone that she's the villain and you're the angel."

Kennedy smiled, handing the phone back. "I want that role, Mark. I want to see Ivy Snow back in a drive-thru window where she belongs."

Meanwhile, in West Hollywood, Alex was shouting into his phone.

"Yes! I'm telling you, it's a family thing! They're cousins! It's an inside joke!"

Ivy sat on the couch, chewing her thumbnail until it bled. Alex was talking to the casting director for Blue Note.

"You can check with his team!" Alex bluffed. "They won't deny it! It's just... private. You know how Holt is."

He listened for a moment, then pumped his fist in the air. "Fantastic! Tuesday at 2 PM. She'll be there. And she'll blow Darius away."

He hung up, beaming. "You got the audition."

Ivy felt a wave of nausea. "Alex, you just told them to check with his team."

"They won't," Alex dismissed. "They're too scared of Erich. And even if they do, by the time they get a response, you'll have already nailed the audition."

Ivy's phone dinged. A notification.

@KennedyGilmore: Heartbroken to see the lack of respect...

Ivy read the tweet. The comments were already pouring in.

Kennedy is such a queen.

Ivy Snow is trash.

Compare the class difference.

Rage, hot and sudden, flared in Ivy's chest. She was using Ivy's humiliation to polish her halo.

"She's trying to bury me," Ivy said, her voice hard.

"She's winning," Alex said, looking at the tweet. "Unless..." He looked at Ivy. "Unless the cousin thing comes out. Then she looks like she's attacking a family member."

Ivy looked at her phone. The "Landlord" contact was still open. The cursor blinked.

She had to do it. She had to beg.

Ivy typed.

Holt. It's Ivy. I know I'm the last person you want to hear from.

Delete. Too dramatic.

Mr. Nicholson. Regarding the incident...

Delete. Too formal. They were married, for God's sake.

She closed her eyes and typed the truth, or as close to it as she could get.

My agent is telling people we are cousins to stop the hate mob. I know I have no right to ask, but please... can you just not deny it? For a few days? I have an audition.

Ivy stared at the message. It was pathetic. It was desperate.

She hit send.