The Fortress lived up to its name. It was a sprawling brutalist structure of concrete and glass, perched on a cliff in Beverly Hills, inaccessible to anyone without a retinal scan or a helicopter.

In the main study, a room with ceilings high enough to fly a kite in, Holt Nicholson stood by the window, looking out at the smoggy haze of Los Angeles.

He wore a simple black t-shirt and grey sweatpants. He held a glass of whiskey he hadn't touched in twenty minutes.

"You're not listening to me," Darius Clark said from the leather armchair behind him.

Holt turned slowly. "I heard you, Darius. Jazz pianist. Tortured genius. Redemption arc. It sounds like everything I've done for the last five years."

"But this is different!" Darius insisted, waving the script. "This is raw! I need someone who can convey silence. And nobody does silence like you."

Holt walked to his desk. It was a massive slab of obsidian. On the corner, sitting atop a stack of leather-bound books, was a small, incongruous object.

A pink velvet scrunchie.

Darius's eyes followed Holt's movement. He blinked.

"Is that..." Darius squinted. "Is that a hair tie?"

Holt's hand moved casually, covering the object. "It's nothing."

Darius grinned, leaning forward. "The Monk has a secret? Who is she? A model? A princess?"

"Drop it," Holt said. The temperature in the room dropped ten degrees.

Darius held up his hands in surrender. "Okay, okay. Touchy. Speaking of women... your cousin?"

Holt's jaw tightened. He didn't look at Darius. He looked at his hand, covering the pink velvet.

"What about her?" Holt asked, his voice neutral.

"Ivy Snow," Darius said. "Her agent called. Said you guys are family. Is it true? Because if it is, it makes my life easier. I want to audition her, but the studio is freaking out about the 'sexual assault' angle."

Holt was silent.

He thought of the text message on his encrypted phone. Please. It's the only script that keeps me employed.

He thought of the red carpet. The way she had crashed into him. The way her body felt-soft, trembling, smelling of vanilla and terror. He had caught her. He had wanted to pull her closer, to shield her from the cameras. Instead, he had frozen, terrified that if he moved, he would give everything away.

He had loved her for three years. From a distance. Through a contract. Through silence.

And now she was claiming to be his cousin.

It was absurd. It was insulting.

And it was the only way to save her.

"Family," Holt said slowly, testing the word. "Family relations are... complex, Darius."

Darius's eyes lit up. "That's not a no! Ha! I knew it! It explains the lack of a restraining order."

"She's talented," Holt said abruptly.

Darius paused. "You've seen her act?"

"I've seen her... prepare," Holt lied smoothly. "She works hard. She's not a prop."

"High praise coming from you," Darius mused. "Alright. I'll see her. If she's your cousin, I trust the bloodline."

Darius stood up to leave. "Think about the script, Holt. Please."

"I'm taking a break," Holt said. "I have... family matters to attend to."

When the heavy oak door clicked shut, Holt lifted his hand.

The pink scrunchie sat there.

He picked it up, stretching the elastic between his fingers. He brought it to his face, inhaling deeply. The scent was faint now, fading after six months, but it was still there.

Ivy.

The door opened again. Erich walked in, holding a tablet.

"Sir. Kennedy Gilmore is tweeting again. She's insinuating that Mrs. Nicholson is a predator."

Holt lowered the scrunchie, his eyes hardening into flint.

"Kennedy is loud," Holt said quietly. "Too loud."

"Shall we release a statement?"

"No," Holt said. He slipped the scrunchie onto his wrist. It looked ridiculous against his thick forearm and the platinum Rolex. He pulled his sleeve down to cover it.

"Let the cousin rumor run," Holt commanded. "And tell PR to seed a story about 'misunderstandings' and 'awkward family greetings.' Make it wholesome. Make Ivy look clumsy, not malicious."

"And Kennedy?" Erich asked.

Holt walked back to the window.

"If she crosses the line again," Holt said, "burn her."

Soho House was the living room of the Hollywood elite. It smelled of expensive cologne, truffle fries, and desperation.

Kennedy Gilmore loved it.

She sat at the best table on the patio, sipping a kale smoothie. She saw Darius Clark sitting three tables away, looking over a script.

She checked her makeup in her compact mirror-perfect-and stood up.

"Darius!" she exclaimed, feigning surprise as she walked by his table. "I didn't know you were in town!"

Darius looked up, his smile polite but tight. "Kennedy. Good to see you."

"I heard you're casting for Blue Note," she said, sliding uninvited into the chair opposite him. "You know, I played piano for six years. I feel like this script was written for me."

"We're still in early talks," Darius said evasively, glancing at the entrance.

"Well, you need someone with a clean image," Kennedy lowered her voice, leaning in. "Especially after what happened with poor Holt. Can you believe that girl? Ivy? Violating him like that?"

Darius's expression shifted. He looked uncomfortable.

"Actually," Darius started, "I don't think-"

The restaurant went silent.

It was a specific kind of silence that only happened when an A-lister walked in.

Kennedy turned.

Holt Nicholson was walking through the patio doors. He was wearing a charcoal suit, no tie. He looked like a storm cloud in human form.

Kennedy's heart leaped. This was it. A photo op. Her and Holt, united against the predator.

She stood up, flashing her brightest, most sympathetic smile.

"Holt!" she called out, loud enough for the paparazzi on the street below to hear.

Holt didn't even blink. He walked straight past her, towards Darius.

"You left the file in my car," Holt said, dropping a manila folder onto Darius's table.

Kennedy froze, her hand half-extended. The snub was brutal.

But she recovered quickly. She stepped closer, invading his space.

"Holt," she said, her voice dripping with concern. "I just wanted to say how sorry I am. About the gala. What Ivy did to you was disgusting. I'm so glad you're okay."

Holt turned to her. Slowly.

He looked at her like she was a stain on his lapel.

"Miss Gilmore," he said. His voice was low, but it carried across the silent terrace.

"We worked together on Summer Cicada," Kennedy said, her smile faltering. "I just... I wanted to support you."

"I don't need support," Holt said. "And I don't appreciate strangers discussing my private affairs."

"Strangers?" Kennedy laughed nervously. "We're colleagues. And Ivy is-"

"Ivy," Holt interrupted, his voice turning to ice, "is family."

The word hung in the air.

Kennedy's mouth fell open. "Family?"

"Yes," Holt said. "So I would suggest you stop tweeting about her. It's becoming... tedious."

He turned back to Darius, nodding once, and then walked away.

As he turned, he reached up to adjust his sunglasses. His suit sleeve slipped down his wrist.

Kennedy saw it.

For just a fraction of a second, before he pulled his cuff down with a smooth, practiced motion, she saw a flash of pink against his tanned skin.

It was cheap. It was fuzzy. It was a pink velvet scrunchie, the kind a teenage girl would wear. Or Ivy Snow.

Kennedy stared at the spot where it had been as he walked away.

Family?

No. Men like Holt Nicholson didn't wear their cousin's hair ties.

Her humiliation turned into something colder, sharper.

They're lying.

Ivy woke up to screaming. Happy screaming.

"Ivy! Wake up! Look at the internet!"

Kia was jumping on the foot of Ivy's bed.

Ivy groaned, pulling the pillow over her head. "Are they burning me in effigy yet?"

"No! Look!"

Kia shoved her phone under the pillow.

Ivy squinted at the screen. A grainy video from inside Soho House.

Holt's voice, clear and cold: "Ivy is family. So I would suggest you stop tweeting about her."

Ivy's jaw dropped.

She scrolled down. The hashtag HoltProtectsFamily was trending.

Omg they are cousins?? That explains the awkward hug!

Holt is such a protective big bro!

Kennedy Gilmore getting shut down is my spirit animal.

"He did it," Ivy whispered. "He actually did it."

Alex burst into the room, holding two coffees. "We are back in business, baby! The casting director just emailed to confirm the time. They are 'excited to see Holt's talented cousin.'"

Ivy sat up, feeling a strange mixture of relief and guilt.

He had lied for her. The man who never lied, who prided himself on brutal honesty, had lied to the world to save her career.

She owed him.

"I need to go see him," Ivy said.

"Call him," Alex said.

"No. I need to go there."

"The paparazzi are still outside," Kia warned.

"I'll take the Toyota," Ivy said. "The old one with the dented bumper. They won't look twice at it."

Thirty minutes later, Ivy was wearing a baseball cap, oversized sunglasses, and a hoodie. She slouched low in the seat of her 2010 Corolla.

As she reached the underground garage, her phone buzzed with a text from an unknown number. Black Escalade, main gate. You have sixty seconds. Go now. - E

Ivy didn't hesitate. She heard the roar of engines and shouting from the main entrance as the paparazzi swarmed the decoy vehicle. She gunned the Toyota's tired engine and slipped out the service exit, unnoticed. The paparazzi were focused on the black SUV.

She was free.

Ivy drove toward the hills. Her hands were gripping the steering wheel so hard her knuckles were white.

What was she going to say? Thanks for lying? Thanks for not divorcing me?

And why did he do it?

Was it just to protect the Nicholson name from scandal? That was the logical answer. Holt was a businessman first, an actor second.

But the memory of the text-Mrs. Nicholson-nagged at her.

She reached the winding roads of Beverly Hills. The air was cleaner here, smelling of eucalyptus and money.

Ivy pulled up to the massive iron gates of The Fortress. There was no keypad. Just a camera.

She rolled down the window and looked into the lens.

"It's... Ivy," she said to the plastic box.

A beat of silence. Then, the heavy gates groaned and swung open.

Ivy drove up the long, winding driveway, her heart hammering against her ribs.

She wasn't just visiting her "cousin." She was visiting her husband. And for the first time in three years, she felt like she was walking into the lion's den.