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.

The house was silent. It was always silent.

It was a masterpiece of modern architecture-concrete, glass, steel. Cold. Impersonal.

Ivy parked the Toyota next to his fleet of black cars-a Range Rover, a Porsche, a Tesla. Her car looked like a piece of trash that had blown onto the driveway.

Mrs. Higgins, the housekeeper who had been with the Nicholson family since Holt was a boy, opened the front door before Ivy could knock.

"Mrs. Nicholson," she said, her face breaking into a warm smile. "We saw you on the news. Are you alright?"

"I'm fine, Higgins. Thank you." Ivy stepped into the foyer. It smelled of cedar and unscented wax. "Is... is he home?"

"Mr. Holt stepped out for a meeting," she said. "But he gave instructions that if you arrived, you were to wait for him in his study. Not the guest wing."

"His study?" Ivy blinked. She was never allowed in his study. That was his sanctuary.

"Yes, ma'am. Can I get you some tea?"

"Water is fine."

She bustled away.

Ivy walked slowly down the long, white marble hallway, her footsteps echoing unnervingly. The door to his study was a slab of dark, imposing oak, and it stood slightly ajar. She pushed it open.

The room was cavernous, with a wall of glass overlooking the canyon and floor-to-ceiling bookshelves filled with leather-bound volumes. It smelled of old paper, whiskey, and him.

Ivy stood in the center of the room, feeling like an intruder.

On the massive obsidian desk, there was a stack of scripts.

She shouldn't look.

She stepped closer.

The top script was Blue Note. The one she was auditioning for.

It was open.

Holt had been reading it.

Curiosity got the better of her. She leaned over.

The pages were covered in notes. Holt's handwriting was sharp, angular, almost illegible. He dissected every line, every beat.

But it wasn't the lead male role he was annotating.

It was the female lead. Elena.

In the margins of a monologue-Elena's breakdown scene-he had written notes in red ink.

She needs to break here. Not cry. Shatter.

The silence is louder than the scream.

And then, next to the character description: Elena: Fragile but unbreakable.

He had circled the word Fragile.

And right next to it, in small letters, he had written: Ivy.

Ivy's breath caught in her throat.

He wasn't just reading it. He was thinking of her for the role.

Ivy.

Not "Cousin." Not "Her." Just Ivy.

Why?

Was he studying her? Mocking her? Or...

Click.

The sound of the front door unlocking echoed through the house.

Heavy footsteps on the marble floor.

Ivy jumped back from the desk, her heart slamming into her throat.

He was here.