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.

Holt walked into the study.

He looked exactly as he did in the photos, only bigger. More real. He wore a black turtleneck and black trousers, emphasizing the width of his shoulders and the lean length of his body.

He was carrying a brown paper bag.

He stopped when he saw Ivy. His eyes, dark and unreadable, swept over her, taking in her hoodie, her leggings, her terrified stance by his desk.

"You made it," he said. His voice was a deep rumble that she felt in the soles of her feet.

"I..." Ivy cleared her throat. "I came to say thank you. For the lie. For... Soho House. You didn't have to."

He walked past her to a small table by the window, setting the bag down. The smell of basil and chili filled the air.

Thai food.

"I didn't do it for you," he said, not looking at her. He started unpacking the cartons. "I did it because the press was annoying me."

"Right," Ivy said, feeling foolish. Of course. "Well, thank you anyway. I should go."

"Sit down," he commanded.

It wasn't a request.

Ivy froze. "What?"

"Sit," he pointed to one of the leather armchairs. "You haven't eaten. Higgins told me you've been hiding in your apartment for twenty-four hours."

"I'm not hungry."

"Your stomach growled when you walked in," he said dryly. "Pad See Ew. No broccoli. Extra spice. Isn't that your order?"

Ivy stared at him. "How do you know my order?"

He paused, his hand hovering over a carton. He looked at her then, his gaze intense.

"You ordered it every night that week your apartment was being fumigated. I remember."

"Oh."

Ivy sat down on the edge of the chair, as far away from him as possible.

He pushed a carton and chopsticks toward her. Then he sat down in the chair opposite her.

They ate in silence for a few minutes. It was bizarre. Eating takeout with a movie god in his private sanctuary.

"The audition is Tuesday," he said suddenly.

"Yes."

"Are you ready?"

"I think so."

"You think so?" He put down his chopsticks and turned to her. "Kennedy Gilmore has been prepping for this role for three months. She has hired an acting coach. She has learned to play the piano. What have you done?"

"I... I've been memorizing lines," Ivy said defensively.

"Memorizing lines is for soap operas," he said harshly. "Darius wants truth. Can you give him truth?"

"I can act," Ivy snapped. "I'm not just some D-list nobody."

"Prove it," he said.

He reached for the script on his desk-the one with her name in the margins-and tossed it to her.

"Page 42. The breakdown scene. Read it."

"Now?"

"Now."

Ivy looked at the script. Her hands were shaking. "I can't just... switch it on."

"Then you won't get the part," he said coldly. "Kennedy can switch it on."

A hot flush of anger went through Ivy. How could he be so cold? He caught her. She felt his hand on her elbow, steadying her. But here he sat, a judge in his castle, expecting her to perform on command. Fine. She would give him a performance.

Ivy stood up. She looked at the page.

It was a scene where Elena realizes her lover has betrayed her.

Ivy took a breath. She thought about the last two days. The humiliation. The fear. The feeling of being small and powerless.

She started to read.

At first, her voice was shaky. But then, she looked at Holt. He was watching her with those dark, critical eyes.

She channeled everything into the words. The anger at him. The anger at Kennedy. The anger at herself.

When she finished, she was breathing hard, tears stinging her eyes.

Silence filled the room.

Holt didn't clap. He didn't smile.

He stood up and walked toward her. He stopped inches from her. She could feel the heat radiating from his body.

"Better," he said softly. "But you're still holding back."

He reached out. His fingers brushed a loose strand of hair from her face. The touch was electric. She flinched.

"You're scared," he murmured. "Good. Use that."

He dropped his hand.

"You're staying here," he said.

"What?" Ivy blinked.

"Until the audition," he said, turning away. "Your apartment is compromised. The paparazzi are camping out. You can't focus there."

"I can't stay here," Ivy said. "We... we don't do this. We have a contract."

"The contract says we are married," he said. "It says we share assets. This house is an asset."

He looked back at her over his shoulder.

"Guest wing is prepped. Be ready at 6 AM. We're running lines."

"You're helping me?" Ivy asked, bewildered. "Why?"

He looked at her for a long moment. His eyes dropped to her lips, then back up to her eyes.

"Because," he said, his voice dropping an octave, "a Nicholson doesn't bow to people like Kennedy Gilmore. And neither should you, cousin."

He walked out of the room.

Ivy stood there, clutching the script, her heart racing like a wild bird in a cage.

She was moving in. With Holt Nicholson.

And she was pretty sure she was in terrible danger. Not from the paparazzi.

But from him.