The Monster's Muse

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Found you.

The world flipped upside down.

An innocently deceptive face crashed into my bloodshot vision without warning. A brutal drag. Suffocation.

I thrashed. I begged.

Day thirty of captivity.

This was the price for accepting an iced latte from another guy at a party.

Chapter 1

Sloane. The metal chain dragged across the floorboards with a chilling clink. "Are you hiding?"

"If you're ready, I'm coming to find you." Dorian's voice drifted from the doorway, moved to the coffee table, and stopped by the closet.

I curled up under the bed, barefoot. My teeth chattered so violently I bit through my bottom lip, the metallic taste of blood pooling in my mouth. I held my breath. We had played this sick game of cat and mouse countless times.

But my heart still hammered against my ribs like it wanted to break my chest open.

"Found you!" The bed skirt ripped upward. His upside-down face crashed into my vision.

White noise flooded my brain. Pins and needles shot up my legs, paralyzing my muscles. Survival instinct finally kicked in. I scrambled backward, my spine scraping the floor, but his hand clamped like a steel vise around my ankle.

"Dorian" My voice was a broken rasp.

He stared at the wetness on my cheeks. A violent twitch pulled at the corner of his eye, but a second later, a sickeningly sweet smile stretched across his lips.

"Be a good girl, Sloane. Come out. The floor is cold."

He dragged me out from under the frame, scooped me up, and carried me into the bathroom. The showerhead blasted hot water over my skin. Throughout the entire process, his jaw remained rigidly tight. His muscles trembled slightly from the sheer exertion of holding back.

He ignored my ragged gasps and fractured explanations, merely staring dead at me without saying a single word.

He carried me dripping wet from the tiles to the mattress. He pinned me down, suffocating me with his heat, moving relentlessly until my throat was raw and I finally choked out the words he wanted to hear.

"I don't hate you. I only love you."

Only then did his grip loosen. He pulled me into his chest, his large hands gently massaging the bruised skin at my waist. A single hollow confession was all it took. I fought it, but the lie always had to slip past my teeth in the end.

"Does it hurt?" He traced the angry red welts around my wrists with the pad of his thumb.

"I'm fine." I forced my muscles to go slack, swallowing the urge to yank my hand away while he blew softly on the chafed skin.

The frantic hammering against my ribs flatlined into a hollow ache. I let him do whatever he wanted.

I had only taken an iced latte from a guy in my class yesterday, and Dorian had been tearing the room apart all night. Chaining me up, only to agonizingly undo the locks.

He was out of his mind.

My vision blurred at the edges. Fighting him was a losing game; my body would shut down before he ever gave up. So, I let him spiral. I ground my back teeth together, silently counting the days.

I just had to survive the week.

I woke up the next afternoon.

My muscles ached. My stomach cramped. A soft pressure against my lips pulled me from sleep.

My eyes fluttered open. Dorian crouched by the side of the bed, pressing a spoon of warm oatmeal to my mouth. He was tall, and crouching like that made his broad shoulders hunch awkwardly.

"You're awake, Sloane." A bright, sunny smile split his face the second he saw my eyes open.

I hated that his smile was so damn beautiful.

His eyelashes were thick, casting soft shadows over his cheekbones. Deep dimples carved into his cheeks, flashing slightly crooked canines. Innocent. Untouched.

How could a guy who looked like that be capable of anything twisted? Ash coated the back of my throat. Who would ever connect this face to the monster from last night? Who would believe a guy like him had kept me locked in this room for nearly a month?

"I'm not hungry." I turned my head away. The memory of his hands clamped on my skin triggered a sickening lurch in my gut.

A slap to the face, followed by a piece of candy. What did he think I was?

"Sloane." He dragged out my name with a sweet whine, his large hands cupping my jaw to force my gaze back to his. "You have to eat something for me."

Chapter 2

He smiled, setting the bowl of oatmeal aside. He leaned in, pressing his forehead flush against mine. "Last night, when I was holding you, you felt so thin."

A sharp breath tore from my throat. Just the mention of last night sent white-hot pain shooting through my muscles. Goosebumps erupted across my skin the second his eyes met mine.

"I'm really not hungry." I jerked my head away.

Dead silence.

The air in the room thickened into a ticking time bomb.

A few agonizing seconds dragged by. I risked a glance at him. His jaw was locked tight. He just stared at me.

Through the messy fringe of his hair, his eyes burned with something completely unhinged.

"Sloane, you're mad at me, aren't you?" His voice was a gravelly rasp. "I'm sorry. I couldn't hold back last night. I shouldn't have treated you like that, but I just lose control."

"Punish me however you want, but don't shut me out. I can't take it."

My heart slammed against my ribs. Whenever he got that look in his eyes, someone ended up bleeding.

I swallowed hard, forcing down the lump in my throat.

"Dorian, I was just so thirsty. That guy is in my class. He just handed me an iced latte. Why would you do this to me?"

The words broke, hot tears welling up and stinging my eyes.

"But he looked at you." His head snapped up. A cold, predatory glint flashed in his pupils.

"It was just a look!" I shot back, my brows pulling together.

"Sloane." He bit his lip, his gaze dropping to pin mine down. "I don't let other men look at you. No one!"

I froze. Staring into his manic eyes, the fight drained out of me.

Psychopath.

I mouthed the word silently, squeezing my eyes shut to block out his face. How could someone like him exist? He was only eighteen. How could he be this ruthless?

My stomach twisted. Would I even live to see the outside world again?

Heavy arms wrapped around me from behind. A violent shudder ripped down my spine.

"I'm sorry, Sloane. I just love you too much. I gave you all my firsts. I want you to cherish that."

"You'll be good to me, right?" He murmured against my ear, his body swallowing mine like he was clutching a prized possession.

I stayed rigid in his grip.

One thought hammered against my skull: survive. Whatever it takes, survive until the day I walk out of here. I swallowed the bile in my throat. Forcing my spine to uncoil, I turned into his embrace.

I reached up, threading my fingers through his hair, and stretched my lips into a hollow smile.

"It's okay. Don't be scared. I'm always yours. You don't need to worry about anyone else."

"They're nothing compared to you."

"Really?" The darkness vanished. His eyes lit up like a kid who just scored the biggest prize.

"No more doing things like that, okay? I don't want blood on your hands, yeah?" I coaxed, lightly pinching his cheek.

"Okay. Whatever you say. I'll listen to you." He nuzzled deeper into my chest.

"Good boy." I pressed a kiss to his forehead.

"Does it still hurt?" he asked softly, a flush creeping up his neck.

"Give it a few days." I held the fake smile.

"I'm sorry. It's my fault." His hand slipped down to my waist, his long fingers gently kneading the bruised flesh to ease the ache.

Chapter 3

His gaze lingered on the bruised skin of my wrists, his facial muscles twitching in what almost looked like regret. But the illusion shattered the second his jaw locked and his knuckles turned white. I could see the exact moment his mind snapped back to the guy from my class. The iced latte.

The smile I had given a stranger. The jealousy radiating off him was a suffocating, physical heat in the room. In his twisted reality, I was his property. A smile directed at anyone else was a crime punishable by hell.

Later, when his breathing finally leveled out into the steady rhythm of sleep, I slipped out from under the covers to find food. My stomach was an empty, aching cavern, but my throat felt completely shut. I had to eat anyway. I needed my strength.

The agreed-upon date was closing in.

I pulled a carton of milk from the fridge, forcing the cold liquid down. As I tipped my head back, the harsh kitchen lighting caught the dark purple rings encircling my wrists. Old marks. Remnants from the zip ties when he first dragged me into this nightmare.

He had only taken them off when he deluded himself into thinking he had finally broken me into submission.

I had played the perfect, compliant pet these past few days. I played it so well he even let me step outside, though I could constantly feel the heavy, predatory weight of his stare burning into my back from the shadows. Running into that guy from class yesterday looked like a coincidence. It wasn't.

It was calculated. Without him, how else was my message supposed to get out? The only miscalculation was the violent fallouta whole night of his unhinged possessiveness that left him even more paranoid and volatile than before.

I let out a slow, silent exhale. If my plan was going to work, I had to keep him docile for the next forty-eight hours.

He acted sickeningly normal over the next few days. The terrifying truth was, to the rest of the world, Dorian was perfectly normal. His madness was a locked room, and I was the only one trapped inside it.

When I watched Netflix on the iPad, he curled up next to me, flipping through a graphic novel. When I played games on my phone, he logged in just to play support and back me up. If I mentioned I was tired, he'd immediately shift closer, pulling me onto his chest so I could nap. When I slept, he'd look up new recipes to cook for me.

He constantly ordered delivery for my favorite snacks, pastries, and sweet drinks. If I sat in one position too long, his large hands were instantly there, massaging the stiffness out of my shoulders and calves.

He swore that as long as I never left him, he would do anything. That as long as I was happy, he was at my mercy.

I had braced myself to play a grueling psychological game to keep him happy, but it turned out he was terrifyingly easy to satisfy. I just had to exist in his line of sight, and he wore a blinding, sunny smile all day. It required zero effort on my end. And for days, he hadn't crossed the linejust pressed soft kisses to the top of my head and wrapped his arms around my waist when we slept.

A week dragged by like that.

Today, the tension in my veins was suffocating. To keep my face blank, I kept my eyes glued to the TV screen, only tracking his movements through my peripheral vision. When the delivery notification chimed on his phone, a cold sweat broke out across my back. I ordered from that specific cafe almost every week.

"Sloane, your caramel macchiato is here." Dorian walked over, a brown paper bag dangling from his fingers, and sank onto the couch beside me.

"Just set it down." I forced my voice into a lazy drawl, my eyes never leaving the screen.

"Why do you love sweet things that much?" A soft smile played on his lips as he punctured the plastic lid with a straw and lifted the cup to my mouth.

My heart slammed against my ribs.

I swallowed the tight knot in my throat, forcing the muscles in my face to stay relaxed. "It tastes good." I took the cup from his hand and took a slow sip.

Dorian watched the movement of my throat as I swallowed. A sudden, self-deprecating laugh slipped past his lips. "You're that loyal to your habits, Sloane. When are you going to be that loyal to me?"

He was smiling, but the light in his pupils was dead. Despite having me locked away, despite breathing the same air and sharing the same bed, a frantic, paranoid energy practically vibrated off his skin. His fingers compulsively picked at a loose thread on his jeans. He knew the truth, even if he refused to say it out loud.

He knew the warmth, the compliance, the sweet wordsit was all just a survival mechanism masking the absolute terror underneath.

Chapter 4

Another self-deprecating laugh left his chest. His eyes dropped, tracing the lines of my hands. He had my body locked up, but his erratic breathing and the desperate grip of his fingers betrayed his bottomless greed. He wanted my heart, too.

I could see the pathetic hunger radiating off himthe dangerous delusion that if he just kept me here long enough, I might carve out a sliver of space for him. Just a sliver.

I watched his broad shoulders slump forward. The sudden drop in his mood was a ticking bomb. I needed to placate him. Fast.

And I did exactly that.

"Want a taste?" I flashed a bright smile, shaking the plastic cup in my hand. "It's good."

His head snapped up. Catching my forced warmth, the dark clouds in his eyes instantly dissolved into eager light. "Can I?" he asked.

He ordered these sweet drinks for me constantly, but he never took a sip. He hated sweets; he took his coffee black and bitter. But the second I offered, his throat bobbed. He stared at my mouth like he was desperate to taste whatever was making me smile.

I straddled his lap in a slow, deliberate movement. My hands fisted the collar of his shirt, yanking him closer. I held his gaze, took a long drag of the caramel macchiato, and smashed my lips aggressively against his.

The impact shattered his restraint. His pupils blew wide open, locked entirely on my face, as the heavy sweetness of the macchiato flooded the space between our mouths. The cloying caramel sugar masked the adrenaline spiking in my veins. He kissed back with a dizzy, desperate devotion, drowning in the illusion.

The heat in the room skyrocketed until his large hands suddenly clamped on my wrists, shoving me back.

"Sloane, stop." He gasped for air, his chest heaving, pinning down my fingers before I could pop the buttons on his shirt.

My hands froze mid-air. My heart slammed into my throat. My left fingers covertly tightened around the small object hidden in my palm. It only took one second to force my heart rate down.

"You don't want to?" I asked, a teasing smirk on my lips.

"I do." His voice was wrecked, his eyes dark with heavy lust. "But you're still not healed."

A massive breath rushed out of my lungs. He was talking about the bruises. The damage from his all-night rampage. He was actually worried about hurting me.

A twisted flash of humanity peeked through the monster. But it didn't change a damn thing. I was getting out of this house today.

"Idiot. I'm fine." I leaned in and scraped my teeth lightly against his earlobe.

A violent shudder ripped through his frame. That was all it took to snap his leash.

The beast inside him roared to life. This was the first time I had ever initiated anything. He just sat there, paralyzed by my touch, his breathing jagged and wet.

Right as his guard completely dropped, my left hand slid up the back of his neck. I popped the cap off the tiny syringe I had hidden in the drink lid. A sharp hiss of cold liquid pressed into his skin. His muscles locked.

His dilated pupils rolled back, losing focus. As his heavy body slumped forward into a dead sleep, the suffocating weight lifted off my chest.

The heavy front door slammed shut behind me. Blaring security alarms ripped through the silent estate.

I was free.

Six years later.

Insomnia had been tearing me apart lately. My brain kept dragging me back to that pitch-black month six years ago. To the dead, hollow look in his eyes right before the drug knocked him out.

He definitely hated me now.

Just as much as I hated him.

During the summer after my college graduation, he locked me in a cage, and not a single person noticed I was missing. Even now, the cold hard truth left a bitter taste in my mouth. No one gave a damn about my existence. Fucked up, right?

When I finally escaped and dragged my bruised body back home, Brenda's first words to me were, "Where the hell have you been whoring around?" My stepmother treated me like garbage. I accepted that fact years ago; we didn't share a drop of blood.

Chapter 5

But when my dad got home that night, there wasn't a single shred of concern. He shot me a cold glare and barked, "You graduated, and you still haven't found a job. You spend all your time running around with trash. Look at Kendall. She spent the entire summer taking piano lessons and dance classes. Why are you such a worthless disappointment?"

My whole world collapsed.

Not even the cage, not even the darkest days of the torture, brought me to that level of despair.

I walked out of that house and never looked back. I clawed my way up from the bottom and landed my current job. I had a degree in acting, but I ended up working as a talent manager instead.

I didn't want my face in front of the cameras. And I definitely didn't have the financial backing. In the entertainment industry, if you don't have capital behind you, you won't land a single role. So, I cut my losses and walked away.

For the past six years, I managed a revolving door of rookies. Some hovered in the middle tier, some never took off at all, mostly scraping by with third-string supporting roles.

But this time, the agency handed me a rising star fresh off a survival showBrody. He was twenty, drop-dead gorgeous, could sing and dance, and had a massive, obsessive fanbase. He was undeniably the next big thing. He was up for a massive project next.

An upcoming big-budget series featuring a male-male romance, Fruitless, that was already blowing up the internet before cameras even rolled.

Brody checked every box, except for the fact that he was feral. He practically lived at the clubs, hooked up constantly, and had a roster of ex-girlfriends that gave me chronic migraines.

Every night before bed, I obsessively ran through damage control. With the casting for Fruitless entering the final stages, I had to keep his public image spotless to maximize his chances. Brody was gunning for the main lead. It was a wildly charismatic role with massive screen time.

It was a guaranteed star-making turn. Practically every rising young actor in the industry was salivating over this part. Word on the street was that whoever landed it was a locked-in A-lister.

I bled myself dry trying to secure this role. The investors and the casting directors finally caved and offered an audition. It was a sliver of hope.

Brody absolutely killed the audition. The lead role was basically his. The casting directors loved his look, his acting, and his overall vibe. They were ready to sign the papers.

The only hurdle left was the green light from the investors.

Everyone knows casting directors make 99% of the decisions, but the 1% in the investors' seats held the ultimate veto power. Tonight's dinner was make or break. I had to face the investors.

The dinner was booked at an exclusive rooftop private club. I spent the entire afternoon getting ready. I hadn't put on full glam in years. I knew my angles.

I had the kind of face that mixed innocent charm with a mature edge, wrapped in an unapproachable coldness. Back in college, my professors constantly told me my features could mold to any role on screen.

It's a shame I chose to pull the strings behind the scenes. Managers shouldn't outshine their talent. But tonight was different. Tonight, I might have to leverage my looks to secure this role for Brody.

Before I left my apartment, I downed a few hangover prevention shots.

This dinner wasn't set up for me; I was crashing it. It took a lot of digging to find out the investors would be there tonight.

As soon as I stepped out of the cab in front of the club, a waiter accidentally slammed into me, snapping my bracelet. The clasp broke, and beads scattered under a nearby table. My phone buzzedthe investors were already seated. I gritted my teeth, ignoring the mess.

Forget it.

Chapter 6

I rushed into the elevator, an inexplicable knot tightening in my stomach. The broken bracelet was a terrible omen.

A few minutes later, I realized my paranoia was dead on. It was the absolute worst omen possible. Sitting at the dinner table was Dorian's uncle, Pierce.

Six years ago, I was the anonymous tip to the police. No one ever knew I was the girl he kidnapped. After Dorian was arrested, I cut ties. I didn't care what happened to him; I just wanted to bury the nightmare.

Since then, I avoided the Chu family like the plague. I never expected my first time running into one of them would be at a casting dinner.

The Chu family was corporate royalty in the city, dominating real estate, mining, and energy. When did they dip their hands into the entertainment industry? A sharp headache pulsed behind my temples.

To make things worse, Pierce wasn't just Dorian's uncle. He was the man I had desperately and humiliatingly chased six years ago. Talk about a disaster. I was dead in the water.

Brody's role was practically gone.

I shrank into my corner seat, ditching any plans of schmoozing. I spent the entire dinner pushing food around my plate, checked out.

"Pierce, this is Sloane, the manager for the lead actor who auditioned today. She's young but incredibly sharp. She's handled a lot of rising stars," Director Bruce gestured toward me.

My head snapped up. Caught entirely off guard, I grabbed my wine glass and pasted on a professional smile. "You're flattering me, Bruce. I'd never dare call myself sharp in front of you and Mr. Chu. It's a pleasure to finally meet you." I tilted my head back and downed the wine in one go.

As I set the empty glass down, the man lounging in the tailored suit at the head of the table let out a slow, lazy drawl. "Is it our first time?"

His lips curved, but the smile didn't reach his freezing eyes.

"Oh?" Bruce caught the shift in tone. His eyes darted between Pierce and me before a knowing look washed over his face. "Sloane, you're quite the joker. You already know Pierce, and you're just playing along with us?"

The entire table fell dead silent. Every pair of eyes locked onto me. My own heart stalled in my chest.

I hadn't said a word to him since I walked in, and he hadn't spared me a single glance. I assumed he wanted to keep our history buried. I certainly wasn't going to shamelessly flaunt my connections, especially when my 'connection' was a humiliating, failed crush. Playing strangers was the unspoken rule to avoid a public disaster.

Dragging it out into the open like this backed me straight into a corner.

I kept the polite smile plastered on my face. "I've only ever heard of the legendary Mr. Chu."

"Oh, really?" Pierce tilted his head, his gaze pinning me down. "Because you look incredibly familiar, Sloane."

He openly mocked me.

My nails bit into my palms. I never should have come. Why was he backing me against the wall? Was I supposed to admit it or deny it?

Getting rejected by him six years ago wasn't exactly a badge of honor.

"Well, if a man as busy as Pierce remembers you, you should be honored," Bruce chimed in, tossing the grenade directly into my lap. "Since we're all friends here, why don't you pitch your guy to Pierce right now? We're all in this to make money together, right?"

A sharp breath hitched in my throat. Bruce was an absolute coward. He clearly wanted Brody for the lead too, but he was forcing me to take the heat. The headache pounded harder.

"Sure." Pierce leaned back, swirling the amber liquid in his glass. "I'll cut to the chase. You can have your guy for the lead role, assuming the director approves. But the supporting lead belongs to my guy."

Chapter 7

A collective sigh of relief washed over the table. Getting the main lead locked in was all that mattered. The massive weight on my chest finally lifted.

The supporting lead Pierce mentioned was the submissive role in the dual-male setup. Minimal dialogue, heavy reliance on micro-expressions, and insanely difficult to pull off. It rarely stole the spotlight. Young actors avoided it like the plague.

Play it too subtle, and you get dragged for having a wooden face. Express too much, and the internet tears you apart for overacting and stealing focus. It was a thankless job. No one at the table cared if Pierce handed it to his own guy.

The directors eagerly nodded along.

"We completely trust your judgment, Pierce. Just curious, which fresh face did you pick?" Bruce asked, a sycophantic smile plastered on his face.

"He's a rookie signed to one of our smaller subsidiaries. He's currently still in the States. I'll be leaving him in your capable hands," Pierce said. As he finished, his sharp gaze slid sideways, locking onto me with heavy implication.

A chill skittered down my spine.

Psycho.

I immediately broke eye contact, staring hard at the table linen.

He didn't push it. He just raised his glass, a slow, predatory smirk pulling at the corner of his mouth.

"No problem, Pierce! Don't worry about a thing!"

"We've got him!"

"Anyone from your company gets our full attention."

I spent the rest of the dinner chewing on tasteless food, but at least I got the result I needed. The agonizing night finally ended. Naturally, I had to play the good manager and stand by the entrance to see everyone off.

Pierce stepped out of the restroom and walked toward his waiting black Lincoln. Just as his hand grazed the door handle, he stopped. He turned his head, his dark eyes fixing on me. "Want to come back to my place?"

Wait, what?

My muscles locked up. I had absolutely no idea how to deflect that kind of blatant invitation without causing a scene. I awkwardly tucked a stray strand of hair behind my ear.

"You've had a lot to drink tonight, Pierce. I shouldn't intrude on your rest," I offered a polished, polite rejection.

Pierce held my gaze for a long second. He let out a low chuckle, didn't push it, and folded his tall frame into the back of the car.

During the cab ride home, I kept replaying the scene in my head. Either my memory was severely screwed up, or Pierce was losing his mind. Based on our history, he was the absolute last person on earth who would ever actively approach me, let alone invite me to his bed.

Six years ago, I was twenty-two, fresh out of college. Pierce was twenty-four. The Chu family practically owned the city. Back then, I was surviving daily psychological warfare with my stepmother, Brenda.

I was desperate for a powerful backer to help me claw back the inheritance that rightfully belonged to me. So, I locked my sights on the youngest son of the wealthy family next door: Pierce. He was Archibald's late-in-life son, spoiled beyond belief, and completely untouchable. I exhausted every trick in the book trying to chase him down.

He was a notorious playboy, barely ever home, and never tied to one girl. Getting within ten feet of him was impossible.

Just as I was hitting a brick wall, a new kid moved into the Chu estate. Dorian. He was only eighteen at the time. Word around the neighborhood was that Dorian was the orphaned kid of Archibald's distant relatives.

He was famously quiet, obedient, and completely tanking his high school classes.

When I heard that, I thought I'd struck gold. I volunteered to tutor Dorian multiple times a week, entirely using him as a pawn to get closer to Pierce.

I never saw the nightmare coming. I barely caught a glimpse of Pierce, and instead, I ended up chained to a radiator by that little psychopath. Just the memory triggered a vicious spike of pain behind my eyes.

Lately, a suffocating weight had been choking me. I had been agonizing over whether I should casually ask Pierce about what happened to Dorian, just to quiet the voices in my head. But I had zero valid excuses to bring him up. A heavy breath pushed past my lips.

I stumbled out of the cab. The alcohol suddenly hit me like a freight train. I slapped my hand against a wet concrete planter, gripping the edge until the world stopped spinning. Gathering my balance, I hitched my purse higher on my shoulder and started walking toward my apartment complex.

A cold drizzle started falling. The sky was a pitch-black canopy, and the flickering streetlights barely cut through the heavy gloom.

Chapter 8

I had walked this path to my apartment a million times, but tonight, the dead silence felt suffocating.

Suddenly, the crisp crunch of dead leaves echoed right behind me.

The alcohol instantly evaporated from my blood. My boots stopped dead on the concrete. I whipped my head around, my eyes scanning the heavy shadows. Nothing.

The street was completely empty.

Then, a scrawny stray cat darted out from behind the planter bushes, letting out a terrified screech. Just a cat.

The adrenaline slowly drained from my veins, leaving my legs feeling like lead. The elevator lobby was right ahead. I didn't waste another second, practically sprinting inside and hammering the button.

A few days later, the official contract from the Fruitless production team landed on my desk.

I scrubbed through every single line of the legal jargon. Only when I was absolutely sure there were no hidden traps did I stand over Brody and watch him sign his name.

The base pay wasn't astronomicalaround three million dollars. But it included a brutal performance clause. If the series blew up and ratings skyrocketed, my agency would pull in close to nine million in equity payouts. If it bombed, my agency owed the investors fifty percent of the financial losses.

We'd basically be vomiting up the base pay and bleeding our own money. But given the current massive hype surrounding the IP, there was zero chance this show was going to flop.

A week after the ink dried, Brody officially joined the cast on set.

Massive budget, A-list director, and a rabid fanbase trending the original novel on Twitter and TikTok before cameras even rolled. Naturally, my agency wanted to squeeze every drop of PR out of this. They put Brody on a pedestal and shipped me directly to the set to babysit him 24/7.

On the drive to the studio lot, I drilled the rules into Brody's head until my throat was dry. The most critical directive: build flawless chemistry with the supporting lead. In a dual-male romance series, the tension between the two leads is the entire hook. If the vibe was off or forced, the audience would cringe themselves to death.

The aesthetic appeal would tank.

Brody, radiating his usual golden-retriever energy, just grinned and pounded his chest. He swore he had it handled and promised to be instant best bros with his co-star.

Despite his confidence, a heavy knot sat in my stomach. The entire ride, my nerves were completely fried. When we finally arrived for the opening ceremony, production informed us that the supporting lead's flight was delayed. He wasn't going to make the press event.

A weird rush of relief washed over me.

But that relief violently shattered the second my eyes landed on the official cast list.

Supporting Lead Dorian.

The name struck me like a physical blow. The suffocating, pitch-black nightmare from six years ago clawed its way back into my brain. Even after all this time, an uncontrollable tremor racked my spine.

I sucked in jagged breaths, trying to force oxygen into my lungs, but a freezing sweat instantly drenched my back. I told myself it was just a coincidence. It had to be a coincidence. It couldn't be him.

He was an eighteen-year-old psycho who got locked up. How the hell could he possibly infiltrate the entertainment industry?

The second the ceremony wrapped, I hunted down Bruce. I needed absolute confirmation, right now.

Seeing my bloodless face, Bruce totally misread the situation. He thought I was panicking about the actors clashing. He clapped a heavy hand on my shoulder. "Don't sweat it, Sloane. Guys their age will be thick as thieves in a few days."

Right. I forced the corners of my mouth up into a stiff, dead smile.

"Do you have a picture of the supporting lead?" I cut straight to the point.

"I think so. Let me check." Bruce pulled out his phone, scrolling through his gallery to find the portfolio the investors sent over.

[ Name: Dorian ]

[ Age: 24 ]

[ Height: 6'3" ]

[ Profession: Print Model ]

My eyes skimmed the text, my thumb frantically swiping straight to the headshots at the very end of the file.

Chapter 9

When my eyes landed on the man in the silk sleepwear on the screen, a sharp gasp tore from my throat. It was him. My nails dug viciously into the meat of my palms.

Whatever Bruce said next dissolved into white noise. I dragged my body back to Brody's trailer like a mindless corpse. I sat paralyzed for the entire afternoon before finally sorting out the agency's schedule nd taking a week off.

For seven straight days, I locked myself inside my apartment. There were too many missing pieces, and the ones I could put together were too terrifying to acknowledge. I knew firsthand exactly how ruthless and unhinged Dorian could be. I was the one who put him in handcuffs six years ago.

He absolutely hated my guts. Regardless of how or why he had crawled his way back, I knew he wouldn't let me walk away unscathed.

A cold sweat broke out across my back. But I also knew I couldn't hide in a hole forever. That week was pure psychological torture. I lay awake shivering until dawn, drowning in severe insomnia, and even picked up a heavy smoking habit just to dull the edge.

After a week of making myself sick with anxiety, I finally forced my feet back onto the studio lot. But this time, my bag was loaded with hidden audio recorders and self-defense gear.

When I walked into the trailer, Brody was sitting in the makeup chair.

"Sloane, thank God you're here," Brody breathed out. He practically lunged to grab my hand like I was a lifeline.

"What's wrong?" I asked.

"What else? That Dorian guy is a total nightmare to work with," Brody complained, dragging a hand down his face. "He walks around with this dead, freezing glare all day. How am I supposed to build chemistry with that? We have to shoot every scene a dozen times before the director is happy. It's killing me."

"Oh?" My fingers curled inward slightly. "He has a bad attitude?" I probed carefully.

In my memory, Dorian always played the perfect golden boy to the outside world. He was always smiling, radiating a warm, approachable energy. Even though he was a paranoid psychopath behind closed doors, that obsession was strictly reserved for me. He was a master manipulator.

Hell, the first time I met him, I bought the act. I thought he was just a sweet, sunny, well-behaved kid.

So why was Brody saying he was impossible to work with?

"I don't even know if it's an attitude thing. Outside of our lines, we literally haven't spoken a single word to each other. I'm starting to think the guy is mute," Brody ranted. "And on top of that, looking the way he does is just unfair to the rest of us. When I stand in front of him, I can't even look him in the eye."

Brody's rant left me staring blankly. I forced my brain to pull up Dorian's face. Surprisingly, despite being locked in the same house and sharing the same bed for a month, I realized I had never actually looked at him. My only lasting impressions were that he was pale, tall, and absolutely terrifying.

Who the hell had the mental bandwidth to appreciate a kidnapper's bone structure?

But hearing Brody describe him sent a new wave of unease crashing over me. He was back, and he was different. He wasn't playing the smiling golden boy anymore. The sheer unpredictability of it made my stomach churn.

"You guys just haven't warmed up to each other yet. Give it time," I offered a weak reassurance.

Honestly, the words felt completely hollow on my own tongue.

"Warm up, my ass! Sloane, I'm screwed. We have an intimate scene scheduled for this afternoon," Brody groaned, aggressively running his hands through his freshly styled hair and completely wrecking it. "You have no idea. When he stares at me with those dead eyes, my brain just short-circuits. How am I supposed to lean in and kiss him? Just put me out of my misery."

An intimate scene?!

A heavy breath pushed past my lips. I suddenly remembered productions rarely filmed chronologically; throwing actors into a kissing scene on day one was standard industry practice.

"Just throw yourself into it. It's a camera trick, right? You aren't actually kissing him?" I frowned, a knot tightening in my stomach for Brody.

Chapter 10

"Even with a fake-out camera angle, I'm half expecting the guy to punch me in the face. An actual kiss? Hell no." Brody's entire body practically recoiled at the thought of the afternoon shoot.

"Don't sweat it," I patted his shoulder. "I'll go with you."

"To be my emotional support?" Brody instantly reverted to his usual, unserious grin.

"To collect your corpse." I rolled my eyes and started sorting through the afternoon call sheets.

"Brutal," he muttered, closing his eyes to run his lines.

I had replayed our reunion in my head a million times. I had built up impenetrable mental walls to brace myself. But none of it prepared me for the visceral shock of seeing him in the flesh. He had changed. A lot.

He was taller, his shoulders broader and more rigid. And that face Brody was right. It was completely unfair to anyone standing next to him.

Fruitless tracked two guys in a boy band. Dancing, singing, grinding their way to a debut, watching a brotherhood bleed into a romance. The afternoon scene captured them rehearsing in the dance studio post-debut. Brody's character was supposed to lose control and kiss Dorian's character.

I stood deep in the crowd of crew members, watching them sweat through the choreography. Brody reached out for Dorian to pull him up, but Dorian violently yanked him down to the floor, pinning him.

When the kiss happened, I looked away.

A suffocating memory crashed into my brain. The phantom weight of his body pinning me down to a mattress. His kisses were always predatory, aggressive invasions that stole all the oxygen from my lungs, his teeth dragging brutally against my bottom lip. The phantom weight of his body, the suffocating heatit all slammed right back into my chest.

My throat closed up. My lungs forgot how to pull in air.

Back then, I quickly learned that fighting him only left me bruised. So, I started initiating the kisses just to survive. But every single time I made the first move, a dark flush would creep up his neck, as if he were just some shy, innocent kid. For a while, I genuinely thought he had a split personality.

During the break, Director Bruce called the two leads over to block the next shot. I forced my legs to walk over.

Just as I closed the distance, Dorianwho had been staring blankly at the floorsnapped his head up. Our eyes locked.

My boots stopped dead. My nails dug into my palms until the skin nearly broke. I didn't look away. If he was back for revenge, running was useless.

I would fight him tooth and nail. If by some absolute miracle he had found a conscience, forgiveness was still off the table. We would just stay in our own lanes and rot separately. But if he was still infected with that same twisted obsession, if he tried to drag me back into that hell, I would personally slap the handcuffs back on his wrists.

All of those thoughts fired through my brain in a split second.

But Dorian just held my gaze for two heartbeats before casually looking away. His face was a total blank slate. The indifference was so flawless, he almost convinced me that we were perfect strangers.

What the hell was his game?

I tore my eyes away, stepped up to Brody, and shoved a cold water bottle into his chest.

"Great energy this afternoon, guys. Especially you, Dorian. That moment you initiated the kiss? Absolute fire," Bruce praised. "And Brody, why did you freeze up? You're supposed to be the dominant one here! You completely flipped the dynamic."

"But whatever, the chemistry felt natural. Keep it up. Dorian, you're wrapped for the day. Brody, you're on deck for the night shoot."

Bruce clapped Dorian on the shoulder, tossed me a quick nod, and spun around to yell at the lighting crew.

Dorian didn't stick around. The second Bruce walked away, he turned on his heel and headed straight for his trailer without a backward glance. He left me staring at the broad, unfamiliar lines of his back. What the hell was he playing at?

The cold, untouchable stranger act?

Chapter 11

Brody aggressively scrubbed a hand down his face. "Sloane, that psycho suddenly tilted his head up and kissed me. Scared the absolute hell out of me."

I blinked, snapping out of my daze. "Why did that freak you out? You're playing the dominant one. You're acting more fragile than the sub."

"No, you don't get it. The look in his eyes was lethal. Like he was going to swallow me whole. And he actually touched my mouth!" Brody wiped his lips violently with the back of his hand.

He was a hundred percent straight. Even for a role, having another guy's mouth on his left his skin crawling.

"Was it really that bad?" I murmured.

I already knew the exact answer to that question. Back when he was playing the good boy, his eyes were soft and docile, completely harmless. But the second the leash snapped, his gaze turned entirely feral. Bloodthirsty, ruthless, and completely unhinged.

Staring into those eyes wasn't something a normal person could survive with their sanity intact.

Brody had a night shoot, and I had a video conference with the agency, so I headed back to the hotel alone.

As soon as I walked through the lobby doors, a sudden realization hit me. The studio lot was out in the middle of nowhere. There were only one or two decent hotels in the area, and most of the A-list cast was staying right here.

Was Dorian staying here too?

The thought made my stomach drop. Even though our first encounter this afternoon seemed completely normal, the absolute lack of any reaction was the most terrifying part. I was suddenly dreading the walk to my room. Of course, the universe had a sick sense of humor.

Speak of the devil, and he appears.

The heavy metal elevator doors slid open with a soft ping. All the blood instantly drained from my face. My lungs seized.

He was standing right inside.

"Getting in?" The low, gravelly timbre of his voice vibrated in the tight space.

Every single nerve ending in my body instantly set off a blaring alarm. To my ears, those two words didn't sound like an invitation. They sounded like a death threat.

I forced my spine stiff, stepping over the threshold. I needed to see what his game was. Running would only paint a target on my back. But he just stood there, tall and rigid in a crisp black dress shirt and tailored trousers, his face an impenetrable mask.

"Floor?" He raised a hand, hovering over the panel, and glanced at me from the corner of his eye.

"Eighteen." The second the number left my mouth, a cold chill crept up my spine. I had never been superstitious, but the number suddenly felt like a terrible omen.

He didn't blink. His expression remained totally dead as his long finger pressed the button. He clearly had no intention of speaking. I shot a covert glance at the illuminated panel.

Nineteen.

The realization that I was trapped in this metal box with him for eighteen floors sent a fresh wave of ice through my chest. My right hand instinctively wrapped around my left wrist, my thumb pressing harshly into the spot where the zip ties used to bite into my skin. If he wasn't going to talk, I definitely wasn't going to break the silence. I kept my breathing shallow, waiting for the other shoe to drop.

I had no idea what he was plotting. We knew each other, sure, but polite small talk was completely off the table. A bloody confrontation was way more likely. The tension in the air was suffocating; burying the past wouldn't make it disappear.

Then, defying every horrific scenario playing out in my head, the elevator dinged at the eighteenth floor. We had acted like total strangers the entire ride up. Not a single word was exchanged.

I didn't linger for a second. I bolted down the carpeted hallway to my door. The second I crossed the threshold, I slammed the heavy oak door shut, threw the deadbolt, latched the chain, and locked every single window in the room.

The second her hurried footsteps faded down the hall, I reached out and double-tapped the nineteenth-floor button, killing the light. I pressed seventeen instead.

I slowly tilted my head back. The harsh fluorescent lights of the elevator washed over my pale skin, casting sharp, rigid shadows across my jawline. A slow, dark smirk pulled at the corners of my moutha crack in the perfect, frozen mask.

"Long time no see, Sloane," I whispered.

The hollow, phantom-like sound of my own voice bounced off the empty metal walls.

I dragged myself back to the set the next day to shadow Brody. Sitting in the hotel room was driving me insane. I needed to keep a close eye on things. Though, whether I was worried about Brody screwing up, or terrified of what Dorian might pull, was a question I refused to answer.

Today's schedule was packed with more scenes between the two of them.

Chapter 12

Brody was basically playing himself, slipping into the role effortlessly. From my vantage point behind the monitors, I watched him get handsy, throwing out all kinds of flirty banter at Dorian to build their on-screen dynamic.

And Dorian? From start to finish, his face remained a mask of icy restraint. When Brody pushed too far, his only reaction was a slight tightening of his lips or a subtle twitch of his eyelids before turning his back, leaving Brody with a freezing cold shoulder.

Too calm. Too ascetic. Unlike the monster I knew.

Staring at him, I found it impossible to reconcile the man standing under the studio lights with the deeply insecure, rabidly possessive boy who used to lose his mind over a single glance from another guy. Aside from the face, they were two completely different people. Was he just an incredible actor completely lost in his role, or was my own memory playing sick tricks on me?

My gaze dropped to my wrists. The skin had healed over the years, but the faint, pale indentations from the zip ties were still visible under the harsh lighting. No. Memories might blur, but scars don't lie.

He really had changed. Just like last night in the elevator. If it were the old Dorian, there was zero chance he would have let me walk out of that metal box untouched. I had my thumb hovering over my phone's emergency dial, bracing for the inevitable attack.

But he didn't do a damn thing. He didn't speak a single word. He just stood there and watched me walk away unscathed. What the hell was going on?

How did he claw his way back here? And what exactly did he want? I knew the world was full of crazy coincidences, but him suddenly infiltrating my life again? I wouldn't believe that was an accident if you put a gun to my head.

I stood there chewing on the inside of my cheek, completely zoned out, until Brody walked off set during a break and clapped a heavy hand on my shoulder.

"Sloane, seriously?" Brody waved a hand right in front of my face, his eyes tracking my line of sight. He let out a dramatic tsk. "Are you here to manage my career, or are you just here to drool over the eye candy?"

His voice snapped me back to reality. The sudden realization that I had been openly staring at Dorian sent a hot flush up my neck. I quickly pulled my gaze back and forced my expression into professional neutrality.

"Shut up." I swatted his arm. "I was just thinking you're actually doing decent today. You nailed almost every shot on the first take." I forced a relaxed smile and held out a bottle of water.

The makeup and hair team immediately swarmed him, fixing his styling and touching up his foundation. Seeing his hands pinned under the stylists' capes, I pulled the bottle back. Without thinking, I twisted the cap off myself and tipped the plastic rim directly to his lips.

He leaned down effortlessly, catching the rim and taking a few loud, thirsty gulps.

"I'm killing it. Dorian is basically a plank of wood," Brody bragged, a smug grin on his face. "He barely even looks at me. When he's not staring me down, the acting comes easy."

"Oh? Aren't there supposed to be intense eye contact scenes? He can't just avoid looking at you the whole time," I said, pulling the bottle back and twisting the cap tightly shut.

"There are, and it's stressing me out. The whole back half of the script is just us staring intensely and tackling each other. I don't know what Dorian's deal is. How does a guy with a face that pretty have a stare that literally feels like a death threat?" Just thinking about the upcoming scenes made Brody aggressively rub his temples.

"It's just acting. You aren't actually doing anything to him. Why are you so freaked out?" I shot him an annoyed glare.

"Give me a break, Sloane. If I actually tried anything with him, I'd be booking a one-way ticket to the morgue."

We kept trading jabs, killing time during the break. Completely unaware that from across the crowded set, a pair of pitch-black eyes had cut straight through the crew, locking dead onto the two of us.

Chapter 13

Dorian took the water bottle from Ben. He twisted the plastic cap off. His Adam's apple bobbed in a slow, steady rhythm as he swallowed the cold liquid. He sat completely rigid, his long fingers absentmindedly spinning the bottle cap, his dark eyes locked dead onto a figure in the distance.

"Dorian, you're wrapped for this block. Want to head back to the trailer to rest?" Ben asked.

Dorian stared at the ground for a second before giving a single, short nod. "Yeah."

The midday sun was brutal. On the walk back, Ben popped open a black umbrella, struggling to hold the canopy high enough to cover Dorian's tall frame.

Dorian stopped. "Give it to me," he said flatly. He took the handle from Ben's grip.

When I glanced over again, all I saw was the broad line of his back as he walked away under the black silk canopy. His posture was impeccably straight, his movements smooth and deliberate. He looked every bit the untouchable, aristocratic heir, keeping the entire world at a freezing, calculated distance. There was absolutely zero trace of the unhinged, feral boy I knew.

When the dinner invitation from Pierce came through, I was caught off guard. I had zero intention of going. Dealing with Dorian was already pushing me to the brink of a breakdown; adding Pierce's twisted games into the mix would literally put me in a psych ward.

But a little while later, Pierce pulled his car directly up to the entrance of my hotel. My phone buzzed.

"You have ten minutes. If you want to go, come down to the garage. If not, whatever," Pierce said, immediately cutting the line. His tone was completely flat. It wasn't a desperate plea; it was the chilling confidence of a man who knew exactly what buttons to push to guarantee I'd show up.

Fucking psycho.

The second I lowered the phone, an iMessage lit up the screen. Pierce sent a photo. My thumb hovered over the glass for a second before I tapped it open.

When the image fully loaded, the blood drained from my face. A freezing chill shot straight up my spine. My knuckles turned stark white as my grip crushed the edges of the phone. I bit down on my bottom lip, squeezing my eyes shut to force down the surge of rage threatening to tear my chest open.

It took five agonizing minutes to shove the red haze aside and drag my rational mind back into the driver's seat.

I pulled up his contact. Give me ten more minutes. Fine, came the instant reply.

I burned through five minutes chain-smoking a cigarette just to stop my hands from shaking. In the remaining five, I threw on a black, off-the-shoulder slip dress, swiped on a dark burgundy lipstick, spritzed some perfume, grabbed my clutch, and walked out the door.

Down in the concrete garage, I spotted the black Lincoln. I froze before gripping the handle, pulling the heavy back door open, and sliding onto the leather seat.

Pierce leaned in close, the rough pads of his fingers grazing the bare skin of my shoulder. His gaze raked over my body like a predator sizing up its next meal. His hot breath brushed against my collarbone. He was clearly satisfied with how I looked.

The heavy luxury car tore down the highway, slicing through the evening traffic like a shadow.

"Where the hell did you get that file?" I cut straight to the point, my voice hard.

"When I want something, I get it. It's really that simple." A low chuckle vibrated in his chest. He was openly mocking my forced composure, highly amused by the frantic panic bleeding through my armor.

"And? You have a hobby of digging into people's private family trauma. What exactly do you want from me?" I turned my head, locking eyes with him.

That document was the holy grail. It detailed the corporate structure of the company my late mother and my father built together. My mom originally held a seventy percent controlling stake. But staring right back at me in that photo was a legally drafted transfer agreement, cleanly handing that entire seventy percent over to my stepsister, Kendall.

Chapter 14

Ever since Brenda and Kendall moved in, they made my life a living hell. I could handle the daily torment, but trying to steal the legacy my mother built from the ground up? They were out of their fucking minds.

Pierce chuckled. He tapped two fingers against his temple. "You."

My breath hitched.

"You've got a twisted sense of humor, Pierce." I forced the corners of my mouth up, the smile feeling like cracked plastic on my face.

"I'm thirty. I need a wife. Archibald doesn't trust me, and until there's a ring on my finger, he's freezing me out of the major equity split." He stated it like a weather report.

"And? You have a Rolodex full of women who would kill for that ring. Why me?" It was absurd. The Chu family was a massive empire, drowning in ruthless succession wars, and he was picking a bride like he was ordering a cup of coffee.

"You're smarter than them. You know your place. And most importantly, our interests align." A smug grin stretched across his face. "The second we sign the marriage certificate, my first order of business is a hostile takeover of your mother's shares. Deal? You can't seriously be delusional enough to think you can claw them back on your own."

"We keep our private lives completely separate. You play the perfect Mrs. Chu for the cameras, and behind closed doors, you can screw whoever you want. We're both playing dirty here, Sloane. Drop the innocent act."

My fingernails dug crescent moons into the leather seat.

An open marriage. That was his brilliant pitch. The notorious playboy wanted a free pass wrapped in an ironclad legal contract. Yeah, seeing that forged transfer agreement had triggered a cold sweat that dragged me down to this garage.

But I wasn't going to whore myself out to him just to buy back my own stolen property.

"Hard pass." I kept my spine ramrod straight.

He wasn't phased. He just tilted his head, clicked a silver lighter, and dragged on a cigarette. "You saw my nephew, right?"

Nephew?

My eyes locked onto him. The air in the car suddenly felt suffocatingly thin.

"Oh, right. You didn't know. The little psycho is actually my older brother's bastard son. The family slapped the 'distant relative' label on him years ago to bury the scandal. Funny how that turned out" He blew a thick stream of smoke, watching my pupils dilate. "What, did you forget him? You used to tutor the kid."

His dark eyes tracked every micro-expression on my face.

My jaw clenched so hard my teeth ached. I knew exactly who he was talking about. The blood completely drained from my cheeks.

I didn't give a damn about Dorian's illegitimate bloodline. The only word ringing in my ears was psycho.

I had buried that month in a pitch-black vault. No one knew. No one knew the absolute hell he dragged me through. But what about him? Did he talk? Did the entire Chu family know exactly how twisted he was? Did they know what he forced me to do in that locked room?

A violent wave of nausea hit my stomach. I bit down on the inside of my cheek until I tasted copper, staring blankly at Pierce. I had no idea how much he actually knew, and the paralyzing shame kept my throat sealed shut. No victim wants their darkest, most degrading nightmare dragged out under a spotlight.

Chapter 15

Pierce seemed highly satisfied by my dead silence. He blew another thick cloud of smoke toward my face, deciding he'd toyed with me enough. "It's a damn shame. The little psycho got into an accident and lost his memory."

"He's so obedient now, it's honestly a miracle. He does exactly what he's told. Amnesia has its perks. You didn't recognize him either, did you? He's completely different from before."

Amnesia?!

The word slammed into my brain. I played back my encounters with Dorian over the last few days. The icy distance. The flawless composure. It wasn't an act. His memory was wiped clean. That explained everything. A massive, shuddering breath left my lungs.

"What a shame." I forced my facial muscles to relax. "I'm not getting dragged into the Chu family's dirty laundry. As for your proposal, I'll think about it. It's late, Pierce. I'm going to call it a night."

I needed out of this car. My brain was overloaded. Dorian had amnesia. Pierce wanted to marry me. My temples throbbed viciously. Dinner was off the table; I'd throw up if I tried to swallow a single bite of food right now.

"Stay for dinner. It's a beautiful night, Sloane. Don't be so boring." I reached for the door handle, but his large hand clamped around my wrist. He shot me a heavy, loaded look, raw suggestion bleeding into his dark eyes.

"Pass. Thanks." I ripped my hand out of his grip. He didn't push it this time. He signaled the driver to pull over and let me out.

The second my heels hit the pavement, I made a beeline for a small, shadowed plaza nearby. I collapsed onto the edge of a concrete planter, burying my face in my hands. White noise roared in my ears. The sheer exhaustion was suffocating. I sat frozen there for thirty minutes before finally dragging my heavy limbs back to the curb to flag a cab.

The second her cab disappeared down the street, I stepped out of the shadows.

I pulled the hood of my black sweatshirt lower. A medical mask covered my face; only my eyes were exposed to the freezing moonlight. I walked over and sat down on the exact spot on the concrete planter she had just vacated. I stared dead at my own shadow stretching across the pavement. My pale fingers slowly traced the rough concrete, desperately trying to catch the phantom heat she left behind.

I tilted my head back against the freezing wind. A heavy breath rattled in my chest. My Adam's apple bobbed as I forced my eyes shut.

"You really aren't playing nice, Sloane."

My whisper vanished into the dead of night.

The next day on set, Director Bruce was practically blowing blood vessels. For whatever reason, Brody kept bombing take after take. It was a basic scene, but he fumbled through it dozens of times without landing it. Bruce finally called a break, glaring daggers at Brody. The crew was completely drained, muttering complaints under their breath.

Hearing the whispers and seeing the crew pointing fingers shattered Brody's ego. He stormed off, locked himself in his trailer, and flat-out refused to step back in front of the cameras. His assistant begged him for twenty minutes to no avail before finally panic-dialing me.

When the call came through, I was standing in the middle of my father's corporate office, locked in a brutal shouting match over the forged equity transfer. We were tearing each other apart. His face was purple with rage. He screamed that I hadn't shown my face in years, and the only reason I bothered to show up now was to act like a vulture circling his money.

"I don't have a daughter!"

I knew the truth. I knew he had completely erased me the second Brenda moved in, treating Kendall like absolute royalty while tossing me in the trash. But hearing those exact words violently rip from his mouth still felt like a baseball bat directly to the ribs.

Chapter 16

The air in the room deadlocked. I tilted my head up. The burn behind my eyes was dry; the tears had burned away a long time ago.

"Of course you don't." My voice was dead flat. "From day one, it's only ever been Kendall. Your precious little bastard daughter. What am I? Just the punchline to the joke of your first marriage."

My father shot up from his leather chair. The veins on the back of his hands bulged against his skin. In a blind rage, he grabbed the crystal whiskey tumbler off his desk and hurled it straight at me. The color instantly drained from his face. He didn't expect me to hold my ground. I didn't flinch. I didn't even blink.

The heavy crystal smashed directly into my shin, shattering into a dozen jagged pieces.

Sharp glass bit into my flesh. Hot blood welled up from the gash, trailing a thick red line down my calf to my ankle. I didn't twitch a single muscle. I just stared dead into his eyes, a freezing, mocking smirk curling my lips.

"You can pretend I don't exist," I stated, my tone dropping to absolute zero. "But those shares belong to my mother. If Brenda and Kendall think they can get their filthy hands on them, they're dead wrong."

I turned on my heel and walked out the door without looking back.

I dragged my bleeding leg down the marble hallway into the executive restroom. I shoved my calf under the sink, letting the cold water wash the blood and glass shards down the drain. It didn't hurt. Compared to the gaping hole in my chest, a bruised and bleeding shin felt like nothing.

My brain dragged me back to the car crash nineteen years ago. I was nine years old, sitting by the front door, waiting for my mom to come home with a vanilla birthday cake. Instead, I got a knock from two police officers. I hadn't celebrated a birthday since. It was just a rotting calendar date that tasted like ash and metal.

Back then, I was stupid enough to think my dad was grieving with me. Barely months later, he moved Brenda into the house. Brenda, whose stomach was already swelling with a pregnancy.

A tragic coincidence? Bullshit.

A vicious migraine stabbed behind my temples. My phone buzzed in my pocket. Dozens of missed calls from Brody's assistant lit up the screen. Exhaustion sank into my bones, but I forced my thumb to hit redial. Brody was locking himself in his trailer, flat-out refusing to shoot.

I aggressively rubbed my temples, dug a cheap band-aid out of my purse to slap over the bleeding cut, and drove straight to the studio lot. The sun was already bleeding into dusk by the time I parked.

Brody was pacing by the barricades. The second he saw me, his usual chaotic energy completely dropped. He practically lunged at me, burying his face into my shoulder like a lost kid. The suffocating weight of my own garbage day instantly dialed back. The sheer, desperate reliance radiating off him flipped my survival switch back on.

Brody was only twenty. I was twenty-eight. On paper, I was his manager, but in reality, I was basically his older sister. Having someone look at you like you're their only lifeline wasn't a responsibility I took lightly. I could feel the tension vibrating in his muscles. His day had been just as much of a trainwreck as mine.

"Talk to me." I firmly patted his shoulder, dropping any hint of a lecture from my voice.

"Sloane, the crew thinks I'm tanking this role. They think I'm a joke," he muttered, aggressively kicking at the gravel.

"And what do you think?" I challenged, meeting his eyes.

"I I think they're right." His voice cracked, shrinking lower. "You have no idea. Dorian's stare is absolutely lethal. He's been radiating this suffocating, freezing energy all morning, acting like I personally offended him. I literally can't hold eye contact with him."

"I haven't done a damn thing to the guy. Why the hell is he coming for my throat?"

Dorian?

I shifted my gaze, cutting through the chaotic swarm of the production crew to find him. Big mistake. The second my eyes found him, his pitch-black stare was already locked directly onto me. The impact hit like a physical blow. We held eye contact across the crowded lot for exactly one suffocating second before the panic flared, and I broke the connection, staring hard at the asphalt.

"Why are you that terrified of him? He doesn't look like the type to go out of his way to terrorize people," I asked, forcing my voice to stay level.

Back in the day, Dorian's unhinged, violent paranoia was exclusively reserved for me. To the rest of the world, he was flawless. The old Dorian was all sunny smiles and golden-boy charm to everyone else.

Chapter 17

Even with his memory wiped, Dorian didn't seem like the type to blow up or throw insults. He constantly wore this untouchable, unbothered mask. I couldn't picture him going out of his way to terrorize Brody. Honestly, it just sounded like Brody was psyching himself out.

"Sloane, I don't even know why, but I swear he's out for my blood." Brody dragged a hand down his face, looking completely wrecked. "We had that pool scene this afternoon. I was supposed to be teasing him, flirting with him, and he was supposed to storm off annoyed."

"But the second he glared at me I swear to God, I felt like he was going to snap my neck. I just completely froze."

I let out a heavy sigh. I got the picture. Some people just naturally clashed. Brody was usually fearless, running his mouth at everyone, but put him in front of Dorian, and he folded like a cheap suit.

I rubbed the bridge of my nose. "Give me a second. I'll go talk to him."

I droppe