Vesper was packed with industry types—botoxed producers, influencers drowning in followers, and background actors acting like stars because they landed one line on a bad Netflix show.

Cleo wasn’t trying to impress anyone. She wanted to forget everything—the awful audition, not being able to pay rent, and how Hollywood always felt like it was about to kick her out. She danced her heart out, all wild and loud. Like if she moved fast enough, the panic wouldn’t catch up.

Everyone was looking at her, a few people laughed, and someone was recording. Then, near the bar, she spotted him.

Dark suit. Calm stare. The kind of man who didn’t need to speak up. He watched her like he was studying a fire—something beautiful and dangerous he didn’t plan to touch, but couldn’t stop watching.

She met his eyes. She shouldn’t have. But she did.

And then she pointed—at him—during the bridge of the song, mouthed something ridiculous like, This one’s for you.

She almost slipped off the table right after.

When she jumped down, breathless and a little drunk, he was gone.

Or so she thought.

TEN MINUTES LATER

She found him near the bar. Alone. Glass of something expensive in hand, still watching her like he hadn’t moved at all.

Cleo wiped sweat off her forehead, trying to look like she wasn’t falling apart.

“You stalking me, or just turned on by poor life choices?” she asked, voice hoarse from the music.

He didn’t laugh, but one corner of his mouth lifted. Barely.

“Do all your auditions end in table dancing?” he asked.

“Only the ones I bomb.”

He raised his glass. “Cheers to chaos.”

She clinked her drink against his. “Are you a producer or just rich and moisturized?”

“A bit of both.”

“Cool,” she said. “I’m broke and emotionally overcooked. Nice to meet you.”

He studied her. Not like a man hitting on a drunk girl. More like someone watching a story unfold and deciding if he wanted to turn the page.

“You’re not like most women in this town.”

“Because I don’t have lip filler or a screaming match with my Uber driver?”

“No,” he said. “Because you don’t care if people see you fall.”

***

LATER

Cleo stared at the name on the card and swore out loud.

Dean Carver.

The Dean Carver. Indie film legend. Hollywood myth. The kind of director people whispered about at film festivals and warned you about at wrap parties.

Ava nearly choked on her overpriced matcha when she saw the name. “You’re joking,” she said.

“I wish I were.”

“Girl, this man made The Vow of Ashes. He turned moody, sad-girl films into Oscar bait. You should be freaking out in a good way.”

“I’m freaking out in an might get #MeToo’d kind of way,” Cleo muttered.

Ava snorted. “He’s married. To that British actress with the cheekbones and the personality of a vodka ad.”

“That makes it worse!”

“No, it makes it perfect. He’s dangerous, but he’s not reckless. If he’s calling you in, it’s not because he wants to hook up. It’s because you made an impression.”

Cleo chewed her thumbnail. “Or maybe he wants both. Maybe I end up as a blind item on some gossip blog and have to pretend I ‘stepped back from the industry to focus on wellness.’”

“Cleo.” Ava took her hand. “You went to Yale. You’ve played every Shakespeare role that ends in suicide. You’re not some TikTok kid trying to get famous with a ring light and a dream. You’re the real deal.”

“I’m also broke. And terrified.”

“Then go be terrified on set.”

Cleo looked at her phone. There it was. A message from his assistant.

“We’d like to bring you in for a reading. Tomorrow. 10 AM.”

She exhaled slowly.

“…Just the reading.”

Ava grinned. “There’s my monster.”

“You’re the worst.”

“You’re unemployed.”

They clinked mugs.

The studio lobby was colder than it needed to be—air-conditioned within an inch of its life. Cleo stood by the front desk, clutching her tote like it was a lifeline, sweat drying on the back of her neck.

A young assistant with a sleek ponytail and dead eyes led her down a hallway lined with posters of moody indie films she half-pretended to like.

“You’ll read in Studio B. Mr. Carver’s already inside.”

Of course he was.

Cleo’s heart thudded like it was trying to crawl up her throat. She wasn’t even wearing mascara. Her left heel had a scratch on it. Her sides still ached from whatever the hell she drank last night.

She pushed the door open.

The room was small. Bare. A single chair. A camera. A man behind it.

Dean looked up.

No suit this time. Just a black T-shirt, jeans, and that same unreadable stare.

“You came,” he said.

She swallowed. “Still not sure if that was a mistake.”

He smirked. “Good. Let’s find out.”

“Girl, this man made The Vow of Ashes. He turned mood,y sad-girl films into Oscar bait. You should be freaking out in a way.”

“I’m freaking out in an I might get #MeToo’d kind of way,” Cleo muttered.

Ava snorted. “He’s married. To that British actress with the cheekbones and the personality of a vodka ad.”

“That makes it worse!”

“No, it makes it perfect. He’s dangerous, but he’s not reckless. If he’s calling you in, it’s not because he wants to hook up. It’s because you made an impression.”

Cleo chewed her thumbnail. “Or maybe he wants both. Maybe I end up as a blind item on some gossip blog and have to pretend I ‘stepped back from the industry to focus on wellness.’”

“Cleo.” Ava took her hand. “You went to Yale. You’ve played every Shakespeare role that ends in suicide. You’re not some TikTok kid trying to get famous with a ring light and a dream. You’re the real deal.”

“I’m also broke. And terrified.”

“Then go be terrified on set.”

Cleo looked at her phone. There it was. A message from his assistant.

“We’d like to bring you in for a reading. Tomorrow. 10 AM.”

She exhaled slowly.

“…Just the reading.”

Ava grinned. “There’s my monster.”

“You’re the worst.”

“You’re unemployed.”

They clinked mugs.

I used to think Hollywood would kill me. Turns out, it just starved me.

One year, I was an actress sobbing my way to an Oscar nomination. The next, I was an afterthought with bad lighting and worse headlines. So I did the unthinkable. I left.

And when the spotlight cut off, I lit my own. I traded scripts for recipes, red carpets for ovens, and I built something bigger than fame — an empire dusted in sugar. My bakery became a brand. My face ended up on cookbook covers instead of billboards. Vogue called me “The Starlet Who Rose Again — with Cupcakes.”

Cute, right? A comeback story America could sink its teeth into.

And then Dean Carver walked in.

Dean, the man who owned Hollywood, who could greenlight or ruin anyone with a single call. He didn’t want croissants. He wanted me. And like the idiot I am, I let him. Now I’m Mrs. Carver — stepmother to his suspicious children, wife to his merciless schedule, accessory to his empire. I tell myself I’m not an ornament. But some days, I swear he polishes me like one.

Which brings me to tonight. Fitting for the Carver Foundation Gala. Sequins, stylists, champagne. Pretend marriage, pretend smiles.

That’s when my phone buzzed.

Unknown number.

I almost ignored it — probably a charity begging for a free cake. But then I answered.

“Myra Bailey,” the voice rasped. Low. Filthy. Like velvet rubbed raw. “God, I’ve been watching you. That dress? I want to tear it off and eat frosting off your skin until you’re begging.”

My pulse slammed. “Excuse me—who is this?”

A chuckle. Slow, hungry. “You don’t know me. Not yet. But I know you. I know how you lick buttercream off your finger when you think no one’s looking. I know your husband hasn’t touched you in weeks. Not only that, but I know you lie awake, wondering if you’re still worth wanting.”

Heat burned my cheeks — fury, shame, something darker I didn’t want to name.

“You’re disgusting,” I snapped.

“Disgusting?” His voice dropped, rougher now, sharper. “No, sweetheart. Honest. Your husband is fucking someone else. Everybody knows. Everyone but you. But me? I don’t just want your body. I want every crumb of you. Every smile, every lie, every piece you hide from them. You’re mine already. You just haven’t admitted it yet.”

Click.

The line went dead, but my body didn’t. My hands shook. My breath refused to settle.

And when Dean came home later — collar creased, tie crooked, Ava at his side with that too-perfect clipboard smile — I didn’t just see a husband. I saw a suspect.

Ava too. And the kids. And Clementine, my “friend” with her diamond laugh that cuts sharper than glass. Hell, even the baker I trained, who glares at me during interviews. Any one of them could be behind that voice.

Because the caller wasn’t just filthy. He was obsessed. He knew me. Watched me. Wanted me.

And worst of all? For one traitorous, terrifying second… I wanted him back.

The line went dead, but my body didn’t. My hands shook. My breath refused to settle.

And when Dean came home later — collar creased, tie crooked, Ava at his side with that too-perfect clipboard smile — I didn’t just see a husband. I saw a suspect.

Ava too. And the kids. And Clementine, my “friend” with her diamond laugh that cuts sharper than glass. Any one of them could be behind that voice.

But here’s the part I can’t stop replaying: the tone. The cadence. The slow, amused way he said my name, “Myra Bailey.”

It was familiar. Not the words — the voice. Like something I’d heard before, late at night, on a movie screen, curled under a blanket. A voice millions of women had swooned over. A voice I’d once called dangerous.

And for one traitorous, terrifying second, I thought: Gavin Stark.

No. Impossible. Why would a man like him know my name, my secrets, my husband’s sins?

***

The voice clung to me like sugar on my skin — sticky, shameful, impossible to scrub off. I could still hear it, low and dark, purring my name like it belonged to him.

And maybe that’s why I did what I did next.

Because if a stranger could make me feel that raw with just a phone call, then I had to prove — to myself, to Dean, to the goddamn walls of this house — that my body wasn’t for anyone else. That I could still turn him on, still be the wife worth keeping.

So when Dean finally came upstairs, jaw tight from “meetings” and shirt still creased where it shouldn’t be, I didn’t wait. I didn’t smile sweetly or play the obedient wife. I stalked toward him, heels clicking, grabbed his tie, and kissed him like I wanted to erase every word that stranger had whispered in my ear.

At first, he froze. Then his hand curved against my hip, a flicker of hunger sparking — finally. For once, he was mine again.

I pushed him toward the bed, silk sheets waiting like an audience, and before he could crack another criticism, I whispered, “Let me show you.”

I reached for the drawer. Pulled out the cuffs he’d given me once as a joke, back when he still bothered to laugh with me. I dangled them between us, my lips grazing his ear. “Tie me up, Dean. Or I’ll tie you.”

For a moment — God, for one glorious moment — I saw it in his eyes. The spark. The hunger. His hand tightened on my wrist, his mouth finally crashing against mine. I thought: Yes. I’ve got him. He’s mine again.

And then his phone buzzed.

Dean pulled back, breathing hard, eyes already darting toward the glowing screen on the nightstand.

“Don’t,” I whispered, nails curling into his shirt. “Not now.”

He glanced at the caller ID. His whole body shifted. The heat, the hunger — gone, like it had never existed.

“It’s the studio,” he muttered, already reaching. “They need my final approval tonight. This deal is eight figures, Myra.”

Eight figures. Always numbers. Always business. Always someone else who mattered more.

I held the cuffs in my hand like an idiot, silk sheets around me, perfume clinging to the air, and watched my husband button his jacket back up like we hadn’t just been about to set the bed on fire.

“I’ll be back before midnight,” he said, tucking his phone into his pocket, not even meeting my eyes. “Don’t wait up.”

And then he was gone.

The door clicked shut. The silence howled.

I lay back on the bed, the cuffs still in my hand, and for the first time, I wondered if the stranger’s voice was right.

Maybe I wasn’t Dean’s wife anymore. Maybe I was just a brand, a trophy, a distraction.

And maybe the only man who saw me now was the one I shouldn’t trust at all.

The one who wanted me in ways Dean never would.