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“Apparently, you do now. That’s Vanessa Howard. As inWife of Frank Howard.”

The name lands like a bomb.

Frank Howard. Billionaire mogul. Executive producer on half the blockbusters I’ve starred in. Including the Oscar-bait filmI’m currently shooting. He’s got more influence in Hollywood than the Academy itself.

“Seriously?” I ask, my stomach dropping. “That was his wife?”

Nova glares. “You’ve met Frank a dozen times, Jack. How do you not know what his wife looks like?”

“I’ve met Frank a handful of times at industry parties. We’ve shaken hands at premieres, but he doesn’t bring his wife to those things. I wouldn’t recognize his wife if she danced on my bar in neon lights.” I run a hand through my hair. “She said her name was Yvette, you know, not my fault.”

“No, Jack. I don’t know. And neither do the producers who just lost their funding because of this stunt.”

That gets me.

“Wait—he pulled out?”

Nova gives a slow, deliberate nod. “Every penny. Effective immediately. And the producers are seriously debating whether to drop you as lead. Congratulations. This is officially your biggest scandal yet.”

I sit on the edge of the couch, suddenly colder than I was a second ago.

“They can’t just fire me,” I say, but the words are hollow.

“They can. And they might,” Nova snaps. “They’re already talking about recasting. You’ve become a liability.”

I stare at the marble floor, letting the weight of it settle. Losing this role would be a PR nightmare. But more than that—it’s the first script I’ve read in years that actually meant something. Achance to prove I can act. Not just flash a smile and make women swoon. Something real.

And I blew it.

“All right,” I mutter. “What now?”

Nova exhales, some of the fury leaving her. “Lay low. Stay off social media. Don’t say a word to the press. I’ll figure something out.”

She turns on her heel and storms out, heels clicking like gunshots.

The silence that follows is deafening.

Brody clears his throat. “Should I, uh… wake her?”

I wave him off. “No. That’ll be rude. Let her sleep. When she’s up, have Pete drive her home.”

“Okay.”

“Where’s Urus?” I ask as Brody starts to leave. Urus has been my bodyguard for seven years now, and I don’t leave the house without him.

“Somewhere around the house,” Brody answers. “I ran into him on my way up earlier.”

“Tell him to get the car ready.” I head toward the bathroom. “I need to clear my head.”

“Copy that.”

There’s only one person I can stand being around right now, and that’s my best friend, Harry.

Harry’s bar is hidden behind a sushi restaurant in West Hollywood, marked only by a red door and a smiley face sticker. No paparazzi, no influencers—just dim lights, leather booths, and whiskey that tastes like sin.

He’s already behind the bar when I walk in.

“You’re late,” he says without looking up.