The email lands in my inbox at 8:03 a.m., like a bullet with a subject line.
URGENT: REED ACCOUNT – FINAL DECISION
My coffee is still too hot, my office still too cold, my pulse already wrong.
I click before I can talk myself out of it.
Harper,
I need your answer on Jackson Reed by noon. Either you take him as a full-time personal client, or Cole & Lane forfeits the buyout. Without the buyout, we’re done inside of three months.
You built this place with me. Don’t let it die out of pride.
Lydia
A second email is attached, forwarded. The original sender is a name that makes most of Hollywood sit up straighter: Victor Hale, studio god, destroyer of careers, savior of box office weekends. I don’t need to open that one to know what it says. He wants the best crisis strategist in town glued to his golden boy’s side.
He wants me.
The irony tastes metallic.
I set the mug down, too hard. Coffee sloshes over the rim, bleeding into a ring on the report I was pretending to read. Some anonymous actor’s DUI, some easily fixable mess. I deal in those. I do not deal in Jackson Reed.
Outside my window, the Hollywood Hills sit smug in the morning haze, all sharp angles and sun-bleached promise. Somewhere behind that view is a mansion with a private screening room and a locked cabinet full of NDAs, and a man whose face I’ve seen a thousand times under studio-perfect lighting.
And once, in the worst possible way.
My phone buzzes. Lydia, of course.
“Tell me you’ve read it,” she says by way of hello.
“I’ve read it.” My voice comes out flat. I press my thumb into the coffee ring until the paper gives.
“And?”
“And nothing’s changed since last night.” I stare at the cursor blinking in the reply box, the empty space where my signature should go. “I’m not taking him.”
Her exhale crackles through the line. “You’re not taking a seven-figure account that single-handedly rescues our agency from insolvency because…?”
Because his silence ruined my sister. Because he’s the poster boy of the machine that chewed her up and spat her into the internet’s black hole.
“Because I don’t handle A-listers,” I say. “You know that.”
“You don’t handle A-listers because you don’t like losing control. This is different.” Lydia’s tone shifts, less boss, more battlefield surgeon. “Victor is offering us a buyout, Harper. Real numbers. No more begging for C-list reality rehab gigs. You do a year with Reed, build the narrative, hold his hand through award season, and then you walk away with enough cash to actually choose your clients.”
“A year.” I let the word hang, heavy. “A year living in that man’s shadow. No.”
“You won’t be living in his shadow. You’ll be holding his leash.”
It’s meant as a joke. It lands like a threat.
“You could have picked anyone,” I mutter.
“They didn’t ask for anyone. They asked for you.” Lydia pauses, and when she speaks again, the armor drops completely. “Harper… we can’t make payroll in six weeks if this doesn’t go through. I’ve mortgaged my house twice. The bank’s done. I am out of tricks.”
I close my eyes. See Ava’s face, the way she used to look in my cluttered apartment, wearing my oversized college sweatshirt, practicing lines in the mirror. Hear the way she stopped answering calls when audition offers stopped coming. The way her voice broke the night she whispered, It’s not even me, Harp. It’s not me and they don’t care.
My jaw tightens. “You know who he is to me.”
“I know who the industry is to you,” Lydia corrects softly. “Jackson Reed is a piece on the board. You’ve spent three years taking their money from the edges. This is your chance to get close to the king.”
Or to burn with him.
“Blackmail isn’t a great management strategy,” I say, but my resistance is a fraying rope.
“Reality is a great management strategy,” she snaps, then sighs. “Look. I wouldn’t ask if there was another way. But there isn’t. You either walk into that meeting at ten, or you start updating your résumé at twelve.”
She hangs up before I can answer. The line goes dead, and for a moment, the only sound in my sunlit, too-white office is the hum of the air conditioner and the faint roar of traffic four floors below.
I stare at my reflection in the glass. Dark hair in a no-nonsense knot. Red lipstick that says don’t test me more than it says glam. Eyes that look older than thirty-two.
“You’re not a victim,” I tell the glass. “You’re the one who spins the narrative.”
I wipe the coffee ring away, open a new email, and type:
I’ll take the meeting. No promises.
—H
Send.
Victor Hale’s building is a steel and glass fortress on Sunset, all mirrored panels and hostile polish. The lobby smells like expensive cologne and fresh orchids, and everyone walking through it has somewhere more important to be.
I know how to move in these places. Head high, heels precise, tablet in hand like a shield. I’ve lied for men more powerful than Victor, smoothed over sins worse than whatever mess Jackson Reed has gotten himself into this time.
But I have never done it with my heart banging like it’s trying to claw out of my chest.
“Harper Lane for Mr. Hale,” I say to the receptionist.
She flicks a glance over me, recognition flashing. “He’s expecting you. Twenty-ninth floor. Conference A.”
The elevator ride is too fast and not fast enough. My pulse thuds in my ears. Every jerk of ascent is a countdown.
You could walk away, a treacherous voice in my head offers. Let the agency go under. Start fresh somewhere else. Somewhere without his face on every bus stop.
But Ava’s career is already ash. I won’t let mine join it.
The conference room is all glass walls and long lines, an aquarium for sharks. Victor Hale stands at the far end, framed by a view of the city. He’s perfectly composed: silver hair, tailored suit, the kind of practiced smile that has reassured investors and terrified executives for twenty years.
He’s not alone.
Derek Stone I recognize from industry gossip: Jackson’s manager, professional vulture. Dark suit a little too tight over gym biceps, watch the size of a small moon. He offers me a slick once-over as I enter, cataloging and ranking.
And then there’s the man seated next to him.
Reality makes high-definition look cheap.
Jackson Reed is dressed down in a charcoal T-shirt and black jeans that probably cost more than my rent. No stylist has touched his hair today; it falls in imperfect waves over his forehead. There’s stubble along his jaw, a hint of shadow under his eyes, like he hasn’t been sleeping much.
I know his face. Everyone does. It’s on posters, billboards, magazine covers. It’s also burned into my memory pixel by pixel, reconstructed a thousand nights from grainy images I wish I could tear out of the internet with my bare hands.
In person, he is annoyingly, devastatingly human.
His gaze lifts as the door closes behind me. Brown eyes, warmer than any promo shot ever captured, lock onto mine.
For a fraction of a second, something like confusion crosses his features. Then the public mask drops over them: easy charm, mild curiosity. The safe version of Jackson Reed.
“Ms. Lane,” Victor says, stepping forward, hand outstretched. “Thank you for coming on such short notice.”
I take his hand. It’s warm, dry, utterly sure of itself.
“You didn’t leave much room to decline,” I say. My tone is polite. My words are not.
He smiles like we’re sharing a private joke. “When one has the chance to work with the best, one is motivated.” He gestures to the table. “Please, sit. Let’s talk about how you’re going to save my star.”
I take the chair directly opposite Jackson, because I refuse to be the one who avoids eye contact. Derek sits to my left, Victor at the head of the table.
There’s a folder in front of me. No name, just the studio logo. I flip it open. Headlines stare up: GRAINY NEW VIDEO ALLEGES REED BAR FIGHT. REED CAUGHT PARTYING AGAIN? SOURCE CLAIMS RELAPSE. Some shots are clearly him; others are ambiguous. A smear campaign in early draft form.
“We’ve got a leak,” Derek says, tapping the pages. “Someone inside the production’s feeding the vultures offcuts. Out-of-context footage, manipulated audio. It’s getting ugly.”
“Nothing we haven’t weathered before,” Victor adds. “But with awards season, the new franchise launch, the…” he pauses, just long enough for the unspoken to thicken the air, “…history, we can’t risk any cracks in the image. We need a full-time handler. On the road, on set, on call.”
Translation: a human shield.
“What are you asking me to do, exactly?” I ask, already knowing.
“Same thing you’ve always done,” Victor says. “Control the story. Redirect. Reframe. You’ll have full access. Schedules, press, social. But all messaging goes through us first.”
“All messaging?” I arch a brow. “Or all truth?”
His smile doesn’t shift, but the room temperature drops a degree. “We craft truth for mass consumption, Ms. Lane. That’s why you’re good at your job.”
“And Reed?” I ask, finally letting my gaze settle on the man whose future—or at least his next year—is apparently being bartered like a sponsorship deal. “What does he think of having a babysitter?”
His mouth curves, just a little. “I prefer ‘warden’,” he says. His voice is lower than I expected, rough around the edges. “Or ‘image therapist.’”
Our eyes meet. There it is—something I recognize, buried under the practiced ease. Exhaustion. A hint of defiance.
I hold his gaze a breath too long. A flicker passes through me, something I don’t have a name for and refuse to examine. Attraction, my survival instincts suggest, horrified.
No. Not here. Not him.
“You don’t get a vote?” I ask him.
There’s the slightest pause before he answers. “I get notes,” he says lightly. “The studio gets votes.”
Victor’s jaw tightens, just once.
“I’ll be frank,” Victor says, turning back to me. “You know more than most about how fragile reputations can be. Jackson is our biggest asset. There are… people who would like to see him fall. You will ensure he doesn’t.”
The words hit like knuckles against bone. You know more than most.
Do you? I want to ask. Do you know how many times I watched that fake do what she never did, just to find the seams? Do you know how many lawyers told us the truth didn’t matter because the court of public opinion had already ruled?
My throat is dry. I pick up the glass of water in front of me, take a controlled sip.
“What about my autonomy?” I ask. “If I see something that needs addressing, do I fix it, or do I ask permission?”
“You advise,” Victor says smoothly. “We approve. Standard practice.”
Standard practice is what killed Ava’s career.
“And if I say no?” I ask.
The silence is brief, but it stretches.
“Then we take the account elsewhere,” Victor says. “And Cole & Lane loses the buyout we’ve so generously offered. I understand your agency is… under strain.”
My spine goes rigid. I feel Derek’s gaze on me, assessing, probably ticking off who leaked what to whom.
Of course Victor knows. Men like him always know where the weaknesses are.
“Seems I’m the only one at this table who doesn’t have a choice,” I say.
Jackson shifts in his seat. “You always have a choice,” he says quietly.
I look at him. Really look.
For a heartbeat, the room falls away. It’s just his face and mine, the air between us thick with things unsaid. Like the way his eyes flicker with recognition—too sharp, too intent. As if he’s asking himself where he’s seen me before.
I think of Ava, of the way people used to tell us we could be twins. Of the night I stood in front of a screen, watching my sister’s stolen image with a man whose face matched the one in front of me now.
I can’t breathe.
He doesn’t know who you are, I remind myself. Not yet.
I drag my attention back to the folder. To the numbers on the back page: retainer, bonuses, buyout terms. It’s an obscene amount of money for one year of my life.
One year in the lion’s den. One year with a front-row seat to the system that destroyed my family.
Or one year close enough to finally see where the bodies are buried.
My heart steadies. Cold replaces the hot rush of panic.
I set the glass down, fold my hands on the table. “I’ll do it,” I say.
Victor nods, satisfied. Derek exhales, tension leaking from his shoulders. Somewhere in the building’s bowels, a finance team probably pops champagne.
“But,” I add.
Victor’s gaze sharpens. “But?”
“I have conditions.” I look at Jackson as I speak, because if I’m signing up to be his handler, he needs to see exactly what that means. “I get final say on his public-facing schedule. No last-minute tabloid-friendly appearances without my sign-off. I have direct access to him at all times—no going through layers of assistants. And if I find out someone on your team is feeding the smear instead of stopping it, I walk. With all my notes.”
Derek bristles. “That’s—”
“Bold,” Victor cuts in, considering. His fingers tap the table, a metronome of power. “You’re asking for a lot of trust.”
“You’re asking me to put my name on his,” I say. “If he goes down, I go with him. That’s more trust than you’re giving me.”
Victor studies me, then looks at Jackson like he’s evaluating a piece of art for hidden flaws. “What do you think?” he asks his star.
Jackson’s mouth lifts at one corner. “I think if she’s willing to deal with my life for a year, we should give her whatever she wants.”
His tone is light, but his gaze on me is anything but. There’s that flicker again, the one that says he’s filing away every word I say for later.
Victor laughs once, low. “Spoken like a man who doesn’t read contracts.” He turns back to me. “Fine. Within reason, you have your conditions. Our legal will loop with yours. In the meantime, you’ll join Jackson at the Sunset Palisades junket this afternoon. Photo call at four, panel at six. Consider it your first day.”
This afternoon.
Of course. They don’t want me to think. They want me to move.
“I’ll need his current media briefings, social logs, and any existing NDAs I’m expected to respect,” I say, rising as the men do. My heels click against the polished floor, absurdly loud. “And I’ll need to speak with him alone.”
Derek’s eyebrows shoot up. “Alone?”
“Yes,” I say evenly. “If I’m responsible for his mouth, we should at least have a conversation without an audience.”
Victor hesitates just long enough to tell me he hates the idea. Then he nods. “You have ten minutes. My assistant will bring you the materials.”
They file out, Derek shooting me a look that promises headaches. The door clicks shut, leaving me and Jackson in a glass box thirty floors above the city.
Silence stretches. The soundproofed walls swallow the outside world.
He leans back in his chair, studying me with open curiosity now. Without the others, some of the polish slips; he looks less like a poster, more like a man.
“So,” he says. “You’re the woman who’s going to save me.”
I let out a soft, humorless huff. “Don’t flatter yourself. I’m here to save my agency.”
He nods slowly, as if I’ve confirmed something. “Harper Lane.” He says my name like he’s tasting it. “I’ve heard of you.”
“Then you know I don’t do miracles,” I say. “I do damage control.”
His gaze lingers on my face, too long, too focused. “You also look… familiar.” He tilts his head, trying to place it. “Have we met before?”
My pulse spikes. Images slam into me: Ava on a red carpet, laughing at something just off-camera. Jackson beside her, hand at the small of her back, the tabloids dubbing them the Next Golden Pair.
That was before the video.
“No,” I say, crisp enough to cut. “We haven’t.”
He doesn’t look convinced. “Huh.” He drums his fingers once on the table. “Well. I’m sure I’d remember if I’d ruined your life personally.”
The room tilts, just a fraction.
He said it like a joke. But his eyes don’t match his tone. There’s a flicker of something there—guilt? Fear? I don’t know. I’m not allowed to know. I only see the surface.
“Trust me,” I say quietly, meeting his gaze head-on. “If you had, you would remember.”
For a heartbeat, the air between us crackles. His expression shifts, something sharp and wary edging in.
There it is—the spark I promised myself I’d never feel around him. Not desire, not yet. Something more dangerous.
Recognition.
He opens his mouth, a question on his tongue, just as there’s a knock at the door. A young assistant steps in, arms full of folders and an iPad.
“Ms. Lane? Mr. Reed? Mr. Hale asked me to give you these and escort you to your cars in ten.”
The moment shatters, scattered like glass across the polished floor.
Jackson glances at the stack between us, then back at me. His easy smile returns, but I’ve seen the crack now.
“Looks like we’re in this together,” he says.
My chest tightens with something that feels a lot like a beginning and a threat, all tangled up.
“Don’t get too comfortable,” I say, taking the files. “You’re not my client yet.”
He arches a brow. “What am I, then?”
I meet his eyes, let myself hold them this time, let the truth I can admit slip through.
“For now?” I say. “You’re a problem I’ve been waiting a long time to solve.”
He smiles slowly, like he hears everything I’m not saying.
And for the first time since Ava’s world burned, I feel the story starting to move in my hands.
