The Secret Wife Of Hollywood's Monk

The Fortress lived up to its name. It was a sprawling brutalist structure of concrete and glass, perched on a cliff in Beverly Hills, inaccessible to anyone without a retinal scan or a helicopter.

In the main study, a room with ceilings high enough to fly a kite in, Holt Nicholson stood by the window, looking out at the smoggy haze of Los Angeles.

He wore a simple black t-shirt and grey sweatpants. He held a glass of whiskey he hadn't touched in twenty minutes.

"You're not listening to me," Darius Clark said from the leather armchair behind him.

Holt turned slowly. "I heard you, Darius. Jazz pianist. Tortured genius. Redemption arc. It sounds like everything I've done for the last five years."

"But this is different!" Darius insisted, waving the script. "This is raw! I need someone who can convey silence. And nobody does silence like you."

Holt walked to his desk. It was a massive slab of obsidian. On the corner, sitting atop a stack of leather-bound books, was a small, incongruous object.

A pink velvet scrunchie.

Darius's eyes followed Holt's movement. He blinked.

"Is that..." Darius squinted. "Is that a hair tie?"

Holt's hand moved casually, covering the object. "It's nothing."

Darius grinned, leaning forward. "The Monk has a secret? Who is she? A model? A princess?"

"Drop it," Holt said. The temperature in the room dropped ten degrees.

Darius held up his hands in surrender. "Okay, okay. Touchy. Speaking of women... your cousin?"

Holt's jaw tightened. He didn't look at Darius. He looked at his hand, covering the pink velvet.

"What about her?" Holt asked, his voice neutral.

"Ivy Snow," Darius said. "Her agent called. Said you guys are family. Is it true? Because if it is, it makes my life easier. I want to audition her, but the studio is freaking out about the 'sexual assault' angle."

Holt was silent.

He thought of the text message on his encrypted phone. Please. It's the only script that keeps me employed.

He thought of the red carpet. The way she had crashed into him. The way her body felt-soft, trembling, smelling of vanilla and terror. He had caught her. He had wanted to pull her closer, to shield her from the cameras. Instead, he had frozen, terrified that if he moved, he would give everything away.

He had loved her for three years. From a distance. Through a contract. Through silence.

And now she was claiming to be his cousin.

It was absurd. It was insulting.

And it was the only way to save her.

"Family," Holt said slowly, testing the word. "Family relations are... complex, Darius."

Darius's eyes lit up. "That's not a no! Ha! I knew it! It explains the lack of a restraining order."

"She's talented," Holt said abruptly.

Darius paused. "You've seen her act?"

"I've seen her... prepare," Holt lied smoothly. "She works hard. She's not a prop."

"High praise coming from you," Darius mused. "Alright. I'll see her. If she's your cousin, I trust the bloodline."

Darius stood up to leave. "Think about the script, Holt. Please."

"I'm taking a break," Holt said. "I have... family matters to attend to."

When the heavy oak door clicked shut, Holt lifted his hand.

The pink scrunchie sat there.

He picked it up, stretching the elastic between his fingers. He brought it to his face, inhaling deeply. The scent was faint now, fading after six months, but it was still there.

Ivy.

The door opened again. Erich walked in, holding a tablet.

"Sir. Kennedy Gilmore is tweeting again. She's insinuating that Mrs. Nicholson is a predator."

Holt lowered the scrunchie, his eyes hardening into flint.

"Kennedy is loud," Holt said quietly. "Too loud."

"Shall we release a statement?"

"No," Holt said. He slipped the scrunchie onto his wrist. It looked ridiculous against his thick forearm and the platinum Rolex. He pulled his sleeve down to cover it.

"Let the cousin rumor run," Holt commanded. "And tell PR to seed a story about 'misunderstandings' and 'awkward family greetings.' Make it wholesome. Make Ivy look clumsy, not malicious."

"And Kennedy?" Erich asked.

Holt walked back to the window.

"If she crosses the line again," Holt said, "burn her."