The Secret Wife Of Hollywood's Monk

The house was silent. It was always silent.

It was a masterpiece of modern architecture-concrete, glass, steel. Cold. Impersonal.

Ivy parked the Toyota next to his fleet of black cars-a Range Rover, a Porsche, a Tesla. Her car looked like a piece of trash that had blown onto the driveway.

Mrs. Higgins, the housekeeper who had been with the Nicholson family since Holt was a boy, opened the front door before Ivy could knock.

"Mrs. Nicholson," she said, her face breaking into a warm smile. "We saw you on the news. Are you alright?"

"I'm fine, Higgins. Thank you." Ivy stepped into the foyer. It smelled of cedar and unscented wax. "Is... is he home?"

"Mr. Holt stepped out for a meeting," she said. "But he gave instructions that if you arrived, you were to wait for him in his study. Not the guest wing."

"His study?" Ivy blinked. She was never allowed in his study. That was his sanctuary.

"Yes, ma'am. Can I get you some tea?"

"Water is fine."

She bustled away.

Ivy walked slowly down the long, white marble hallway, her footsteps echoing unnervingly. The door to his study was a slab of dark, imposing oak, and it stood slightly ajar. She pushed it open.

The room was cavernous, with a wall of glass overlooking the canyon and floor-to-ceiling bookshelves filled with leather-bound volumes. It smelled of old paper, whiskey, and him.

Ivy stood in the center of the room, feeling like an intruder.

On the massive obsidian desk, there was a stack of scripts.

She shouldn't look.

She stepped closer.

The top script was Blue Note. The one she was auditioning for.

It was open.

Holt had been reading it.

Curiosity got the better of her. She leaned over.

The pages were covered in notes. Holt's handwriting was sharp, angular, almost illegible. He dissected every line, every beat.

But it wasn't the lead male role he was annotating.

It was the female lead. Elena.

In the margins of a monologue-Elena's breakdown scene-he had written notes in red ink.

She needs to break here. Not cry. Shatter.

The silence is louder than the scream.

And then, next to the character description: Elena: Fragile but unbreakable.

He had circled the word Fragile.

And right next to it, in small letters, he had written: Ivy.

Ivy's breath caught in her throat.

He wasn't just reading it. He was thinking of her for the role.

Ivy.

Not "Cousin." Not "Her." Just Ivy.

Why?

Was he studying her? Mocking her? Or...

Click.

The sound of the front door unlocking echoed through the house.

Heavy footsteps on the marble floor.

Ivy jumped back from the desk, her heart slamming into her throat.

He was here.