SEVEN
RYDER
I flip the red envelope over and over in my hands. Every logical instinct says to toss it. No writing, no stamp—whoever slipped this in did it by hand. Right under our noses.
It’s not the first time my stalker’s managed to get a message through. But I’m determined to make it the last.
Sending Eve to grab lunch served two purposes: one, the girl needs to eat. And two, I want her as far away from this as possible. Whatever this is, it’s mine to handle.
I’ve been receiving strange messages from this obsessed mystery sender for a while now.
With my level of notoriety in Hollywood, it’s not exactly rare.
There are always diehard fans, the kind who blur the line between admiration and obsession—products of social media and modern celebrity culture. Most are harmless.
They send trinkets, thank-you notes, well-wishes.
But then there are the ones who don’t understand boundaries.
This letter is short, direct. The handwriting is shockingly neat—neater than I’d expect from someone clearly off balance.
We’ll be together forever one day, my love.
That was it.
These little declarations started about a year ago. Since then, I’ve beefed up studio security. I have all my mail screened. But somehow, these red envelopes still find their way to me.
I don’t know the sender’s gender, their age, their motive—nothing. And honestly, I don’t care. I’ve made a choice not to engage.
Any attention I give them—any acknowledgment—is exactly what they want.
So I give them silence.
I haven’t gone to the police. I have no name, no face, nothing concrete to report. A vague unease isn’t something I can file. Now, if they started making threats—that’s different. That’s actionable.
But so far, all I’ve received are warped love letters and random thoughts about sunny skies. I’d be wasting the department’s time reporting these.
So I wait. Either they’ll grow bored and disappear... or cross a line.
Just then, Eve walks into my office, a brown paper bag cradled to her chest. The room immediately fills with the warm, savory scent of garlic, thyme, and something slow-cooked. My stomach growls—but not just from hunger.
She’s not wearing anything revealing. Nothing inappropriate. She’s dressed for function: plain flats, dark slacks, a high ponytail. Professional, practical.
Nothing like her mother.
Annabeth lived in loud colors and statement jewelry, always drawing attention.
Eve’s the opposite—quiet, contained. The kind of girl who doesn’t need flash to turn heads. The kind of girl you’d ruin yourself thinking about.
I clench my jaw, shove the thought away. She’s here to work. I won’t make her job—or this space—uncomfortable.
“Sorry I took so long,” she says, setting the bag down on her desk—the one I gave her, near the door. “Traffic was brutal. Got stuck behind a pack of TikTokers.”
I raise an eyebrow. “Should I even ask?”
“TikTok,” she explains. “It’s an app.”
“I know what TikTok is. I meant, how were you stuck behind them?”
She huffs, digging into the bag. “They were filming dances in the middle of the street. Blocking traffic for likes. It’s wild out there.”
“Menaces to public safety.”
“Couldn’t agree more.” She brings my order over, every item neatly packed with its own utensils.
She doesn’t walk away right away. Instead, she stands there, looking at me like she’s waiting for something.
“Was there something else?” I ask.
“Just wondering if you were going to say thank you. You know, for doing an excellent job.”
“Why would I thank you for doing your job?”
“Because it’s good manners. Sir.”
Sir.
I already regret insisting she call me that. It hits differently coming from her lips. There's something about the way she says it—soft, teasing, dangerous. Plenty of people call me “sir” or “Mr. Vane,” but none of them make it sound like that.
I’m staring. I know I am. I should stop.
“Take your lunch break,” I say, forcing control back into my voice. Back into my body.
She just shrugs and heads to her desk, settling in and unpacking her food. I turn to the half-written email on my screen, trying to finish it, but my eyes keep drifting upward.
She stays busy, tidying her workspace, adjusting the height of her chair, laying out a notebook she clearly brought from home. She eats with her eyes on a thick textbook, chewing methodically, brow furrowed in focus.
And still, I watch her.
I can’t stop myself. “What are you reading?”
Eve quickly shuts the textbook and slips it into the top drawer like it never existed. “Nothing.”
Her deflection should irritate me, but oddly, it doesn’t. I almost push further but let it go.
“So, UCLA?”
She nods. “Yep.”
“You used to go around telling everyone you were dead set on Harvard.”
A small smirk tugs at her lips. “You remember that?” She stabs her fork into her food, more fidget than appetite. “Didn’t exactly work out. I wasn’t smart enough.”
I seriously doubt that.
“But UCLA’s great,” she adds quickly. “I wanted to stay close. Just in case Dad ever... needed anything.” Her voice trails off, and those mesmerizing mismatched eyes turn somber.
“How’s Thomas doing?” I ask, mostly to keep the conversation moving. I don’t actually care. Just making polite small talk.
“He’s fine,” she says with a shrug, tone clipped.
“He still directing?”
“Yep.”
“And your mom? Still acting?”
“I wouldn’t know.”
That catches me off guard. “What do you mean you don’t know?”
She shifts uncomfortably, her gaze glued to a speck on the desk. “We haven’t really talked. Not since the divorce.”
Ah. Sensitive topic.
“Why Stone?” I ask.
She straightens, chin slightly raised, a flicker of pride crossing her face. “I know it’s been a while since Dad’s had a major hit, but his reputation still carries weight. I didn’t want to rely on that. I wanted a fresh start. A fair shot. No favors. I’m here because I want to prove myself, not ride anyone’s coattails. I work for what I get.”
I can’t help but admire that.
Then her desk phone rings. She jumps slightly, scrambling to grab the receiver.
“Um, hi?”
I clear my throat, and she glances at me, catching on.
“Oh—I mean, Ryder Vane’s office. How can I help you?”
I bite back a laugh. At least she’s quick on her feet.
“Yeah, I can transfer you. One second.” She stares at the phone like it’s a foreign object, unsure where to press. I can see the panic flicker across her face, but I don’t blame her. It’s her first day. I promised I’d give her some slack.
I get up and cross the room, taking the phone gently from her hand.
“Talk.”
“Yo, Vane!” Charlie, my director of photography, greets through the line, voice upbeat. “Just wanted to give you a heads-up—we’re all locked in for casting tomorrow. I’ve been working with Azure-Hale.
They’ve pulled a massive list for Juliet. I think once we lock her down, the rest of the casting will fall into place.”
“We holding it at Azure-Hale’s studio?”
“Yup. First audition’s at eight a.m., and it’ll run through to about four.”
“How many candidates?”
“At least a hundred.”
I wince. Azure-Hale always delivers. They’ve got a sharp eye and a deep bench. That’s why I trust them. Still, a hundred reads for the same scene back-to-back? Exhausting. But it’s the price we pay for something new. I meant what I said to Ashton at Sensational—I’m done recycling faces. Juliet has to feel like someone new. Someone real.
I don’t want the audience thinking, Oh look, it’s Katniss again. Or Wasn’t she in that wizard movie?
I want them to see Juliet, and only Juliet.
“Got it. I’ll be there.”
“See you then, boss man.”
I hang up and glance down at Eve. She’s pretending not to watch me but failing miserably. Her hands are folded neatly in her lap, and the soft scent of coconuts and shea butter lingers in the air around her.
I could lean in and kiss her right now if I wanted to. It wouldn’t take much. Just a tilt forward and my mouth would be on hers. The idea is... dangerously tempting.
I could press her gently against the desk, my hands gliding over the length of her back. I’d be careful, of course.
That’s what she said she wanted, someone considerate. Not Mr. Perfect, but Mr. Respectful. Someone who puts her pleasure first, not just his own.
And once I’ve been careful... maybe then I’d get a little reckless.
“Mr. Vane?” Her voice is soft, and it jars me back to reality.
Shit. What the hell am I doing?
I suck in a sharp breath and pivot away, making sure she doesn’t catch sight of the hardening situation in my pants.
“I’ll send you the address for Azure-Hale Casting. Be there by eight tomorrow morning. Don’t be late. You’ll be sitting in with me, taking notes. Bring snacks—it’s going to be a long day.”
“O-okay,” she says, a little flustered. “And for the rest of today?”
“I’ll go easy on you since it’s your first day. Finish your lunch. Sync your phone with my calendar and email. Then keep searching for my Rolex.”
She sighs and rolls her eyes. “Can’t you just buy a new one?” she mutters dryly.
“Not this one.”
“Let me guess. Limited edition?”
“No. A gift. From someone important. It can’t be replaced.”
“Well, maybe you shouldn’t have lost it,” she mutters under her breath.
I raise an eyebrow. “What was that?”
“Nothing! I’ll keep looking,” Eve says quickly.
I have to bite back a grin. Her sass is refreshing.
And I love it.