The Secret Wife Of Hollywood's Monk

The minutes stretched into hours.

The sun began to set, casting long, orange shadows across Ivy's living room floor. Alex had left to "spin the narrative" with some friendly bloggers. Kia had gone home, looking exhausted.

Ivy was alone with her phone.

Every vibration made her jump. Every email notification stopped her heart.

But there was nothing from him.

Why would there be? Holt Nicholson didn't text. He probably had Erich read his messages and summarize them in a weekly briefing.

Ivy walked to the window, peering through the blinds. The paparazzi were still there, eating takeout on the hoods of their cars. They were waiting for the kill.

Her mind drifted back to the last time she saw Holt in a non-business setting.

Six months ago. She was staying in the East Wing of his Beverly Hills estate-The Fortress. Her apartment had a termite infestation, and the trust lawyers had insisted she stay at one of the "marital properties" for liability reasons.

She had walked into the main kitchen at 2 AM for water.

He was there.

He was wearing nothing but a low-slung towel. His skin was damp, his hair dark and wet, falling over his forehead.

Ivy had frozen. She had never seen him like that. On screen, yes. But in person? He was... overwhelming. The sheer scale of him, the definition of muscle, the scars she didn't know he had.

He had looked at her, holding a glass of water. He didn't cover up. He didn't apologize.

"Insomnia?" he had asked. His voice was rough with sleep.

"Yes," Ivy had squeaked.

She had turned to leave, and the scrunchie on her wrist-a cheap, pink velvet thing-had snapped and flown across the room, landing near his bare foot.

Ivy was mortified. She went to pick it up, but he beat her to it.

He held the pink scrunchie in his large hand. It looked ridiculous.

"It's... mine," Ivy said.

He brought it up to his face. He didn't sniff it, not explicitly, but he held it close to his nose.

"Vanilla," he said. "And... citrus?"

"Shampoo," Ivy whispered.

He looked at her then, his eyes traveling from her bare feet to her messy bun. For a second, just a second, the air in the kitchen felt charged, heavy with static.

"Go to sleep, Ivy," he had said, tossing the scrunchie back to her.

He turned and walked away. The interaction had lasted two minutes. Ivy had replayed it a thousand times.

Buzz.

The phone in her hand vibrated, snapping her back to the present.

She looked down.

Landlord

Her breath hitched.

She unlocked the screen with trembling fingers.

There were two messages.

Landlord: Cousin?

Ivy's face burned. He was mocking her. Of course he was.

Then the second message.

Landlord: Is this the best script you could come up with, Mrs. Nicholson?

Ivy stared at the words. Mrs. Nicholson.

He never called her that. Only the lawyers did. When he typed it, it felt different. It felt like a taunt. And a claim.

But he hadn't said no. He hadn't said "I'm issuing a denial."

He was playing with her.

Ivy typed back, her fingers clumsy.

It's the only script that keeps me employed. Please.

She watched the three dots appear. They danced for an eternity.

Then they disappeared. No reply.

Ivy sank onto the couch. Silence.

Was that a yes? Or was that the calm before the execution?