The sun sliced across the white duvet at a sharp l angle. Lizanne reached for the left side of the bed, her hand meeting nothing but flat, cold linen. She stayed there for a moment, pinned to her side, staring at the empty pillow. Usually, Trina’s side of the bed carried a hint of sandalwood and late-night cigarettes; today, it just smelled of clean sheets, as the maid had just changed them the day before.
The clock read 7:12 AM.
The kitchen marble was like ice under her bare feet. She moved through the morning ritual on autopilot—filling the reservoir, the violent scream of the bean grinder—anything to puncture the stillness of the house. While the machine hummed, she pulled her phone from her robe pocket.
You didn’t come home. Everything okay at the studio?
TheDeliveredstamp appeared instantly, but the silence on the other end remained. She watched the espresso drip into a white ceramic cup, telling herself it was the usual pattern: Trina catching a melody, Trina hiding in the booth until dawn, Trina sleeping on the velvet lounge sofa to avoid the canyon roads in the dark.
At 8:30 AM, the intercom’s aggressive buzz shattered the quiet.
“Yes, Mel,” she said, pressing the button.
“Miss Connors.” Her security guard’s voice was leveled by years of professional training. “You need to look at the gate cameras. Now.”
She crossed to the foyer, her pulse ticking in her throat. One tap on the security panel and the world rushed in: a swarm of thirty people, long-lenses angled like weapons, and two news vans choking the driveway.
“How long?” Lizanne asked.
“Ten minutes. It’s growing. I’ve called for back-up.”
“Why are they here?”
“I don’t have that yet,” Mel said. “I’ll update you.”
She retreated to the kitchen, her fingers already dialing Pat. The call connected before the first ring finished.
“Don’t go online,” Pat’s voice was a sharp warning over a rush of wind and road noise. “I’m in the car, ten minutes out. Do not look at your phone, Lizanne. Do not touch social media.”
“Pat, there are dozens of people at my gate. What is happening?”
“I am almost there. Stay away from the windows.”
The line went dead. Lizanne stood in the center of her kitchen, the tablet on the charging dock glowing like a landmine. She didn’t go to social media. She went to her news bookmarks, her hands steady even as her stomach dropped.
The photo was at the top. High-resolution. Cruel.
Trina was tucked into a booth at a West Hollywood club, head tilted back in a way Lizanne knew too well. Marcus Lancewas leaning over her, his hand on her thigh. They weren’t talking; they were occupied.
She scrolled down to the video. It was grainy, shaky phone footage. At 3:00 AM, the two of them stumbled out of a side exit, Trina unsteady on her feet, Marcus’s arm clamped around her waist to keep her upright.
“Trina! What about the wedding? What about Lizanne?”a voice barked from behind the lens.
Trina stopped. She looked directly into the camera with unfocused eyes and a small, crooked smile that made Lizanne’s blood turn to lead.
“Wedding?” Trina asked.
Marcus laughed, hauling her into the back of a black SUV. The door slammed, and the screen went black.
Lizanne didn’t realize she was on the floor until the cold of the marble finally seeped through her silk robe. She watched it again.“Wedding?”As if the wedding were a piece of trivia she’d forgotten. As if Lizanne were a stranger.
The headlines underneath were a blur of rumors—allegations that the affair had started eight months ago. At a birthday party Rose had arranged. A party they had attended as a couple. A party planned by Rose.
The front door heavy-thumped shut. Pat didn’t use the intercom; she burst in with her own key, finding Lizanne slumped against the kitchen island. Pat didn’t offer platitudes. She just sat on a barstool and took a deep breath.
“It hit the blogs at midnight,” Pat said after a long silence. “The mainstream sites picked it up an hour ago.”
“She said ‘wedding, as if she was unfamiliar with the concept,’” Lizanne whispered, wiping a stray tear with the back of her hand.
