The Secret Wife Of Hollywood's Monk

Soho House was the living room of the Hollywood elite. It smelled of expensive cologne, truffle fries, and desperation.

Kennedy Gilmore loved it.

She sat at the best table on the patio, sipping a kale smoothie. She saw Darius Clark sitting three tables away, looking over a script.

She checked her makeup in her compact mirror-perfect-and stood up.

"Darius!" she exclaimed, feigning surprise as she walked by his table. "I didn't know you were in town!"

Darius looked up, his smile polite but tight. "Kennedy. Good to see you."

"I heard you're casting for Blue Note," she said, sliding uninvited into the chair opposite him. "You know, I played piano for six years. I feel like this script was written for me."

"We're still in early talks," Darius said evasively, glancing at the entrance.

"Well, you need someone with a clean image," Kennedy lowered her voice, leaning in. "Especially after what happened with poor Holt. Can you believe that girl? Ivy? Violating him like that?"

Darius's expression shifted. He looked uncomfortable.

"Actually," Darius started, "I don't think-"

The restaurant went silent.

It was a specific kind of silence that only happened when an A-lister walked in.

Kennedy turned.

Holt Nicholson was walking through the patio doors. He was wearing a charcoal suit, no tie. He looked like a storm cloud in human form.

Kennedy's heart leaped. This was it. A photo op. Her and Holt, united against the predator.

She stood up, flashing her brightest, most sympathetic smile.

"Holt!" she called out, loud enough for the paparazzi on the street below to hear.

Holt didn't even blink. He walked straight past her, towards Darius.

"You left the file in my car," Holt said, dropping a manila folder onto Darius's table.

Kennedy froze, her hand half-extended. The snub was brutal.

But she recovered quickly. She stepped closer, invading his space.

"Holt," she said, her voice dripping with concern. "I just wanted to say how sorry I am. About the gala. What Ivy did to you was disgusting. I'm so glad you're okay."

Holt turned to her. Slowly.

He looked at her like she was a stain on his lapel.

"Miss Gilmore," he said. His voice was low, but it carried across the silent terrace.

"We worked together on Summer Cicada," Kennedy said, her smile faltering. "I just... I wanted to support you."

"I don't need support," Holt said. "And I don't appreciate strangers discussing my private affairs."

"Strangers?" Kennedy laughed nervously. "We're colleagues. And Ivy is-"

"Ivy," Holt interrupted, his voice turning to ice, "is family."

The word hung in the air.

Kennedy's mouth fell open. "Family?"

"Yes," Holt said. "So I would suggest you stop tweeting about her. It's becoming... tedious."

He turned back to Darius, nodding once, and then walked away.

As he turned, he reached up to adjust his sunglasses. His suit sleeve slipped down his wrist.

Kennedy saw it.

For just a fraction of a second, before he pulled his cuff down with a smooth, practiced motion, she saw a flash of pink against his tanned skin.

It was cheap. It was fuzzy. It was a pink velvet scrunchie, the kind a teenage girl would wear. Or Ivy Snow.

Kennedy stared at the spot where it had been as he walked away.

Family?

No. Men like Holt Nicholson didn't wear their cousin's hair ties.

Her humiliation turned into something colder, sharper.

They're lying.