Ethan dragged me into his East Coast talent empire's gleaming fortress.

My heels clacked on polished tiles, every employee's stare burning like a spotlight.

No shock there—this Blackwood heir's face has topped People's "Hottest One-Night Stand" list three years running.

I halted, eyes glued to the giant poster.

Lucas Gray's world tour blasts off tonight.

Original plot flashed: Ethan's destined love's a rising star, Amber Collins.

I elbowed him, smirking. 

"Your future fiancée's about to strut her stuff."

He punched the button for his private elevator, brow creasing.

"Future what?"

"Emma Sullivan's obsessed with Lucas Gray," I whispered, piecing it together.

"Alexander's locking her on that island to stop her fangirling. 

But the twist? 

Lucas's backup dancer's your soulmate—about to barge in begging you to bench her."

He yanked off his gold-rimmed glasses, pinching his nose. 

"Sophie, you're louder than a CNN breaking news alert."

I grinned, unfazed. 

Wait for it, buddy.

The elevator dinged open. 

A scream ripped down the hall—someone sprinting straight for us.

They crashed into Ethan, clinging to his suit pants like a lifeline.

"Chill," I said, steadying his stiff shoulders.

 "Told you—scripted chaos."

Then I froze. 

Not some leggy dancer babe—just a sweaty guy in a gaudy Elvis wig, wailing, "Mr. Blackwood, they jacked my idea!"

Security yanked him away, that gaudy wig flapping like a dead bird.

I shot Ethan a sheepish glance, dry-laughing.

"Oops. Guess I flubbed that one."

He grabbed my arm, shoving me into the elevator, pinning me to the corner.

"Seriously?" he hissed, leaning close, woody cologne flooding my lungs. 

"You're scripting my wedding now?"

His breath grazed my ear, hot and sharp. 

I swallowed, faking cool.

"Seven years old—you nearly froze to death. 

Neighbor girl shared her blanket, saved your ass. Ring any bells?"

"Name," he snapped, smirking, one hand braced on the wall.

"Amber Collins!" I blurted, chin up.

He exhaled, scorching my ear.

"Next you'll say I'm marrying her, huh?"

I nodded hard. 

Book says you do, dude.

The doors slid open. 

James, his butler, caught me shoving Ethan back—awkward as hell.

"Young master," James coughed, straightening. 

"Mr. King called. 

He knows the Massachusetts island's yours."

Ethan nodded, striding out. 

I grabbed James's sleeve, whispering.

"Did your boss ever live in some podunk town as a kid?"

He fixed his cufflinks, deadpan. 

"Blackwood's settled Hampton in '32."

I grit my teeth. 

Damn rich jerks!

***

My phone buzzed.

Alexander's text: a pic of him and a pissed-off Emma on the island, wrecked jet ski in the back. 

"She loves it here. Thx."

I rolled my eyes. 

Island trap worked—time to bleed him drier.

Ethan popped up behind me, sweat on his brow, voice rough. 

"Sophie, you talk too much."

I ignored him, tapping the glass, plotting my next cash grab.

A ragged gasp hit my ears. 

I spun—Ethan's face was ghost-white, clutching a calculus sheet, swaying like he'd collapse.

"Stop..." he croaked, lips trembling, barely audible.

"You high or something?" 

I rushed over, fumbling to grab the paper as he slumped onto the sofa.

His voice rasped like a dying vampire. 

"Solve it..."

I pried the sheet free, frowning. 

"What, this fixes your heart attack?"

He crashed his forehead into my shoulder, breath scorching. 

"Just... quiet."

That woody scent drowned me again—too close, too familiar.

Like a memory I couldn't pin.

Or a trap I couldn't dodge.