Naomi didn’t sleep.

Not really—not in the way people in Hollywood ever did.

They didn’t sleep so much as they disappeared for a few hours, dissolving themselves into pills, alcohol, and noise until silence stopped feeling like something they had to face.

By morning, Los Angeles looked untouched.

Golden. Clean. Beautiful in a way that felt almost insulting.

Like nothing had broken inside it.

Naomi sat alone in her hotel suite, wrapped in a cashmere blanket she couldn’t feel. The city stretched beyond the glass in soft light, pretending it had not spent the night consuming people.

Her laptop glowed in front of her.

The headlines had multiplied.

ACTRESS LINKED TO PRODUCER DISAPPEARANCE.
HOLLYWOOD STAR AT CENTER OF MYSTERY.
#WHEREISDAMIEN trending worldwide.

She didn’t click any of them.

She didn’t need to.

She already knew what was waiting inside—accusations dressed up as certainty, opinions pretending to be facts, strangers slowly building a version of her she didn’t recognize.

Her phone buzzed again.

She ignored it.

Her fingers still hadn’t stopped tingling. The numbness in her left hand had become constant, like her body was gradually forgetting how to belong to her.

Outside her suite, Zara Kapoor—Naomi’s closest friend and an actress herself—had already put her own work aside. She was on calls with PR teams, controlling leaks, managing damage, trying to hold back a story that was already slipping out of control.

Inside, Naomi was alone with a version of reality that no longer felt stable.

Her phone buzzed again.

This time, she looked at it for longer.

Unknown number.

No name. No comfort.

Just persistence.

Naomi opened her contacts instead.

One name was already there.

Elias Tran

She stared at it. For a moment, she didn’t move at all.

Then she typed:

I need you here.

She hesitated only briefly before sending it.

Delivered.

The screen dimmed.

And something in the room shifted—not visibly, but in a way she felt in her chest. Like a decision had just crossed a line it couldn’t uncross.

**LATER**

A knock came later.

Three sharp taps.

Naomi didn’t move immediately. She already knew it wasn’t Marcus, and it wasn’t security.

When she opened the door, Elias Tran was standing there.

Black hoodie. Camera bag slung over one shoulder. Tired eyes, but steady expression.

Too steady, like he had already stepped into whatever this was.

“You don’t look surprised,” Naomi said quietly.

“I wasn’t far,” he replied, stepping inside without waiting.

The room felt different with him in it. Not safer. Just more real.

“You’re trending in twelve countries,” he added.

Naomi let out a short laugh. “Fantastic. Global career expansion.”

Elias didn’t react. He rarely did. That was the difference between him and everyone else—he didn’t treat chaos like entertainment.

He set his bag down and sat on the edge of the couch.

“Tell me what you remember,” he said.

Naomi exhaled slowly.

At first, there was nothing. Then fragments returned without permission.

Rooftop lights. Music vibrating through bone. Damien’s hand around her wrist—too tight. A hallway that felt longer than it should have. Someone calling her name.

And then—

nothing.

A hard cut. Blank space where memory should have continued.

“I don’t know,” she admitted quietly.

Saying it out loud made something inside her tighten.

Naomi Reyes didn’t usually not know things.

She knew rooms. People. Patterns. Intentions. Control had always been her way of surviving this place.

Elias watched her carefully.

“Did Damien ever make you uncomfortable?”

Naomi let out a dry, humorless breath.

“That question doesn’t narrow it down.”

A pause settled between them.

Then she added, quieter:

“He grabbed my wrist at the rooftop party yesterday. I told him to back off.”

Elias’ expression shifted—subtle, but sharp.

“Did anyone see?”

“Probably,” she said. “Nobody cared.”

That part was easy. That part was always true.

No one stopped anything in this industry unless it threatened the wrong person.

Silence stretched again, heavier this time.

Elias leaned forward slightly. “Naomi.”

She looked at him.

His voice lowered. “You didn’t kill him.”

Something in her almost collapsed at how certain he sounded.

Because she wanted to believe it.

God, she wanted to.

But belief wasn’t evidence.

And none of this explained the blood. Or the gaps. Or the way her own body felt slightly out of sync, like it wasn’t fully hers anymore.

Her phone buzzed violently.

Elias noticed first. “Don’t open it yet.”

But Naomi already had.

One image filled the screen.

Damien Vale.

Alive.

Tied to a chair.

Blood running down the side of his face.

Eyes half open, like he had been interrupted mid-thought.

Under the image, a single line:

Ask yourself what really happened in Room 814.

Naomi’s breath stopped.

Her vision narrowed until the room felt distant.

And then—

for a fraction of a second—

something broke through.

A room. Dim lighting. Her standing still. A voice that wasn’t Damien’s.

“We only need her memory to be incomplete.”

The memory collapsed immediately, like it had been pulled out of her mind by force.

Naomi stumbled back slightly.

Elias was already watching her face.

“What did you see?” he asked.

Her voice came out barely audible.

“I think someone is inside my memory.”

Elias closed his laptop slowly.

For the first time since he arrived, something in his expression shifted.

Not fear exactly.

Something closer to recognition of danger.

“Naomi,” he said quietly.

“Then this isn’t just about Damien anymore.”