Naomi had always hated hospitals.

Too white. Too quiet. Too honest.

Hollywood survived on illusion. Hospitals didn’t.

They stripped illusion away in minutes.

By noon, three nurses had already recognized her.

One asked for a selfie.

One looked away too quickly, pretending not to stare.

The third didn’t bother pretending at all.

“That’s the actress from the missing producer thing,” she whispered outside the room.

Not “woman recovering.”

Not “patient.”

Just scandal.

Naomi sat stiffly in the hospital bed, staring at the blanket like it could hold her in place.

Outside the window, the world refused to pause.

Paparazzi cameras flashed nonstop beyond barricades.

News vans lined the street.

A livestream somewhere across the road showed a girl analyzing her “psychopath eyes” in real time.

Everything was content now.

Even her.

Elias stood near the window, scrolling through his phone.

Black hoodie. Messy hair. Camera bag slung over one shoulder.

Even exhausted, he looked composed.

Annoyingly so.

Naomi had met him two years ago on a luxury campaign shoot, back when she was still surviving on cheap food, caffeine, and constant auditions.

Everyone on set had treated her like she was temporary.

Except Elias.

That had irritated her at first.

Most people in Hollywood fell into patterns:
they wanted something,
feared something,
or performed kindness like strategy.

Elias did none of that.

He barely spoke during shoots.

Just observed quietly. Adjusted lighting. Noticed things others ignored.

“You tense your shoulders before the shutter clicks.”

“You’re exhausted.”

No charm. No performance.

Just observation.

At first, Naomi thought he was arrogant.

Then she realized he simply hated fake people.

Which meant he hated most of the industry.

Now he was one of the most respected visual directors in Los Angeles.

Studios fought for him. Artists wanted him. Celebrities trusted him because he somehow made them look human instead of manufactured.

And unlike most powerful men in Hollywood—

he never made Naomi feel hunted.

Elias’ expression shifted suddenly as he looked at his phone.

Naomi noticed immediately.

“What happened?”

He looked up slowly.

“Someone leaked your hospital admission.”

Naomi let out a short, tired laugh.

“Wow. Privacy violation in Los Angeles? Shocking.”

“I’m serious.”

“So am I.”

He locked the screen.

“The hospital only informed authorized contacts.”

Her stomach tightened slightly.

“So someone close to this is leaking information.”

Silence settled between them.

Naomi stared down at the blanket covering her legs.

Soft gray cashmere.

Even hospital linens in Hollywood felt expensive.

“How many people knew I was here?”

“Marcus. Zara. Me. Hospital staff.”

Naomi exhaled slowly.

She trusted Zara.

At least, she thought she did.

Marcus, on the other hand, would leak his own secrets if it protected a production budget.

Outside, camera flashes erupted again.

Waiting.

Watching.

Like vultures circling something not fully dead yet.

Naomi flexed her numb fingers beneath the blanket.

The tingling hadn’t gone away.

It came and went in waves, like her body was forgetting how to communicate with itself.

MS.

The word returned again.

Multiple sclerosis.

Chronic. Unpredictable. Permanent.

She looked at her hands.

Hands that had been photographed. Styled. Insured for shoots.

What happens when those hands stop working properly?

Hollywood replaced women for less than that.

Elias finally sat beside her bed.

Close enough that she could smell coffee and faint cigarette smoke on his hoodie.

“You should rest.”

“I’m not tired.”

“You passed out in a nightclub bathroom twelve hours ago.”

“Very glamorous of me.”

“That scared me.”

The words landed gently.

Which somehow made them heavier.

Naomi looked away immediately.

Nobody said things like that to her anymore.

Not honestly.

Concern in her world usually came with contracts, damage control, or financial panic.

Everything else was performance.

Her voice dropped lower.

“If this diagnosis gets out…”

She couldn’t finish.

Elias did.

“You think they’ll replace you.”

Not a question.

A statement.

Naomi studied him.

“I worked too hard for this,” she whispered.

Something shifted in his expression.

Not pity.

Something quieter.

More grounded.

“You are not valuable because cameras like your face.”

The words hit harder than she expected.

Because nobody in her world said things like that and meant them.

She looked at him for a moment too long.

Elias noticed.

Of course he did.

His gaze flicked away slightly before returning to neutral.

Then—

Naomi’s phone vibrated violently on the bedside table.

Unknown number.

Again.

Cold spread through her instantly.

Elias picked it up before she could react.

A video file sat on the screen.

No message.

No explanation.

Just an attachment waiting to be opened.

Naomi’s pulse spiked.

And somehow—

before they even played it—

she already knew.

It had something to do with Room 814.