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The Secret Wife Of Hollywood's Monk
img img The Secret Wife Of Hollywood's Monk img Chapter 6 6
6 Chapters
Chapter 10 10 img
Chapter 11 11 img
Chapter 12 12 img
Chapter 13 13 img
Chapter 14 14 img
Chapter 15 15 img
Chapter 16 16 img
Chapter 17 17 img
Chapter 18 18 img
Chapter 19 19 img
Chapter 20 20 img
Chapter 21 21 img
Chapter 22 22 img
Chapter 23 23 img
Chapter 24 24 img
Chapter 25 25 img
Chapter 26 26 img
Chapter 27 27 img
Chapter 28 28 img
Chapter 29 29 img
Chapter 30 30 img
Chapter 31 31 img
Chapter 32 32 img
Chapter 33 33 img
Chapter 34 34 img
Chapter 35 35 img
Chapter 36 36 img
Chapter 37 37 img
Chapter 38 38 img
Chapter 39 39 img
Chapter 40 40 img
Chapter 41 41 img
Chapter 42 42 img
Chapter 43 43 img
Chapter 44 44 img
Chapter 45 45 img
Chapter 46 46 img
Chapter 47 47 img
Chapter 48 48 img
Chapter 49 49 img
Chapter 50 50 img
Chapter 51 51 img
Chapter 52 52 img
Chapter 53 53 img
Chapter 54 54 img
Chapter 55 55 img
Chapter 56 56 img
Chapter 57 57 img
Chapter 58 58 img
Chapter 59 59 img
Chapter 60 60 img
Chapter 61 61 img
Chapter 62 62 img
Chapter 63 63 img
Chapter 64 64 img
Chapter 65 65 img
Chapter 66 66 img
Chapter 67 67 img
Chapter 68 68 img
Chapter 69 69 img
Chapter 70 70 img
Chapter 71 71 img
Chapter 72 72 img
Chapter 73 73 img
Chapter 74 74 img
Chapter 75 75 img
Chapter 76 76 img
Chapter 77 77 img
Chapter 78 78 img
Chapter 79 79 img
Chapter 80 80 img
Chapter 81 81 img
Chapter 82 82 img
Chapter 83 83 img
Chapter 84 84 img
Chapter 85 85 img
Chapter 86 86 img
Chapter 87 87 img
Chapter 88 88 img
Chapter 89 89 img
Chapter 90 90 img
Chapter 91 91 img
Chapter 92 92 img
Chapter 93 93 img
Chapter 94 94 img
Chapter 95 95 img
Chapter 96 96 img
Chapter 97 97 img
Chapter 98 98 img
Chapter 99 99 img
Chapter 100 100 img
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Chapter 6 6

The Fortress lived up to its name. It was a sprawling brutalist structure of concrete and glass, perched on a cliff in Beverly Hills, inaccessible to anyone without a retinal scan or a helicopter.

In the main study, a room with ceilings high enough to fly a kite in, Holt Nicholson stood by the window, looking out at the smoggy haze of Los Angeles.

He wore a simple black t-shirt and grey sweatpants. He held a glass of whiskey he hadn't touched in twenty minutes.

"You're not listening to me," Darius Clark said from the leather armchair behind him.

Holt turned slowly. "I heard you, Darius. Jazz pianist. Tortured genius. Redemption arc. It sounds like everything I've done for the last five years."

"But this is different!" Darius insisted, waving the script. "This is raw! I need someone who can convey silence. And nobody does silence like you."

Holt walked to his desk. It was a massive slab of obsidian. On the corner, sitting atop a stack of leather-bound books, was a small, incongruous object.

A pink velvet scrunchie.

Darius's eyes followed Holt's movement. He blinked.

"Is that..." Darius squinted. "Is that a hair tie?"

Holt's hand moved casually, covering the object. "It's nothing."

Darius grinned, leaning forward. "The Monk has a secret? Who is she? A model? A princess?"

"Drop it," Holt said. The temperature in the room dropped ten degrees.

Darius held up his hands in surrender. "Okay, okay. Touchy. Speaking of women... your cousin?"

Holt's jaw tightened. He didn't look at Darius. He looked at his hand, covering the pink velvet.

"What about her?" Holt asked, his voice neutral.

"Ivy Snow," Darius said. "Her agent called. Said you guys are family. Is it true? Because if it is, it makes my life easier. I want to audition her, but the studio is freaking out about the 'sexual assault' angle."

Holt was silent.

He thought of the text message on his encrypted phone. Please. It's the only script that keeps me employed.

He thought of the red carpet. The way she had crashed into him. The way her body felt-soft, trembling, smelling of vanilla and terror. He had caught her. He had wanted to pull her closer, to shield her from the cameras. Instead, he had frozen, terrified that if he moved, he would give everything away.

He had loved her for three years. From a distance. Through a contract. Through silence.

And now she was claiming to be his cousin.

It was absurd. It was insulting.

And it was the only way to save her.

"Family," Holt said slowly, testing the word. "Family relations are... complex, Darius."

Darius's eyes lit up. "That's not a no! Ha! I knew it! It explains the lack of a restraining order."

"She's talented," Holt said abruptly.

Darius paused. "You've seen her act?"

"I've seen her... prepare," Holt lied smoothly. "She works hard. She's not a prop."

"High praise coming from you," Darius mused. "Alright. I'll see her. If she's your cousin, I trust the bloodline."

Darius stood up to leave. "Think about the script, Holt. Please."

"I'm taking a break," Holt said. "I have... family matters to attend to."

When the heavy oak door clicked shut, Holt lifted his hand.

The pink scrunchie sat there.

He picked it up, stretching the elastic between his fingers. He brought it to his face, inhaling deeply. The scent was faint now, fading after six months, but it was still there.

Ivy.

The door opened again. Erich walked in, holding a tablet.

"Sir. Kennedy Gilmore is tweeting again. She's insinuating that Mrs. Nicholson is a predator."

Holt lowered the scrunchie, his eyes hardening into flint.

"Kennedy is loud," Holt said quietly. "Too loud."

"Shall we release a statement?"

"No," Holt said. He slipped the scrunchie onto his wrist. It looked ridiculous against his thick forearm and the platinum Rolex. He pulled his sleeve down to cover it.

"Let the cousin rumor run," Holt commanded. "And tell PR to seed a story about 'misunderstandings' and 'awkward family greetings.' Make it wholesome. Make Ivy look clumsy, not malicious."

"And Kennedy?" Erich asked.

Holt walked back to the window.

"If she crosses the line again," Holt said, "burn her."

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