The Secret Wife Of Hollywood's Monk

Ivy wasn't just a D-list actress who groped a movie star.

She was Mrs. Holt Nicholson.

And she had just humiliated the man she'd signed her life away to in front of the entire world.

The vibration of her phone against the wood of the nightstand felt like a drill boring directly into her skull.

She gasped, shooting up in bed, her sheets tangled around her legs like a trap. Her heart was already hammering a frantic rhythm against her ribs, a physical echo of the nightmare she'd just clawed her way out of. But the room wasn't silent. The buzzing continued, relentless, angry.

She grabbed the phone. The screen was bright enough to burn her retinas.

Alex Weber.

Her thumb barely grazed the green icon before Alex's voice exploded into the room, loud enough that she didn't even need to put the phone to her ear.

"Don't go online, Ivy! Do not open Twitter. Do not look at Instagram. Just... God, tell me you're still sleeping."

Ivy's stomach turned over, a cold, heavy stone dropping into a pool of acid. The air in her small West Hollywood apartment suddenly felt too thin.

"Alex?" Her voice was a croak. "What's happening?"

"You're trending," he said, and the way he said it sounded like a death sentence. "Number one. Worldwide. And not for the L'Oreal campaign."

"Alex, you're scaring me."

"I'm scared, Ivy! I'm terrified! Just... promise me you won't look."

He hung up.

The silence that followed was worse than the screaming. It was heavy, pregnant with a disaster Ivy couldn't see yet. Her hands were shaking so badly she almost dropped the phone.

Don't look.

It was the same as telling someone not to think of a pink elephant. Her thumb moved on its own, tapping the blue bird icon.

The feed refreshed.

IvySnowMolester

The air left her lungs in a sharp, painful whoosh.

It was at the top. The very top.

She clicked it, her vision blurring at the edges. The first post was a GIF, looping endlessly. High definition. Slow motion.

It was from last night. The charity gala.

In the loop, Ivy was stumbling. Her heel caught on the red carpet. Her body pitched forward, a blur of silver silk and pale skin. And then, the impact.

She didn't hit the floor. She hit a wall. A wall in a tuxedo.

In the GIF, her hands flew out to break her fall. They landed on Holt Nicholson. Specifically, her fingers splayed wide, grappling for purchase, snagging on the cold metal of his belt buckle before sliding disastrously downward...

The loop reset. She fell. She grabbed. She slid.

But it was Holt's face that made the bile rise in her throat.

He looked rigid. His jaw was locked tight, his eyes dark and cold, looking down at her with an expression that the internet had already dissected and labeled.

Disgust.

Violation.

Discomfort.

Ivy scrambled off the bed, her legs giving way, and barely made it to the bathroom before she retched into the toilet.

Nothing came up but acid and fear. She sat on the cold tile floor, shivering, pressing her forehead against the porcelain.

It wasn't like that.

She closed her eyes, forcing her brain to replay the raw footage of her memory, stripping away the slow-motion commentary of the world.

The carpet had lifted. A loose corner. A physical trap. She had tripped. Gravity did the rest.

And Holt...

She remembered the impact. He was solid, unyielding, like crashing into a statue. But in that split second, before the cameras flashed, she had felt something else.

His hand.

His left hand had shot out, gripping her elbow. Hard. It wasn't a push. It was a steadying grip, a vice that kept her from face-planting onto the floor.

But the GIF didn't show his left hand. His tuxedo jacket blocked the angle. The GIF only showed her, on her knees, her hand tangled at the crotch of the most famous, most elusive, most celibate actor in Hollywood.

Her phone buzzed again. A text from Kia, her assistant.

Ivy, I can't delete them fast enough. The comments on your last post just hit 20,000. They're telling you to kill yourself.

Ivy squeezed her eyes shut, tasting copper. She had bitten her lip too hard.

Ding-dong.

The sound of the doorbell was followed immediately by a fist pounding on wood.

"Ivy! We know you're in there!"

"Look this way, Ivy!"

She crawled out of the bathroom and peeked through the peephole.

Flashes of light assaulted her. They were there. A dozen of them. Lenses the size of cannons pointed directly at her door.

She slid down the door until she hit the floor, pulling her knees to her chest.

Her phone buzzed again. Alex.

Stay inside. Do not go near the windows. Holt's fan base is doxxing you. They're posting your address on 4chan.

Ivy wasn't just in trouble. She was being hunted.

And the hunter wasn't the paparazzi. It was the man she had touched.

Holt Nicholson.

The man who hadn't been linked to a woman in a decade. The man who lived in a fortress. The man who treated Hollywood like a contagion he had to tolerate.

She had defiled the temple.

Ivy looked at her purse, sitting on the entryway table where she'd dropped it last night. Inside the zippered pocket, buried deep, was a small black card made of titanium.

A Centurion card.

It had no limit. It could buy this building. It could buy the silence of everyone outside.

But looking at it didn't make her feel safe. It made the room spin.

Because that card was the only proof that her life was a lie. And if the world found out why she had that card, being called a molester would be the least of her problems.

Alex didn't knock. He had a key, and he used it like a weapon, throwing the door open and slamming it shut behind him before the flashes from the hallway could penetrate the gloom of Ivy's apartment.

He looked like he'd been electrocuted. His hair was standing on end, his shirt half-tucked.

"You," he breathed, pointing a shaking finger at her. "What goes through that head of yours? Hmm? Did you think, 'Hey, there's Holt Nicholson, let me just grab a handful'?"

"It was an accident," Ivy whispered. She was sitting on the couch, wrapped in a blanket, though it was seventy degrees in Los Angeles.

"Accident?" Alex laughed, a high-pitched, hysterical sound. He threw his tablet onto the coffee table. "Tell that to the court of public opinion! They're calling you a predator, Ivy! A thirsty, D-list predator!"

"The carpet was loose," Ivy said, her voice sounding hollow even to her own ears. "I tripped."

"And you landed on his dick?" Alex scrubbed his face with his hands. "His team is going to eat us alive. You know who represents him? Erich Calderon. That man doesn't send cease-and-desist letters; he sends airstrikes."

"He won't sue," Ivy said softly.

Alex stopped pacing. He stared at her. "Oh? You're a legal expert now? You think because it was a 'trip' he won't sue for sexual harassment? He's Holt Nicholson! He protects his image like it's the nuclear codes!"

He won't sue because he can't sue his wife for tripping.

The memory hit her then, unbidden.

Three years ago. A conference room in Century City that smelled of lemon polish and old money.

Ivy was twenty-two, wearing a dress she'd bought at Target. Across the mahogany table sat Holt.

He hadn't looked at her. Not really. He was reading a document thick enough to be a novel.

"The trust merger requires a legal union," his lawyer had explained, as if discussing the acquisition of a warehouse. "Tax code 409A implies significant benefits if the assets are consolidated under a marital umbrella."

Ivy had signed her name. Ivy Snow.

Holt had signed his. The pen scratched loudly in the silence.

Then, he had looked up. His eyes were the color of a stormy sea, dark and unreadable.

"Stay quiet, Mrs. Nicholson," he had said. His voice was low, devoid of any emotion other than mild fatigue. "Live your life. I'll live mine. Just don't make noise."

Don't make noise.

Ivy looked at Alex, who was now hyperventilating. She had made the loudest noise possible.

"We need to get ahead of this," Alex muttered, pacing again. "Apology video. No makeup. Tears. Real tears, Ivy. Can you cry on command? Of course you can't, that's why you didn't get the soap opera gig."

"I'm not doing an apology video," Ivy said, gripping the blanket. "I didn't do anything wrong."

"This isn't about truth!" Alex roared. "It's about survival! Do you want to go back to waiting tables in The Valley? Because that's where you're headed!"

Ivy's phone buzzed in her hand.

She looked down. A text message. No number. Just a sender ID: E.

Stay inside. Do not speak to anyone. Await instructions.

Erich.

Her heart skipped a beat. Await instructions.

Instructions for what? Divorce papers? A public statement disowning her? Or...

She remembered the sensation from last night again. The gala. The moment she fell.

When his hand had gripped her elbow, she had smelled him. Cedar and something sharp, like rain on pavement. And just before she pulled away, his fingers had tightened on her waist. A squeeze.

It wasn't a push. It was... possessive.

Or maybe she was delusional. Maybe she was projecting feelings onto a man who looked at her like a bad investment.

"I need you to think," Alex pleaded, crouching in front of her. "Do you know anyone who knows him? Anyone? A makeup artist? A gaffer? We need a backchannel."

Ivy looked at Alex's desperate face. If she told him the truth-Alex, I'm married to him-he would have a stroke. And then he would tweet it. And then she would be in breach of the NDA she signed, which carried a penalty that would bankrupt her for three lifetimes.

But she couldn't just sit here.

"I..." Ivy licked her dry lips. "I don't know him."

The lie tasted like ash.

"But," she continued, her brain scrambling for a foothold, "I think... I think I can fix this."

"How?" Alex looked at her like she was insane.

"I need to make a call," Ivy said. "Privately."

Alex stood up, throwing his hands in the air. "Fine! Call the Pope for all I care! I'm going to draft a statement where we blame your shoes."

He stormed into the kitchen.

Ivy looked at the text from E again.

Await instructions.

Holt Nicholson didn't handle things for D-list actresses. He erased them.

Unless...

She unlocked her phone and scrolled past the hate comments, past the death threats, to a contact saved simply as "Landlord."

They hadn't spoken in six months. Not since she moved into the "guest wing" of his estate for a week while her apartment was being fumigated-a privilege granted by the contract, not by affection.

She stared at the blinking cursor.

If she reached out, she was breaking the rules. Stay quiet.

But silence was drowning her.

"The L'Oreal deal is dead."

Alex walked back into the living room, his phone pressed to his ear, his face gray. He didn't even look at Ivy as he ended the call. "They said you're 'brand poison.' Their words."

Kia, who was sitting on the floor with her laptop, looked up with tear-filled eyes. "And the web series... the producer just emailed. They're going in a 'different direction.' They said you look too... mature."

"Mature?" Alex let out a sharp, bitter laugh. "That's code for 'we don't want the slut-shaming mob coming after our show.'"

Ivy felt a physical blow to her chest. That web series was supposed to be her break. It was a gritty drama. She had auditioned four times. She had learned to cry on cue for that role.

"Is there anything left?" Ivy asked, her voice trembling.

Alex scrolled through his tablet, his finger jabbing the screen angrily. "Let's see. The teeth whitening ad? Gone. The cameo in the sitcom? Cancelled. Oh, here's one. The audition for Darius Clark's new movie."

Ivy's head snapped up. "The jazz film?"

"Yeah. Blue Note." Alex sighed, tossing the tablet onto the cushion. "Forget it. Kennedy Gilmore is circling the lead. And Darius is an auteur. He cares about 'artistic integrity.' He won't hire a girl who's famous for grabbing crotches."

Kennedy Gilmore.

Ivy's hands curled into fists under the blanket. Kennedy. The "America's Sweetheart." The girl who smiled like a ray of sunshine and whispered poison in the makeup chair. She had sabotaged Ivy's last two callbacks by spreading rumors that she was difficult to work with.

If Kennedy got that role, she would win. And Ivy would be the joke of the industry forever.

"I want that audition," Ivy said.

Alex looked at her with pity. "Ivy, honey. You can't walk into a room with Darius Clark right now. He'll smell the scandal on you."

"Not if we change the narrative," Ivy said. The idea was forming in her head, reckless and stupid, but it was the only raft in this ocean.

"Change it to what? That you have a balance disorder?"

"No." Ivy stood up, the blanket falling to the floor. "That it wasn't sexual."

"The video shows you grabbing his-"

"It shows a familiar intimacy," Ivy interrupted, her heart pounding so hard she thought they could hear it. "It shows... family."

Alex froze. "Family?"

Ivy took a deep breath. This was it. The point of no return.

"I lied before," she said, her voice steadying. "I do know him. Sort of."

Alex's eyes widened. "You do?"

"He's... my cousin," Ivy lied. "Distant. Second cousin, twice removed. On my mother's side."

The room went dead silent. Kia stopped typing.

"Cousin?" Alex whispered the word like a prayer.

"We don't talk about it," Ivy added quickly, building the lie brick by brick. "He hates nepotism. He made me promise never to use his name. That's why I ignored him on the carpet until I fell. And when I fell... I grabbed him because I knew he would catch me. It was instinct. Familial instinct."

Alex stared at Ivy for three seconds. Then, a slow, manic grin spread across his face.

"Oh my god," he breathed. "Oh my god. This is genius."

"It is?"

"It explains everything!" Alex began to pace again, but this time with energy. "The awkwardness! The lack of a lawsuit! The way he didn't push you away immediately! It's not sexual harassment; it's an awkward family reunion! And the Nicholsons are so notoriously private, so old-money reclusive, that no tabloid could ever disprove it! It's perfect!"

"But," Ivy interjected, "Holt has to confirm it. Or at least not deny it."

Alex stopped. "Right. The Monk. Will he play along?"

"I... I can ask him," Ivy said, feeling sick. "I have a number for his assistant."

"Do it," Alex commanded. "Do it now. If we can leak this 'cousin' angle to TMZ, the narrative flips. You go from 'predator' to 'clumsy little cousin.' It's cute! It's relatable!"

Ivy picked up her phone. Her hands were sweating.

She was digging a grave. She was going to tell the most powerful man in Hollywood that he was now related to the D-list actress who groped him.

But looking at Alex's hopeful face, and thinking of Kennedy Gilmore's smug smile, Ivy knew she had no choice.

She opened the message thread with "Landlord."