Page 19 of Gunnar

I pull off the heels, toss the phone onto my bed, and proceed to sneak out of my home, the ridiculousness not lost on me. I’m thirty years old, I own this property, pay the mortgage and the taxes. Yet here I am, moving quietly through the hallway, trying not to alert the security team, with my heels dangling from my fingertips and my heart hammering against my ribs like I’m sixteen, sneaking out past curfew.

Using the staff entrance, I sneak outside. The warm California evening air wraps around me immediately, scented with jasmine and freshly cut grass. The sun is beginning to dip toward the horizon, painting the sky in streaks of gold, pink, and violet. I practically float toward the garage, my bare feet silent on the stone pavers. The detached structure sits near the rear of the property, tucked behind greenery and shielded from most of the house by mature trees not yet destroyed by the new landscaping crew.

The garage door glides upward with a soft mechanical hum, revealing the space within and my one true indulgence. My silver Aston Martin DB11. I love this car more than some people. Maybe most people. In the Aston, I’m not Devyn Martin, actress. I’m fast, free, and untouchable.

The driver’s door opens with a satisfying click, the leather scent enveloping me as I slide inside. I press the start button, and the engine roars to life beneath me, a deep, powerful growl that vibrates through the entire vehicle. A grin spreads across my face, wild and reckless, at the six hundred horsepower waiting to be unleashed. I pull out of the garage, the tires barely whispering against the concrete. The driveway curves through the property toward the front gate, winding through the grounds now nearly devoid of landscaping that Gunnar declared “concealment risks.” The massive iron gates begin parting automatically as I approach. They are still moving when I shoot through the opening, close enough that my heart leaps with adrenaline and triumph.

My laugh echoes inside the car, bright and childish. Absolutely childish. And absolutely worth it.

The city unfolds around me as I head into downtown Los Angeles, the skyline growing larger with every mile. Neon signs flicker to life, and people crowd sidewalks, spilling out of shops and restaurants near Sunset Boulevard. I roll the windows down slightly, just enough to let the air in. The wind catches my hair, pulling strands loose from its carefully styled waves.

The restaurant I’m meeting the girls at is one of the hottest reservations in Los Angeles, impossible to get into and even more impossible to visit discreetly as a celebrity. Swarms of people dressed in their best pretend not to notice the paparazzi clustered near the entrance. Camera flashes explode as I pull into the valet, a storm of white light against the darkening sky.

The valet opens my door, his expression professionally neutral. “Good evening, Miss Martin.”

“Thank you.” I step out, smoothing down my dress, arranging my face into the mask I wear for public consumption—pleasant but distant, accessible but not inviting.

The flashes intensify, a blizzard of light. Photographers call my name from every direction, their voices overlapping, aggressively demanding my attention.

“Devyn!”

“Over here!”

“How does it feel to be an Oscar winner?”

“What’s next?”

“Are the wedding rumors true?”

I laugh, the sound practiced and light.

“When are you and Colton getting married?”

Gross.

I offer a quick wave, just enough acknowledgment to satisfy them without encouraging them. The cameras go wild anyway, as they always do, the shutters creating a sound like mechanical rain.

When I step inside, the atmosphere completely shifts, the chaos of the street giving way to warm intimacy. The restaurant glows with amber light, candles flickering on every table, casting dancing shadows against exposed brick walls. Conversation hums through the air, the particular cadence of people enjoying themselves. Music drifts softly overhead, sophisticated and unobtrusive. The scent of expensive food drifts from the kitchen—truffle and herbs—the smell of indulgence.

The hostess immediately recognizes me, her eyes widening, professional composure slipping for just a fraction of a second. Within moments, I’m led toward a private corner booth, the best table in the house, the one with the curved banquette, the view of the room, and the partial privacy that allows us to see without being fully seen.

Scarlet spots me first. Her face lights up like she hasn’t seen me in months instead of days. “There she is!” She stands and throws her arms around me before I can even sit down, her hug fierce enough to nearly knock me backward.

“I missed you, too,” I manage, hugging her back, the tension in my shoulders finally beginning to release.

“You look hot,” she announces, pulling back to examine me, her eyes critical and approving.

“Thank you.” I laugh and slide into the booth, the leather soft beneath me. Across from Scarlet sit Olivia and Mia, both immediately launching into congratulations and questions, their voices overlapping in the comfortable chaos of old friendship. Within seconds, the table feels warm and familiar. These women knew me long before I found my way to the red carpet. To them, I’m still Devyn. The girl who once cried over a commercial audition for toothpaste and a roommate who couldn’t afford her share of rent far too often.

A server appears and distributes menus. Scarlet waves dismissively before anyone can open the leather-bound folders. “We’re getting drinks first. Four French martinis.”

The server smiles knowingly, turning toward the bar. “Of course.”

He leaves, and Scarlet immediately leans forward, her elbows on the table, her eyes bright with mischief. “Okay.”

“What?” I ask, wary but smiling.

“Tell us everything.”