Page 6 of Gunnar

Damon nods solemnly, unable to hide his smirk. “Hostile work environment. We should file a complaint.”

Abby turns on her heel and walks toward her car. “One hour.”

“We heard you.”

“Suits.”

“We heard you.”

“Ties.”

Jagger groans, the sound carrying genuine pain. “We heard you.”

“And if I see tactical boots with a suit, just remember, I know where you all live.”

The shiny new Oscar sits on the corner of my desk, catching the afternoon sunlight streaming through the floor-to-ceiling windows. Every few minutes, my gaze drifts toward it, tracing the familiar silhouette of the statuette, because I still don’t quite believe it’s real. Twenty-four hours ago, I was standing on the stage of the Dolby Theatre reaching the pinnacle of my career. A moment that was quickly overshadowed when my stalker managed to truly scare me for the first time in months.

Outside the windows, the ocean stretches endlessly beneath a sky so blue it looks painted, the waves crashing against the shore, softened by heat haze and smog. From this far outside of Los Angeles, in Malibu, it is kind of peaceful, almost idyllic, a sprawling kingdom of light and possibility. Ordinarily, I would appreciate the view, staring over it as I remind myself how far I’ve come from the cramped apartment in Reseda where I dreamed about moments like yesterday’s. Today, however, I keep finding my eyes drifting toward the security monitor on the edge of my desk, displaying the feeds from the gate cameras and around the grounds.

“Devyn?” I blink, the sound of my agent’s voice jerking me back to the present. Right, the phone call. The conference call started twenty minutes ago, and I’ve already drifted away twice. Jake’s voice crackles through the speaker, carrying that particular blend of concern and frustration he gets when I’m not focusing on my brand. “Still with us?”

“Barely,” I mutter, rubbing at my temples with fingers that feel cold despite the warmth in the room.

A low chuckle comes through the line, familiar and dry, my manager, Leslie, letting out a sigh that speaks volumes. “You haven’t slept, have you?”

“I slept.”

“Two hours doesn’t count, Dev.”

“It does if you’re exhausted enough.”

“It really doesn’t.”

I lean back in my ergonomic chair, the leather creaking beneath me, and press the heels of my palms against my eyes until color bursts behind the lids. The truth is: I haven’t slept much at all. I was a mess leading up to last night. Any hope I had of getting sleep after the award ceremony was snatched away the moment I opened that card.

Every creak in the house—the expansion of cooling ducts, the settling of old wood, and the wind against the eaves—startled me awake with my heart hammering against my ribs. Every shifting shadow in the darkness made my pulse spike, my body flooding with adrenaline before my mind could catch up and identify the threat as nothing more than moonlight flitting through the curtains. Every time my eyes drifted close, I jerked them open, convinced this time the threat was real.

Around three in the morning, I’d convinced myself someone was standing in the corner of my bedroom, watching me. Barely breathing, I was frozen in my sheets for twenty minutes, until I’d finally worked up the courage to check. There hadn’t been anyone there, just a palm tree shifting in the breeze, throwing shadows across the wall.

Knowing I was alone did nothing to quell my fear. It’s about as helpful as knowing LAPD detectives are actively working my case. A case that has been open for nearly a year. They have made no progress. Neither did the private investigator I hired to look into the matter. Except for the note—and another twenty others just like it—tucked into an evidence bag downtown, it’s like X doesn’t even exist.

“So,” Jake says brightly, attempting to redirect the conversation with the subtlety of a bulldozer, “let’s discuss the fact that you’re currently the most sought-after actress in Hollywood.”

I groan, the sound weary. “Please don’t start.”

“I’m serious.”

“That’s because you make money when I work.”

“Accurate.” At least he’s honest. I stare out the window at the view that should bring me peace, watching a few birds circle lazily above the horizon. This industry moves fast. Winning an Oscar doesn’t mean you get to relax and bask in the achievement. It means everyone immediately wants to know what’s next. Studios, producers, directors, and streaming services with bottomless budgets and endless appetites for content—all of them want a piece. The second someone wins a major award, Hollywood begins circling like sharks smelling blood in the water. I’m a commodity, one that will make everyone a lot of money.

“We need to make a decision soon,” Leslie continues, her voice carrying that note of maternal authority that made me hire her in the first place. “You already have six offers.”

“Seven,” Jake corrects, and I can hear the smile in his voice, the excitement of fresh deals to negotiate.

“Seven?”

“One came in around lunch. They’re very… enthusiastic,” he shares. I groan again, pushing away from the desk. The energy buzzing beneath my skin makes sitting still impossible. Needing motion to process what my mind can’t handle stationary, I pace across the room. My bare feet are silent against the polished hardwood floor. “They said the studio sent the screenplay over this morning.”