Read Chapter 23: The Script is Missing

The morning light in Elise’s Paris apartment was soft, almost forgiving, filtering through the tall windows onto the breakfast table where croissant crumbs lay scattered. But Theo’s face was not soft. It was drawn, pale beneath his stubble, and his hands were clenched around a cup of coffee he hadn’t touched.

“It’s gone,” he said, voice flat. “The script. All of it.”

Elise looked up from her own cup, the warmth of their unguarded conversation from the night before still clinging to her like a blanket. She frowned. “What do you mean, gone? You were working on it in your study before Marcus—before everything.”

“I know where I was working on it,” Theo said, each word careful, measured, like he was walking on shattered glass. “I’ve looked everywhere. My bag, my laptop, the cloud backup, the USB I keep in the hotel safe.” He finally set the coffee down, untouched, and met her eyes. “It’s not there.”

The pause that followed was heavy, barbed. Elise felt her own heartbeat quicken. “Theo. You’re not suggesting I took it.”

He said nothing, but his jaw tightened. That was enough.

“You can’t seriously believe that.” Her voice rose, cracking on the edge of disbelief. “After everything we just shared? After last night, when you told me about Edinburgh—about your mother—you think I would steal your script and sell it to some rival producer?”

“I didn’t say that.”

“You didn’t have to.” Elise stood, the chair scraping harshly against the wooden floor. “It’s written all over your face, darling. The great Theo Blake, betrayed again. First your brother, then your agent, now the French actress with everything to lose.”

“Don’t.” His voice was sharp now, the veneer cracking. “Don’t do that. Don’t make this about your wounded pride.”

“Wounded pride?” Elise laughed, a bitter, hollow sound. “I’ve had my entire career dismantled in public by a woman who knows how to press every button I have. You think I’m worried about pride?”

Theo ran a hand through his hair, pacing the length of the small kitchen. “Nobody else had access to that room. The apartment was locked. I was asleep by eleven. You were awake—you said you couldn’t sleep, that you were going to read.”

“I was reading a book,” Elise said, her voice trembling now. “A novel. On the balcony. You can check the book, Theo. It’s still there.”

“Then where is my script?” He stopped pacing, turning to face her fully. His eyes were red-rimmed, exhausted. “That script is the only thing I have left, Elise. My career is in ruins. Camille is bleeding us dry in the press. Marcus sold me out for eighteen months. And that script—that was my way out. My redemption arc. Someone took it.”

Elise’s hands were shaking. She pressed them flat against the counter to steady herself. “You think I’m so desperate that I’d betray you for career capital? That I’d take the one thing you’ve trusted me with and hand it to your enemies?”

“I don’t know what to think anymore.” His voice broke on the last word, and for a moment, Elise saw the boy beneath the armor—the one who had lost his mother, his reputation, his brother’s trust. “Everyone I’ve ever trusted has sold me out. My brother kept secrets. My agent sold my schedule. And you—you’ve lied to me before, Elise. About Nathan Cole. About your meetings. About what you were really doing for Camille.”

“That was the contract.” Elise’s voice was barely a whisper. “We agreed, Theo. All of that was the performance.”

“Was it?” He stepped closer, searching her face as if looking for an answer she wasn’t giving. “Because I thought last night was real. I thought the woman who told me about her mother’s earrings, who was terrified of losing them, who cried in my arms about her father’s silence—I thought she was real. But now I’m wondering if that was just another scene. Another Oscar-worthy performance.”

The words hit her like a physical blow. Elise felt the tears prick at her eyes, hot and unbidden. “You don’t mean that.”

“I don’t know what I mean.” He grabbed his jacket from the back of the chair, his movements jerky, uncoordinated. “I need air. I need to think.”

“Theo, please.” She reached for him, her fingers brushing his sleeve. “Don’t leave like this. Don’t let her win by tearing us apart.”

He paused at the door, one hand on the handle, and looked back at her. The anger had dimmed, replaced by something rawer—grief, maybe. Or fear. “If it wasn’t you, then someone else got into this apartment. Someone who knew exactly what to take. And that terrifies me more than the idea that you betrayed me. Because if it’s not you, then we’re being watched. We’re being followed. And I have no idea who to trust anymore.”

He left before she could respond. The door clicked shut behind him, the sound final, crushing.

Elise stood frozen in the middle of the kitchen, the silence pressing in around her. The tears came then, hot and fast, streaming down her cheeks as she sank onto the breakfast stool. She had been through worse—public humiliation, career sabotage, her mother’s grave desecrated by a stranger’s photograph. But this felt different. This felt like the loss of something she hadn’t realized she was holding: Theo’s trust.

She sat there for a long time, the morning light shifting as clouds passed over the sun. The croissants turned stale. The coffee grew cold. And her phone stayed silent—no call, no text from Theo.

Finally, she moved. Mechanically, she began to clean the kitchen, needing something to ground her, to remind her that the world still functioned even when it felt like it was crumbling. She emptied the coffee pot, rinsed the cups, wiped down the counters.

And then she saw it.

In the small bin by the balcony door, half-hidden under a crumpled paper towel, was a scrap of burnt paper. The edges were charred, curled black, and the center was barely legible—but she recognized the handwriting. Theo’s handwriting. His notes, the margins filled with his scrawl.

Her heart stopped.

She reached in, her fingers trembling, and lifted the fragment carefully. It was perhaps four inches by six, the bottom torn and singed. She could make out a few lines of dialogue—a scene she remembered Theo reading aloud to her over dinner, his voice animated, alive in a way she hadn’t seen in weeks.

The fragment was partially destroyed, but it was unmistakably from the missing script.

Elise stared at it, her mind racing. The script was gone from Theo’s study. But a burnt piece of it was in her trash. Her trash. In her apartment.

She hadn’t put it there. She was certain. Which meant someone else had been inside her home. Someone else had broken in, taken the script from Theo’s room, burnt a portion, and left the remnant deliberately—to be found. The question was: by whom? And why?

Her phone buzzed on the counter. She nearly dropped the charred paper in shock, grabbing the device with her free hand. A text from Vivienne.

*Any word from Theo? Camille just posted a teaser for her “documentary.” She’s promising to reveal evidence of a secret collaboration between Theo and a rival producer. The timing is too convenient.*

Elise looked down at the burnt fragment in her trembling hand. The words swam before her eyes, but one phrase was clearly legible. In Theo’s handwriting, in the margin beside a line of dialogue, he had scrawled a note to himself:

*Don’t let Marcus see this draft.*

She gasped. Theo had written that note weeks ago—before he fired Marcus. Before the betrayal was known. But Marcus had been inside their lives for eighteen months. He had keys. He had access. And she had seen the way the man looked at Theo during their last confrontation—a mixture of bitterness and coiled violence.

Elise pressed the fragment to her chest, the charred edges crumbling against her shirt. She grabbed her coat and keys, her mind already spinning into action.

Someone had been in her home. Someone had taken the script. Someone wanted to frame her.

And she knew exactly who to call.