Kept on Thorne island

Wrong room

The island wasn't on Google Maps.

That should have been my first red flag.

The second was Maya's voice on the phone yesterday: "It's legit, Tiana. I swear. Three days, private acting intensive, ten thousand dollars cash. They asked for you. Tiana Nova. By name."

I was down to $212 in my account. Two years after my audition went viral for the wrong reasons, I was sleeping on Maya's couch and auditioning for toothpaste commercials.

So I said yes.

The boat that picked me up from Athens didn't have a name. The driver didn't talk. The water got bluer and bluer until it didn't look real, and then the villa appeared on the cliff — not one villa, three. All glass, all white, three black Range Rovers out front with the same small logo on the door. THORNE GROUP.

"Where is everyone else?" I asked the house manager waiting at the dock. She was in a black linen dress, clipboard, no smile.

"You're the only guest," she said. "Villa C. Second floor. Last door on the right. Your key."

She handed me a black key card.

There was no Villa C inside. The main hallway had two doors. A and B. Both closed.

I tried the last door anyway. The light blinked green.

I opened it.

He wasn't supposed to be in there.

A man with his back to me, on the phone. Only a towel around his waist. Wet hair. Water still on his shoulders. A suit was hanging on the bathroom door, perfectly pressed, like it was waiting for him to turn back into whatever he was before the shower.

He turned when he heard the door.

For a second neither of us said anything. The AC was blasting.

"Who let you in here?" His voice was low. Not shouting. The kind of calm that makes you stand still.

"House manager. Villa C— my key worked—"

"There is no Villa C."

He ended his call without saying goodbye. He didn't move to cover himself. He just looked at me, once, quick, head to toe. Cargo pants, black cropped top, my duffel bag on the floor, hair a mess from the boat. I knew what I looked like. Not like someone who belongs in a place like this.

"Name," he said.

"Tiana. Tiana Nova. I'm here for the acting intensive?"

He walked to the desk. Still only in the towel. There was a file on it. My file. My old headshot stapled to the front. The one from 2024, before everything.

He flipped it open. He didn't seem surprised to see it.

"Tiana Nova. 23. Etoile audition, 2024. Unrepresented. Brought here by Maya Chen."

My stomach dropped.

"You know Maya?"

He closed the file. "I know who brought you."

"Okay. Well, where is the intensive? Where is everyone?"

"There is no intensive."

"What?"

He finally reached for the suit pants on the door and pulled them on, towel still around him. No shame, no hurry. Like I wasn't even there.

"The boat comes back in seven days," he said. "You will stay in this house until then."

I laughed, because what else do you do?

"I'm sorry, what? Are you k********g me?"

"No."

"Then why does the house manager have my passport? She said she needed it for registration."

"It's in the safe."

"Why is my passport in your safe?"

"Because you would lose it."

He said it like it was a fact. Like he was doing me a favor.

I picked up my duffel. "Yeah, this is not happening. I'm leaving. Tell your driver to take me back."

"He left."

"Call him back."

"No signal after six p.m. on this side of the island."

I looked out the window. The boat was gone. The dock was empty. The sky was starting to turn orange.

This was not an acting retreat. There were no other girls, no cameras, no script.

There was just this man, who had my file on his desk and my passport in his safe, looking at me like I was a problem he hadn't solved yet.

"Who are you?" I asked.

"Julian Thorne."

The name meant nothing to me, but the way he said it — like I should know it — meant everything.

"You paid Maya to bring me here, didn't you?"

He didn't answer. He buttoned his shirt. Slowly. One button at a time.

"Stay in this room tonight, Tiana."

"I'm not staying in your bedroom."

"Then stay in the room, but don't go downstairs."

"Why not?"

Downstairs, a door slammed. Two other male voices. One laughing.

"Thorne? You said you'd be in A— Did Maya's girl land?"

Julian's jaw tightened. It was the first real emotion I'd seen from him.

He walked to the bedroom door, opened it two inches, and said over his shoulder, without looking at me:

"Stay here. Don't come down in that top."

And then he walked out, closing the door behind him, leaving me alone in his bedroom that smelled like his cologne, with my file still open on his desk and my duffel bag on his floor.

I didn't know why I was here. I didn't know why he knew my name.

I just knew the boat wasn't coming for seven days.

And downstairs, there were two more men who already knew mine.