“I read it. How could I not? I’m so proud of you, Livy.” The sincerity in his voice knocked loose several bricks in her wall of defense, the one she’d erected when he’d broken her heart. He always wriggled in. Always.

“So, is there something I can help you with?” Olivia asked, trying to steel herself against her emotions and figure out why Conrad had gone to such lengths to reach her.

“Actually, there is. I need a favor, and you’re the only person for the job.”

“You want a favor?” So this wasn’t about her or Marley or some therapeutic action to absolve himself from the guilt. This was, indeed, business.

“You’ve heard of Chase London, right?”

Chase London had been the toast of Hollywood as an eleven-year-old ingenue. She’d starred in a Stefano Nash film, playing a lost waif in a postapocalyptic world, the sole survivor who discovers a new species and brings life back to a devastated world. She’d been nominated for an Oscar and won the Golden Globe for best actress. But after the initial buzz, she’d settled down into starring in typical teen dramas and Disneyesque productions that were more about her bouncy blondeness than her acting chops.

When Chase hit puberty, she’d embraced the Hollywood lifestyle with both arms and—as the gossip rags liked to imply—both legs. Multiple DUI arrests and a brief stay in a county facility should have been wake-up calls but, if National Inquisitor could be believed, hadn’t even come close. Chase London was a train wreck. A has-been. A sad case of Hollywood squeezing everything out of a talented actor and then kicking her to the curb.

“Please tell me you aren’t casting Chase London in your next film.” Olivia picked up the paperweight her youngest sister had given her years ago. Marley had painted a butterfly on the rounded stone she’d found when their father had taken them to the beach one spring day. Marley had been about eight, golden curls, eyes the color of the ocean, giggles and wiggles. She’d wrapped it up and given it to Olivia for her eleventh birthday, a little ball of wrapping paper and ribbon.

Olivia pressed the stone to her lips and closed her eyes before setting it back on the desk.

“She’s perfect for this particular role. She just needs help. That’s where you come in.” Con’s words held something more.

“You’re not sleeping with her, are you?”

“No, of course not. Chase is an infant.”

“She’s in her twenties. You’re thirty-six. That’s a Hollywood power couple,” Olivia said. She wasn’t normally sarcastic, but she wasn’t a big fan of the entertainment industry even as she knew she’d made her career on Hollywood by-products. Catch-22 for her. She needed what she despised. Like dentists and hard candy.

“No. I want her for this film. The script’s a dream, we’ve got solid backing, and casting is holding off because we’re waiting on Tom Reynard to wrap his latest film, which is a month behind on production as is. If I can get Chase insured . . .”