Over the following weeks, Stiles and Derek fell into a secret rhythm that felt like breathing for the first time. Late-night calls when Jackson was asleep, whispered dreams of a life together. Stolen moments on set—quick fucks in empty rooms, Derek pinning her against walls, kissing her like she was precious while thrusting deep and slow. Text messages that made her heart race: “Thinking about your puffier pussy clenching on me… can’t wait to make you mine forever.” They talked about everything—their own agency, a house with ocean views, mornings waking up tangled together, filming only when they wanted, only with each other.

Derek worked fast behind the scenes. He registered the new agency in both their names—“Derek & Stiles Productions”—quietly hired lawyers for the divorce papers, set up a private studio in a rented loft with professional lights, cameras on tripods, and a massive king bed as the centerpiece. No crew, no outsiders—just them.