“It’s not just a voice-over gig, Celeste. It’s a career reset. A clean slate in a city that doesn’t give a damn about Manhattan’s social register.”

Sandro leaned against the kitchen counter of the Hamptons safe house, tossing a set of printed flight itineraries onto the table. The late afternoon sun was hitting the Atlantic outside the window, but the air inside the house felt cold, clinical, and rushed.

“Kyoto?” Celeste asked, her eyes scanning the bold letters of the Japanese production house. “They want ‘Celine H.’ for the entire neo-noir anime series?”

“They don’t care about the ‘Voice of Lies’ hashtags or Vivian Lancaster’s latest breakdown on TikTok,” Sandro...