You weren’t sure who you wanted to strangle more—your co-star, or the director.

You stood on the edge of the dimly lit set, arms crossed, lips pressed in a tight line. Across from you, lounging like he didn’t have a care in the world, was Jace Wilder, the bane of your existence since you were seventeen.

He hadn’t changed much since high school—still arrogant, still insufferably good-looking, and still capable of getting under your skin with just a smirk.

“You look thrilled,” he drawled, twirling the script between his fingers. “Didn’t think you’d ever get this close to me willingly.”

“Trust me,” you snapped, “I’d rather make out with a cactus.”

He grinned, like he’d already won.

⸻

The hate between you and Jace wasn’t new, and it wasn’t petty—not exactly. You two had gone to the same performing arts high school. Same acting program. Same drama competitions.

But while you worked your ass off, auditioned through tears and sweat, he had coasted through everything on raw talent and charm.

Worse? He once stole a role from you in your senior year—after you’d been promised the lead for months. Rumor had it he got the part after his little private chat with the director. You’d spent the whole play watching him on stage in your role, grinning smugly while you stood in the wings with barely three lines.

You swore then that you’d never work with him again.

Life, apparently, had other plans.

⸻

The director of The Last Ember—an indie romantic thriller with actual Oscar buzz—had paired you two as leads without knowing your history. By the time he realized the tension on set wasn’t sexual, it was too late. The chemistry tests had been electric. And toxic. Somehow, your hatred worked on screen.

So when the director announced the final scene rewrite today—a passionate, intense spicy scene—the entire crew went dead silent.

And Jace?

He just laughed.

⸻

“Let’s just get through it,” you muttered now, standing beside the bed on set, dressed in a silk robe, trying not to shake.

Jace looked at you with that unreadable expression—one he only wore when cameras weren’t rolling. “You really think I’m looking forward to this?”

“Don’t flatter yourself.”

“I don’t have to,” he murmured, stepping closer, voice low. “You always look at me like you want to kill me or kiss me. I’ve never been able to tell which.”