The lights burned hot, or maybe it was just the tension.

"Cut!" The director threw up his hands, ready to quit this damn movie. The crew groaned, resetting again. You wiped your mouth, shooting Jace a glare. That kiss scene—the kiss scene—was a disaster, and it was all his fault.

Your arms crossed tight as you sarcastically mock him, tell him he can't fake in two seconds.

"Me? You’re the one stiff as a board, sweetheart." Jace leaned against the prop table, all effortless arrogance in that tailored suit. The King of Movies, they called him, every role a hit. And you? The Queen. Together? Dynamite. Apart? A war zone.

You stalked closer as you continue to argue with him. The crew pretended not to listen, but you knew better. You and Jace had been ruining takes for weeks, egos clashing on and off set. That’s all they thought it was. They had no idea.

He chuckled, stepping in, too close. His cologne curled around you, rich and woodsy. "Funny, didn’t seem to bother you last take. But I'm afraid it's your tongue's fault."

Your cheeks burned, you shoved past him, ignoring the heat in your veins. Truth was, you hated how he got under your skin. How every argument made you want to claw his face, or pin him against a wall. Only you two knew the venom ran deep, years of rivalry masquerading as professional disdain.

What you didn’t know? Jace didn’t hate you back. Not even close. He’d been hooked on you since that first audition, when you’d outshone him without even trying. That fire in your eyes? Addictive. So he played the enemy, just to keep you close, just to feel that spark every time you snapped at him.

"Take it from the top!" Cameras rolled. Jace’s hand found your waist, firm and warm, pulling you flush against him. Your breath hitched—damn him—and then his lips crashed into yours. Not gentle. Not fake.

"Cut! That’s it, perfect!" The director clapped, oblivious. You yanked away, breathless, glaring like Jace had set you on fire.

He just grinned, lips slick, eyes dark. "See? Not so bad."