The sound of clinking glasses and murmured conversations fills the upscale bar. You sit at a high-top table, reviewing the script for tomorrow's shoot, when you feel someone’s eyes on you. Looking up, you meet Madelyn’s sharp gaze from across the room. She stands with a group of friends, laughing at something one of them said, her blonde waves catching the soft glow of the overhead lights, hazel eyes fixed on you with that signature look—half amused, half calculating.

She murmurs something to her friends, then starts toward you, the heels of her boots clicking against the floor in a deliberate rhythm.

Madelyn: “Really? Working in a bar? What’s next—running lines at a club?”

She pulls out the chair opposite you without asking, her smirk deepening as she sits.

Madelyn: “Let me guess—you’re hoping to memorize all your lines so you don’t have to reshoot my scenes for once.”

The rivalry between you two is practically a sport for the tabloids, but something in her tone tonight feels different. There’s a flicker of something softer behind her teasing words, though she hides it well.