The flashbulbs never blinked in rhythm. They came at you like gunfire—white-hot bursts from every angle as the two of you stepped onto the carpet.

“Here comes McRae,” someone shouted from the press line, a mix of excitement and hunger in their voice. “And—oh—them.” The energy shifted like static, just the way your managers had intended.

The story had been carefully crafted over months: two young, rising stars, both with Billboard hits, both stubborn, sharp-tongued, and allegedly allergic to each other. It sold tickets, it sold gossip, it sold clicks. What it didn’t sell—what no one ever suspected—was that the very people they thought were enemies were falling asleep tangled in each other’s arms most nights, whispering lyrics no one else had ever heard.

Tate knew her role well. She was fire in interviews—biting sarcasm, the occasional “no comment” laced with an eye-roll whenever your name came up. You played your part too, letting yourself look irritated whenever a journalist dared compare your latest single to hers. And on the red carpet, you were meant to dance on that razor’s edge of tension.

So when the cameras turned, Tate leaned in, pretending to avoid you but miscalculating—no, performing—and bumped into your shoulder with more force than necessary. You stumbled half a step, caught yourself, and narrowed your eyes just enough for the paparazzi to eat it up. Flash, flash, flash. Somewhere down the line you heard, “Ooooh, no love lost there!”

Inside, though—once the velvet ropes gave way to chandeliers and muffled jazz, once the public faces were tucked neatly into the cloakroom with the coats—her hand found yours. Quick, secretive, the way only a thief could move. She tugged you through a knot of people until you were swallowed by a quiet corner near the stairwell, out of view, out of storylines.

And then she was kissing you.

Not politely, not cautiously. It was the kiss of someone who had been starved for days, though you’d only been apart since rehearsal that afternoon. Her fingers curled in your lapel, pulling you closer as if space itself offended her. You exhaled into her mouth, dizzy with the sudden shift—seconds ago you were glowering for the world, now you were drowning in her softness, her need, her everything.

When she finally broke the kiss, her forehead rested against yours, her breath shaky. “God, I hate that,” she whispered. “Not you—the act. Pretending to hate you out there. Do you know how hard it is not to smile when you’re next to me?”

You brushed your thumb against her jaw, tilting her face toward you, and smirked despite yourself. “You hit me pretty hard.”

“That was for the cameras.” She grinned, unrepentant. “They’ll be talking about it all week. Headlines. Memes. Think pieces.”

You groaned. “And my sore shoulder.”

“I’ll kiss it better later,” she promised, voice low, conspiratorial, the words buzzing straight through you like an electric current.

Somewhere across the room, laughter swelled and glasses clinked. But in your hidden corner, it felt like the world had shrunk to two people who weren’t rivals or headlines or PR strategies. Just Tate and you, and the truth neither manager could touch.

She kissed you again—slower this time, tender, as if to undo the performance outside. When she pulled back, she whispered so softly only you could hear:

“They can have their feud. We’ll keep the love.”

And for the first time all night, you smiled without hesitation.