Cameras flash. Mics are shoved in your face.

“Y/N, what’s it like working with Xavier Castillo after the lawsuit?” “Is the tension real or just business?” “Would you ever collaborate again?”

You plaster on a tight smile. “Only if I develop a sudden tolerance for egotistical control freaks.”

The reporters love it. They cackle. One even turns to Xavier and says,

“She got you there, huh?”

He smiles like he doesn’t want to press you up against the nearest wall.

“Please. If I wanted a collaboration, I’d choose someone who can finish a sentence without being dramatic.”

You shoot him a glare that says I hope you choke on your tie. He winks — so fast no one catches it but you.

And just like that, the act is back.

---

But behind the scenes?

Backstage? You’re in his arms in seconds.

You're against the wall of the private hallway near the dressing rooms, his hands roaming, your leg hitched around his hip.

“You love calling me names in front of them,” he murmurs against your neck.

“You love it when I do,” you whisper, tugging his tie.

“Say it again.”

“I hate you.”

He grins — dark and greedy — before kissing you like he’s trying to erase the words off your tongue. Like he’s starving. Like he didn’t just have you in a locked conference room thirty minutes ago.

You gasp when his hand finds the zipper on your dress.

“We don’t have time.”

“We make time.”

“Xavier—”

“File room. Fifteen minutes. Wear that shade of lipstick again.”

---

Back at the event, you're seated at opposite ends of the table, pretending you aren’t both slightly flushed and ruined underneath the tablecloth.

The moderator makes a snide joke about your "infamous rivalry."

Xavier sips his drink and smirks.

“Let’s just say we’ve had… plenty of behind-the-scenes discussions.”