The air in the Cotswolds was thick with the scent of damp earth and expensive peonies. Y/F/N —"(nickname)" to anyone who had ever held her as a child on a film set—straightened the silk of her champagne-colored dress.

She looked exactly as the world remembered her, yet entirely different. Her hair, inherited from her mother, was swept back in a soft halo; the bright eyes, sparkling with that signature intensity, were currently fixed on her reflection. She looked like an angel, which was the problem. Angels were supposed to be at peace, and her heart was currently doing a frantic tap-dance against her ribs.

"You okay, cara?" Her fiance appeared behind her, his hand resting steadily on her waist.

He was everything a woman was supposed to want: stable, dashing, and devastatingly kind. He was her anchor in the choppy waters of a life lived in the spotlight.

"Perfect," she lied, flashing him the sunny smile that had charmed audiences forever. "Just catching my breath."

The wedding reception of her friend was a glittering "who’s who" of the industry. Because her parents had spent decades shielding her from the industry's jagged edges, she moved through the crowd with a grace that wasn't cynical, only polite.

Then, the atmosphere shifted. It wasn't a noise, but a silence—the kind that happens when a specific person walks into a room and pulls all the oxygen toward them.

She didn't have to turn around. She felt him.

Tom Blyth was standing by the bar, looking effortlessly sharp in a charcoal suit. Four years had sharpened the angles of his face, making him look less like the boy who had played Snow and more like the man who had conquered Hollywood.

Her mind betrayed her, sprinting back to the set five years ago. She remembered the humid nights in Poland, sitting on the floor of his trailer, sharing a bag of crisps and talking about Shakespeare.

“You’re too good for this world, Y/L/N,” he’d whispered one night, his thumb tracing the line of her jaw. “Then stay in mine,” she had replied.

They had been "the" couple. The sun-drenched girl with the golden pedigree and the British actor with the soul of a poet. But distance is a slow poison. Time zones, press tours, and three thousand miles of Atlantic Ocean had eventually quieted their fire until they both agreed to let go before they started to hate each other. They never stopped loving; they just stopped trying.

The Encounter "(Nickname)."

His voice was a low vibration that bypassed her brain and went straight to her marrow. She turned, her fiance having been pulled away by a group of drivers, leaving her momentarily defenseless.

"Tom," she breathed. The "angelic" glow her fans raved about was currently being fueled by pure adrenaline. "You look... well."

"I look like a man who hasn’t seen his best friend in four years," Tom said, his eyes scanning her face with a hunger he didn't bother to hide. He wasn't playing the game. He never did. "I see the ring. It’s beautiful. He’s a lucky man."