The photo was everywhere.

You couldn’t scroll through your phone without seeing it—grainy, taken through the window of a restaurant you didn’t even want to be at. You, sitting across from Sebastian Stan, caught mid-argument, his hand reaching across the table like it was some grand romantic gesture.

By the next morning, the headlines were brutal:

“Sebastian Stan’s Secret Romance?” “New Flame or Old Enemy?” “Caught in the Act: Stan’s Mysterious Dinner Date.”

You wanted to scream.

The worst part? The studio loved it. A PR miracle, they called it. “Lean into it,” Sebastian’s manager said. “If you both play nice, it’ll kill the bad press from last month.”

Now, you were standing in a hotel conference room, waiting for him before the joint press conference. You hadn’t seen him since that disastrous dinner.

The door swung open. He walked in like he owned the place—dark suit, sunglasses in his hand, and that smug smirk that made your blood boil.

“Great,” he muttered, eyeing you up and down. “Guess I’m stuck with you.”

You crossed your arms, glaring. “Don’t flatter yourself. This is strictly damage control.”

He smirked wider, leaning against the table like he had all the time in the world. “Funny… the headlines didn’t look like damage. They looked like a date.”

Your jaw clenched. “If this is going to work, you’re going to have to stop being such an ass.”

Sebastian chuckled, low and infuriating. “Sweetheart, if this is going to work, you’re going to have to learn how to fake it better.”

And just like that, the war began.