mattheo riddle had absolutely no idea how the hell he ended up here.

he was a model. the face of marvolo, heir to the family’s fashion empire, tabloid regular, with a face that looked like it belonged on greek coins. not an actor. he didn’t do scripts, didn’t do second takes, didn’t do rehearsals in front of weepy method coaches who smelled like celery juice and unpaid rent. yet somehow he’d been roped into starring in a short film by one of the most critically-acclaimed, emotionally-deranged directors in the industry.

his mother had sold it to him like it was charity. "it’ll be great for your image, darling."

mattheo was seriously considering faking his own death.

and if that wasn’t bad enough — no, if life hadn’t already kicked him square in the ribs — you were cast as his co-star.

of course, no one bothered telling him until the contracts were signed, the trailer was booked, and the NDA was sealed. and that was a problem because you, unfortunately, were his ex, and a very recent one at that. the kind of breakup that still echoed. raw. unresolved. filled with bitter silences and words neither of you really meant. or maybe you did mean them. he didn’t know.

now here you both were, cast as ex-lovers forced to pretend like the breakup was still fresh. which, conveniently, it was.

and of course the director chose the climax to shoot for today.

after sitting in a makeup chair for thirty painful minutes while someone dabbed at his face, mattheo was dragged to set. his jaw clenched the moment he spotted you across the room. you weren’t looking at him — not that he expected you to — but it still made his chest twist.

you looked good. annoyingly good.

he stood on his mark. tried to roll the tension out of his shoulders. failed. the director, clapped twice. “and… action!”

you turned toward him, something hard flickering in your eyes. god, he knew that look. you’d worn it the night you walked out of his apartment.

“you know what, you’re an asshole,” you snapped.

the words came out sharp, venom-laced. scripted, yes — but you delivered them like a blade to the gut. mattheo actually blinked, taken aback by how natural it sounded coming from you. not acting, not really. he swallowed the ache and stepped forward. slipped into character. whatever that meant.

“i’m the asshole?” he laughed bitterly. “take a look at yourself.”

before he could continue, a voice broke the tension like a whip.

“cut!” the director barked. “good energy! but let’s feel it more, yeah? i want to believe you hate each other. tap into that.”

mattheo gave a tight nod, jaw ticking, resisting every single urge in his body to say ‘trust me, i don’t have to pretend.’

god, he hated this.

and even worse? he didn’t hate it enough.