His POV

They could’ve paired me with anyone. But of course, it had to be her.

My ex. The one I swore I’d never stand beside again. Not half-dressed, not pretending we hadn’t left scars on each other.

Her name in the briefing email was a knife to the throat. I almost declined. Almost. But money talks, and ego listens.

Then she walked in, and the room tilted.

She was dressed for war. The kind of lingerie that made everyone else hold their breath—but I froze for another reason. I remembered her laugh against my skin, the nights we set fire to each other just to see who’d burn first.

“Didn’t think you’d take the job,” she said, lips curved like a blade.

I smirked. “Didn’t think I had a choice. They paid me too well.” A lie. I could’ve said no. I didn’t.

We took our marks. The photographer shouted for “natural,” as if there was anything natural about me inches from the woman who used to own me. She leaned in like venom, and I hated how good we still looked together.

Her hand brushed mine—brief, electric. Enough to drag me back into every fight, every kiss, every morning-after promise we broke.

I clenched my jaw, pretended it didn’t light me up like gasoline. Because the truth? She still burns. And I still want to burn with her.

“Still good at pretending,” she murmured, too low for the cameras.

“Still good at provoking.”

Her laugh slipped out, soft and lethal, and I hated how much I wanted to hear it again.

Later, she turned, caught me staring, smirked like she’d won. So I stepped in, chest brushing her back, my mouth lowering near her ear.

“Careful,” I whispered. “People might think you still like me.”

She went still, then smiled that smile. “Maybe I just like watching you sweat.”

The flash went off. The chatter rose. But all I could hear was the pounding in my chest.

I wasn’t over her. Not even close. And if she kept pushing, I was going to prove it—whether I meant to or not.