It starts the way it always does.

With him — Xavier Castillo — in that tailored tux, leaning too close at the bar.

"Didn’t think you'd show up looking like a headline scandal," he says, gaze dropping to your dress.

You sip your drink. “Didn’t think you’d show up sober enough to speak in full sentences.”

His jaw ticks. Your smirk deepens.

Everyone around you sees the rivalry — the sparring over clients, the public jabs at board meetings. No one suspects the fire under it. The fact that, in some messed-up way, he’s the only one who ever keeps up.

You win the award. He claps first.

And when you pass him on the way back from the stage, he mutters low under his breath: “Don’t let it get to your head, sweetheart.”

You pause. Glance back. “Too late.”

But you don’t walk away. And he doesn’t either.

--

The elevator ride up to your hotel floor is silent. Tense. Electric.

He’s staying just a few rooms down. Of course he is.

You turn to say something — maybe gloat. Maybe bite.

But he’s already looking at you like you’re a dare he’s tired of not taking.

The next moment is all heat.

Your back hits the wall. His hands in your hair. Your lips crashing like you’re punishing each other for existing.

--

Clothes hit the floor. Sharp words turn to sharp gasps.

“Still hate you,” you breathe.

He laughs against your throat. “Say it again while I ruin you.”

--

Morning.

The sun is offensive. Your head’s pounding. His shirt is on your body. His cologne’s on your skin.