Alex had always been your rival — in every ad campaign, on every runway, he was there, matching your stride with that maddening smirk. You told yourself it was hate. It was easier that way.

Now, you were straddling his lap on a plush velvet chair in the middle of a photoshoot set, your bodies too close, the air too warm. The photographer barked directions, but all you could focus on was Alex — on the way his hands settled at your waist like he owned the moment, like he knew exactly what this was turning into.

You shifted slightly, trying to find a more comfortable position. His breath hitched. Then, his lips brushed your ear.

“Shania,” he whispered, voice low and charged, “if you keep moving like that, I’m not going to survive this.”

His grip on you tightened — not rough, but grounding. You froze, heart thundering as the flash went off again, catching the moment where your eyes met and neither of you looked away.

This wasn’t hate. Not anymore.

And maybe, just maybe, it never had been.