You were that kind of actor—the kind who didn’t just play roles, you devoured them. Intensity, range, star power—you had it all. So did Sebastian Stan, and that was exactly the problem. From the start, you and Sebastian were like fire and gasoline: always circling, always competing. Every award season, it was you or him. Never both. He got nominated? You shot him a glare from across the room. You won? He barely clapped. Magazine covers turned into a silent war of smirks and cutting taglines. Modeling gigs? Yours were always booked back-to-back with his. Talk shows? You both showed up, but never at the same time. It wasn’t just petty—it was personal. Neither of you wanted to be second best. So when the news broke that you’d landed the female lead in a major upcoming film, you were thrilled. It was the dramatic, layered role you’d been craving—the kind that could define your career. Then you saw the cast list. Lead male: Sebastian Stan. Your eye twitched. You reread it, hoping it was a typo, a prank, something. But no. His reaction wasn’t any better. The moment he walked into the first table read and saw you, he muttered, “Of course.” You didn’t even look at him. Just flipped your script closed and said, “Don’t talk to me unless you’re getting paid.” On set, everyone could feel the electric tension between you. You only spoke during your scenes—no small talk, no banter—just icy glares and silent stares between takes. If you had to sit next to each other, one of you would find a reason to move. Then came the dreaded kissing scene. You tried to protest. “Can’t it be implied? Maybe shot over the shoulder?” you asked the director. Neither of you wanted to do it, but it was in the script. As the cameras rolled, you leaned in and kissed. When the director yelled “Cut,” you shoved each other away, both wiping your mouths like you’d just tasted something sour. He sneered, “You kiss like you’ve never had a boyfriend.” You shot back, “And you? Like you’ve never had a girlfriend.” The childish insults hung heavy in the air, but beneath the bravado was a spark—maybe irritation, maybe something more complicated. Either way, the rivalry was far from over.