I am not in love with Matt Crain.

This is a problem.

My entire job is hinging on me being able to pretend to be in love with this guy, at least while the cameras are rolling. I'd like to consider myself a professional, capable of setting aside my personal issues with someone for the sake of my career, but he makes it nearly impossible for me to do that.

I've worked with so-called difficult co-stars before. That's not the problem.

Although I'd rather die than ever have someone refer to me as 'difficult', I also understand most of the time it's a term used for actresses who refuse to put up with sexist bullshit behind the scenes. They're labeled as mean girls for asserting their boundaries and demanding to be treated with respect. Because I understand that, I've always made a point of treating everyone fairly, both actors and crew, and insist that other people on set do the same.

Being difficult according to a man is one thing. Being difficult according to every single person on the planet and being the textbook definition of a nightmare?

Yeah. World, meet Matt fucking Crain.

I should be a professional about this entire ordeal. In my head, I'm doing a fantastic job at working crowds, charming the crew, and being an absolute delight. I thrive when I know people are proud of me, especially when they voice those feelings; it warms me up inside, fills me up with sunlight, and I feel like there's nothing in the world I can't do. There's no hardship I can't overcome, no mountain I can't climb.

Until Matt Crain decided to ruin my life.

This should be my night. Well, it's ours, as we're co-stars and our movie, Absolutely!, has just wrapped up filming, and I should be feeling ecstatic about it. Happy that we're done, sad that we'll have to say goodbye to one of the most pleasant film crews I've ever encountered, and somewhat nostalgic about the whole thing.

In theory, I'm doing all of those things.

In practice, this is one of the worst parties I've ever had the displeasure of attending, and that's saying a lot.

My facial muscles hurt from all the smiling I've twisted my face into for hours on end.

I'm no stranger to the perfect smile; I get my teeth whitened frequently, don't smoke, and try to avoid anything that might stain them as much as I can.

I practice in front of a mirror, knowing how to turn, how to raise one corner of my mouth, learning just how many teeth I need to show to look approachable instead of a feral animal. It's a skill I've been honing for years, even since before I got into acting, and I'm proud of my hard work. As I dash from corner to corner of this party, dodging every hand that lingers on the small of my back and alcohol-covered breaths against the back of my neck, I can't help but wish I were anywhere but here.

My champagne is too warm. I don't even like champagne, but it's a quick, easy distraction from sleazy executives and camera flashes. You'd think I would have gotten used to this by now.

The Absolutely! wrap party is in full swing. I've heard whispers about it being a strong contender for the upcoming awards season; while I'd love nothing more than to see everyone's hard work—including my own—be rewarded, I also know it's out of my hands. I need to celebrate with the cast and the crew before Matt—ugh—and I embark on the press tour.

Instead of enjoying myself and basking in the limelight of my success, I've spent the entire evening avoiding awkward, invasive questions about the implosion of my relationship just last month.

Because Oakley Collins and his publicist told me I needed to be a good sport following the breakup, despite my public humiliation and sobbing after discovering his near-constant infidelity, I had no choice. I'm happy to go to sleep at night knowing my reputation remains spotless, knowing I'm A Good Person™ who always puts other people's happiness and needs ahead of hers. They didn't say it with that many words, but I could still find the thinly veiled threat.

I needed to keep my mouth shut, admit to nothing, and pretend we went our separate ways amicably. He'll get to write songs about me and let his fans speculate about what a terrible person I am for letting him go, while I've been having to nurse a shattered heart and a bruised ego with no one to talk to about it.

To make it worse, Oakley-related things aren't the only menaces I've been trying to avoid. There's also the one person in this room who manages to annoy me and get under my skin more than any nosy journalist can.

Thinking about either Oakley or Matt is enough to make me down my (admittedly) nasty champagne and reach out for another one from a passing server. At least it gives me something to do with my hands instead of nervously fidgeting and picking at my cuticles until they bleed.

He's waiting for me. I think.

He's here somewhere, likely sulking in a corner, a glass of whiskey in his hand, and glaring at everyone who dares look his way. The worst part is that people like him; the whole 'I'm too cool for you peasants' act has turned him into an absolute delight to write about and interview, and people online go crazy for him. He even booked the interview with puppies.

As I take a sip of thankfully colder champagne, I spot him in the distance. Much to my chagrin, I can't deny he looks good—blond hair all messy from running his hands through it, jawline made even sharper by the lighting. The film director, Anna Cho, stands next to him, and they both try to entertain an elegantly dressed man.

Like he felt me staring at him, his eyes flicker to meet mine, and I stop in my tracks, a deer in headlights. When he smirks, something in my stomach coils and burns with scorching fury, a sensation worsened the second he excuses himself from the conversation and starts making his way towards me in swift strides.

I can't let my anger show. I can't look anything but composed, not when there's an entire narrative being spun about how I'm boy crazy, yet I can't keep a relationship and will bring chaos and destruction to the life of any poor guy who dares cross my path.

If I lose my temper, especially over something as insignificant as Matt Crain, it will be fuel to the fire, and I'm certain Oakley's PR team would love a public meltdown. His fans, the ones who hate me the most, would love nothing more than to have me confirm the nastiest things about me he weaves into his music are true.

This is supposed to be my big night. I can't let a stupid boy—either Matt or Oakley, it doesn't matter—ruin this for me.

He's so insufferable.

I straighten my shoulders, bracing myself for the impact of the wrecking ball, but I'm saved by a few other cast members. It's good we're both standing so close, they think, as it makes it easier to pull us into a group photo. In a group, he's less likely to say something brutally offensive to me, and it gives me a chance to take a deep breath and calm down.

Or so I thought.

He's right next to me, arm pressing against mine, and I can't breathe. His black shirt, which fits him perfectly, is unbuttoned at the top and the sleeves are rolled up, revealing his suntanned arms. If I didn't know any better, he could pass as the golden boy, a real-life Englishman in New York, and he gets anything he wants just by batting his lashes, showing off his pearly whites . . . and looking at people with those eyes.

Azure, like the summer skies, always twinkling with an emotion I can't identify. The unknown is scary for a reason, unpredictable, and I can't afford to have any unforeseen events ruin everything for me.

He charms everyone everywhere he goes. It's his stupid British charm, I bet.

"One last picture together before you two embark on the greatest publicity tour of all time," Anna teases. She's wearing a lemon-yellow gown, glowing like the sun as she should. The movie would be nothing without her. "I'm going to miss us hanging out together."

"I can't wait," Matt retorts. I wish he'd move his stupid arm away or stand somewhere else—anywhere else. In the distance, I spot the characteristic bright flash of a camera. It's important that I'm on my best behavior, now more than ever, and I can't let either Matt or Oakley win by seeing me stumble or falter. All eyes are on me, especially now, and anything can easily go viral—either for a good or a bad reason. I intend to be the former. "I bet Esme here is jumping with joy."

I force myself to smile, the same way I've been doing all evening. "Oh, yes. Can't wait to see your face every day for days on end everywhere I go."

"Always so nice."

"I know."

"See, you could do everyone a favor and admit you're actually looking forward to this."

"If I say yes, will you leave me alone?"

He chuckles. "Unlikely. We're stuck together."

I roll my eyes at his refusal to take the not-so-subtle hint. Another camera flash blinds me, catching me mid-gesture, and I know my face will be plastered on social media as a reaction picture in no time. Brilliant.

Noticing my restlessness, a combination of the bubbly, not great champagne, Matt's lingering presence, and all the questions about Oakley I've had to dodge tonight, Anna gives me a gentle yet tight hug before she walks away to mingle. She feels like the older sister I've never had, someone I can look up to and rely on for advice on how to navigate an industry that hates women—especially successful women.

Matt doesn't leave.

He's not doing me any favors, even when he steps right in front of a camera to block the shot. I feel my bottom lip quiver, my resolve faltering, but I blame it all on exhaustion. Now that filming is over, there are still a few days to go before we embark on the press tour, so maybe I can convince my agent to let me enjoy some well-deserved rest.

Who am I kidding? Sadie Choi has never rested one day in her life.

Groaning, I down what's left of my champagne. It's a badly thought-out idea; it makes me shudder and spill some droplets all over myself and my silver dress—Oscar de la Renta—with how badly my hands are shaking.

"You seem nervous," Matt comments, twirling his glass. I'd like nothing more than to yank it from his hand and dump it over his head, but he easily towers over me, even when I'm wearing stilettos. "I've been told I have that effect on people. Make the girls go weak on their knees."

"I'm not nervous."

"You're a good actress, Mendoza, sure. You're not that good."

"Sure I'm not. I've managed to convince the entire cast and crew and every person in attendance tonight that just looking at you doesn't make me want to tear my hair out."

"You're into hair-pulling? That's cute. I'd pegged you as a lot more vanilla."

I barely fail to hold back an incredulous gasp. "Like I'd ever want to do anything with you—"

"Feeling's mutual, sunshine. You'd have to be marginally more interesting for that." He steals a bright yellow macaron from a tray nearby, spinning it around and breaking it in half like an Oreo. He watches me watch him as he licks the filling, tongue flicking across it in a way that surely cannot be legal. "You're gawking."

"You're exasperating."

His lips, plump and delightful and delicious—I would know, as I've spent months kissing them—pucker. "Is that really what you think of me?"

I should just walk away from him, refuse to take the bait, refuse to engage in this conversation. There are cameras, ears, and eyes everywhere; anything we do can easily be used against us. I can't risk ruining the movie before it's even released, but I can't let stupid Matt Crain win this war.

"I don't think about you," I hiss. "You're a pebble in my shoe. A piece of gum glued to my hair."

"A fever you can't sweat out?"

I scoff. "As if. I think you're an insecure, petulant man-child who thrives on making everyone's life on set a living hell because you think it's funny. Something bad probably happened to you that made you like this, or maybe you're just an asshole for the sake of being an asshole. I don't know. I don't care. I think you're painfully lonely, but it's easier to deal with it by forcing yourself to be lonely instead of confronting your fears. You act as if you're above everyone else, when in reality you're just a scared, entitled little boy who has never been told 'no', so you expect everyone to drop everything they're doing to cater to you. Newsflash, pretty boy—that's not how the world works."

His eyes darken with challenge. "Is that all?"

"There's plenty more where that came from, actually. Better get acquainted with it; I'm sure you'll love having me around during the press tour."

"So, here's what I think about Esme Mendoza. I think you're boring. I think you're fake. I think this whole sunshine and rainbows, optimism and positivity act is just that—a façade." The words slice me open, right across my heart, but I swallow the lump in my throat and force myself to keep it together. "You think you have people all figured out because you assume you're self-aware, but I don't think you know yourself nearly as well as you think you do."

My eyes narrow. "And, pray tell, who does know me? You?"

"No. But I think you should stop trying so hard to make everyone love you and put you on a pedestal. If anything, they'll only want to put you up there so they can push you off it and revel in your disgrace." He clinks his glass against mine in a slow toast, even though they're both empty. "You're not nearly as perfect as you want to come across."

"If you think I'm that terrible of a person, why are you still here?"

It's only now that I notice how close to each other we're standing, chest nearly brushing. Our heated exchange made us step forward, to where there's barely any space between us.

I'm the first to step back. Not because I want to concede defeat, but because I can't have people dissect this interaction.

Matt tilts his head to the side. "I'm an actor, darling. I pretend."

"This is your greatest performance yet, then. You're doing a fantastic job of pretending to tolerate me."

"Ah, yes. That's what I'm pretending to do." He finishes his macaron. "For the record, I don't think you're a terrible person. Oakley Collins isn't cutting you any slack in his songs"—I instinctively straighten at the mention of Oakley—"but please don't insult my intelligence by assuming I'm incapable of critical thought and reading between the lines."

"Could have fooled me."

He doesn't answer. He spins around on his heel, then finally walks away from me.

I refuse to let him ruin this for me.

Somehow, he already has.

And that's a problem.

˗ˏˋ★‿︵‧ ˚ ₊

hi gang!

how are we feeling??

i'm feeling exhausted personally. i'm not 100% happy with how this chapter turned out buuuut. ya know. gotta take the win when you can lmao

please let me know your thoughts!!