London, 7:42 PM — West End, Outside the Lyric Theatre

“Is it true?”

“Are they dating?"

“Jameson! Avery! Over here, look this way!”

Flashbulbs exploded like miniature suns. Jameson Parker clenched his jaw and tugged his hood lower. The crowd was relentless their camera phones raised, their questions rapid-fire and personal. Beside him, Avery Rose Scott kept her head high, smile practiced, hand steady at her side. Not touching him. Not denying it.

They were good. That much couldn’t be denied. Professional. Controlled. Convincing.

Which only made the rumors burn hotter.

"Smile, love," Jameson murmured out of the corner of his mouth. "You're the starlet. Give them the show they paid for."

“I’m not here to be a headline,” she replied, voice sharp but quiet. “I’m here to act.”

He glanced sideways at her, amused. “Same thing, really.”

They stepped into the awaiting black car. The door shut. Silence fell like a curtain.

Inside the cab, the energy changed. Avery exhaled, her shoulders relaxing just a notch. Jameson leaned back, legs stretched out arrogantly. The driver said nothing he’d driven more celebrities in more awkward silences. This was nothing new.

Except maybe, it was.

Avery turned her face away, watching the glittering lights of Shaftesbury Avenue blur past. Her thoughts were not with the stage tonight. Nor the critics. Nor the co-stars, makeup artists, agents, or theatre gossip accounts who lived to dissect her every breath.

Her thoughts were with him. The man beside her.

The man she was supposed to hate.

The man who, last night, had touched her bare shoulder backstage and whispered: “You made me believe again.”

She shouldn’t have cared. Shouldn’t have blushed. Shouldn’t have wanted it to happen again.

But she did.

God help her, she did.

Three Weeks Earlier

Avery

“Jameson Parker? You cannot be serious.”

Avery blinked at her agent as if he’d just suggested she perform Hamlet in a bikini. “He’s toxic. Tabloid gold. He hasn’t had a clean headline in six months.”

Marcus sleek, silver-haired, and not in the mood rubbed his temples. “Which is exactly why this works.”

“Explain it to me slowly, then, so I don’t throw this coffee at your head.”

He smirked. “Look, Twelfth Night is going to be massive. New direction. Big names. Think edgy Shakespeare. You’re the breakout star, and Jameson’s—”

“—a walking PR disaster.”

“—a ticket magnet,” Marcus corrected, leaning forward. “You light up the screen, Avery. But the West End? It’s brutal. You need to dazzle. Parker dazzles — when he isn’t punching photographers.”

She crossed her arms. “He’s arrogant. Difficult. Reckless.”

“He’s also brilliant, and if you two don’t set the theatre on fire with your chemistry, I’ll eat my own tie.”

She stared at him. Then at the contract. Then back again.

“Fine,” she said coolly. “But if he so much as smirks at me, I walk.”

Jameson

“What’s this one’s name again?” Jameson asked, flicking ash from his cigarette.

His new manager, Lily, didn’t even look up. “Avery Rose Scott. Trained at RADA. Breakout in Belgravia Blue. Critical darling. Currently being groomed for national treasure status. Don’t mess it up.”

“Sounds boring,” Jameson muttered.

“She’s the opposite of boring. That’s the problem.”

He raised an eyebrow.

“She’s sharp. Smart. Not afraid to put you in your place. She’s not going to fall for your pretty-boy crap or tolerate your tantrums.”

Jameson grinned lazily. “Sounds fun already.”

Lily snapped her notebook shut. “Try to make it through the first week without a scandal.”

He shrugged. “No promises.”

First Rehearsal

The rehearsal room buzzed with nervous energy. Folding chairs, scripts, coffee cups, and egos. Avery stood at the far end, skimming her lines. Viola was a dream role layered, witty, vulnerable.

Across the room, Jameson made his entrance all leather jacket, stormy eyes, and the kind of smirk that screamed trouble.

“Miss Scott,” he said, voice like velvet soaked in whiskey. “Lovely to meet you.”

Avery didn’t offer her hand.

He noticed.

She raised her chin. “Let’s just get something straight, Parker. I’m not here to babysit your reputation.”

“Fair enough.” He leaned closer. “But who’s babysitting yours?”

A few people laughed.

She didn’t.

But she did notice the way his eyes darkened when he looked at her. Not mocking. Not playful. Just… intense.

Like she wasn’t just a co-star. She was a challenge.

And he was already losing.

Scene: Act I, Scene IV – “Disguise, I see, thou art a wickedness…”

“Say the line again,” the director snapped.

“Slower. Like you mean it.”

Avery swallowed hard. Jameson’s hand was on her waist part of the scene. But it burned like a brand.

“Disguise,” she said, her voice steady, “I see, thou art a wickedness, wherein the pregnant enemy does much.”

Jameson’s gaze locked on hers.

“Slow it down,” the director barked again.

“I am slowing it—”

Jameson cut in softly. “You’re too stiff.”

She turned sharply. “Excuse me?”

His voice lowered, just for her. “You’re overthinking it. You want him. But you can’t have him. That’s the tension. Let it build.”

“You don’t think I can handle tension?”

“I think you’re afraid to feel it.”

Avery stared at him.

His hand slid a fraction lower.

The director clapped once. “Again. From the top.”

Tabloids — One Week Later

London Flame

This just in: romance takes center stage as West End theatre’s Jameson Parker steps out with none other than castmate Avery Rose Scott.

Jameson Parker used to be the hottest actor in London, but the only thing firing up lately is his temper.

We all love to love a bad boy, but Jameson's antics have made him Enemy Number One, breaking hearts across the city.

Have the tides turned? Has English Avery Rose Scott made him into a new man?

Sources say the mismatched pair has been spotted at multiple events, arm in arm and hip to hip. From fits of jealousy to longing looks and heated whispers, onlookers are stunned by this blooming romance.

Could the rumors be right? Could this unlikely romance be the real thing? Or are these gifted stage actors playing us all?

Backstage — That Night

Avery stormed into the green room, shoving her phone in Jameson’s face. “Did you see this?”

He glanced at the screen, unfazed. “Looks like a decent photo of you.”

“You don’t care they’re making up lies?”

“Are they?”

She paused.

He leaned in, brushing a stray curl behind her ear. “Because if they are… we could always make them true.”

She slapped his hand away — but her heart was hammering.

“I don’t do fake press romances.”

“I wasn’t offering fake.”

He left her staring, breathless and off-script for the first time in her career.

End of Prologue

London, West End — 8:03 PM

Rain always added a touch of drama to the West End, like the city itself understood the importance of mood. Tonight, even the weather played its part.

Outside the gilded entrance of the Langdon Theatre, paparazzi clustered like wolves behind velvet ropes, cameras raised like weapons. The premiere of The Hollow Crown a modern revival celebrating Shakespeare’s most tragic heroes had already drawn the crème of London’s acting elite.

But no one was waiting for them.

They were waiting for him. And now, her.

Jameson Parker stepped from the black car first, the flashbulbs catching the glint of his cufflinks and the deep midnight blue of his tailored tux. Hair tousled just right, jaw shadowed in that perfectly careless stubble, he was the devil dressed as a prince.

And behind him, Avery Rose Scott emerged like a secret no one expected.

Her gown shimmered like ink spilled over stars black, sleek, off-the-shoulder, hugging her figure like the night itself had stitched it to her skin. Her curls were pinned high, her lips the same sharp red as the heel that clicked against the pavement. The rain misted down, kissing her bare shoulders.

There was a collective gasp. Then-

"JAMESON! AVERY! OVER HERE!"

He turned, flashing that infamous crooked grin. She didn’t smile. She didn’t have to. Her silence was magnetic.

And when he held out his arm?

She took it.

A thousand lenses clicked as they ascended the carpet, together.

Inside the Theatre

Avery could feel the weight of his hand on the small of her back as they moved through the crowd. It wasn't inappropriate. It wasn't intimate. It was simply there as if he had every right to touch her. Like they belonged to each other.

She hated how steady it made her feel.

“You clean up well,” Jameson whispered.

She didn’t look at him. “You mean I look like I’m playing the part of the woman who hasn’t had second thoughts all week?”

He smirked. “Well. You’re good at pretending.”

She finally glanced sideways. “And you’re good at making people wonder what’s real.”

Their publicist, Dee short, sharp, and already on her third glass of champagne rushed over before either of them could finish that thought.

“Gorgeous, both of you,” she hissed between clenched teeth. “Jameson, for the love of all things holy, no scowling. Avery, keep your hand on his arm when we pass the press pit. And smile. You’re England’s next sweetheart, not someone planning his murder.”

“I make no promises,” Avery muttered.

Dee didn’t laugh. “People already think you’re sleeping together. If we’re going to ride this press train, ride it like professionals.”

“We’re not sleeping together,” Avery snapped, cheeks flushing.

Dee raised one immaculately waxed brow. “Not yet. But God, for once, could you two just pretend you like each other in public?”

“We’re actors,” Jameson said smoothly. “That’s the one thing we’re brilliant at.”

Later — The Balcony Bar, 10:41 PM

The event rolled into its second hour. Champagne flowed, celebrities mingled, and the press stood just close enough to eavesdrop. Jameson found himself alone on the upper balcony, cigarette in hand, staring out over the Thames.

The lights blurred in the drizzle. The sky was a bruise of purples and greys. He liked it this way London just before midnight, like a stage being stripped down after the show.

He didn't hear Avery approach.

“You really don’t care, do you?”

He turned slightly, caught the flash of her in the dark the soft curve of her neck, the long, bare line of her back. Her dress dipped lower than he remembered.

“Care about what?” he asked.

“How everyone talks about you. About us.”

He blew out smoke, slow and careless. “They’ve always talked.”

She stepped beside him, not touching, but close enough to smell the bergamot and salt of his cologne.

“You could stop them,” she said. “If you wanted to.”

“And say what? That it’s all fake?”

“That it’s not.”

The air stilled.

Jameson glanced at her. “Would it be so terrible if it weren’t?”

Avery hesitated — one heartbeat too long.

“That’s not the point.”

His voice was low. “Then what is?”

She looked away, toward the glittering water. Her throat worked, as if she wanted to say something and swallowed it instead.

“You know,” he murmured, “for someone who’s supposed to hate me, you sure don’t seem in a rush to leave.”

She turned to him slowly. “I don’t hate you.”

His brow lifted. “That almost sounded like a compliment.”

“It’s not. I just… don’t trust you.”

That made him laugh, dark and amused. “Smart girl.”

Flashback: A Week Ago – Rehearsal Room

The script pages fluttered to the floor as they broke from the scene breathless, heated, too close.

“You feel it too,” Jameson whispered.

Avery stared at him, pulse hammering in her neck.

“I feel the need to breathe without your voice in my ear,” she said sharply.

But her voice cracked. Just slightly.

He noticed.

“Liar.”

Before she could move, he stepped back. Gone. Out of reach again.

And yet, it lingered whatever had been between them. It followed them now, into every moment offstage. Every photo. Every whisper.

Present – Balcony Bar

Down below, someone called Avery’s name.

“You should go,” Jameson said, flicking his cigarette off the edge.

She looked down, watching the glowing ember vanish in the dark.

“I know what people think of you,” she said quietly. “What you’ve done. The temper. The drama. The breakups.”

He didn’t speak.

“But then I see you with your niece backstage. Or how you still thank the tech crew. Or how you know every line of the play, even when you’re not on.”

He turned to her, slow and measured. “You’ve been watching me.”

She nodded. “We all do. But I think I might actually be seeing you.”

A pause.

“You still don’t trust me?” he asked.

“No,” she said. “But maybe I’m beginning to wonder if I want to.”

The silence stretched between them, taut and heavy.

And then she turned to go.

But he caught her wrist.

Not hard. Not demanding. Just... holding her there.

His eyes searched hers. "Avery."

She didn’t speak.

He leaned forward, just enough to brush his lips near her cheek — not quite a kiss. A threat of one.

“They’ll write about this,” she whispered.

“Let them,” he said.

Tabloid Headlines — The Next Morning

STAGE FLAMES OR REAL SPARKS?

Jameson Parker & Avery Scott share “intimate moment” at The Hollow Crown premiere.

Sources say the pair were spotted alone on the balcony, talking closely, with visible tension.

Could it be a classic PR stunt? Or are these two falling off-script and into something scandalously real?

Meanwhile — Avery’s Apartment, 8:17 AM

She tossed the paper aside, muttering a curse.

The kettle boiled, but she didn’t move.

Because all night, she hadn’t slept.

Not because of the headlines.

But because she could still feel his hand on her wrist.

Still hear him say her name like it mattered.

End of Chapter One

West End — Langdon Theatre, Rehearsal Studio, 2:12 PM

There were a hundred things Avery hated more than improvisation, but most of them involved root canals or the sound of chewing in libraries.

So when the director clapped his hands and announced, “Let’s play with the scene! Loosen it up. No scripts. Trust each other,” she nearly threw a folding chair.

Jameson, of course, looked like a cat who’d found a sunbeam and a mouse in the same spot.

“Improvisation?” he purred, voice dark with anticipation. “Finally. Something dangerous.”

Avery stood at center stage, arms crossed, eyes narrowed. “If you try to kiss me without warning, I will slap you.”

Jameson tilted his head. “What if it’s in character?”

“Then your character’s about to learn how Viola handles inappropriate advances.”

The ensemble laughed, but the tension beneath it was razor-edged.

The director circled them like a proud lion tamer. “Start at the shipwreck scene. Avery, you’re disoriented. Jameson, you’re the stranger. No lines. Just truth. Let it breathe.”

Jameson took a step forward.

Avery instinctively took one back.

Too late. The game had begun.

Scene: Unscripted

Jameson’s voice lowered, almost gentle. “You’re far from shore.”

“I’m not lost,” she said coolly. “I’m in disguise.”

He circled her. “You think you can hide behind that voice? Those clothes?”

“Better than hiding behind fame.”

His jaw twitched. “I never hid. I just burned everything in sight until no one could see me.”

Avery faltered. Just for a beat. The line wasn’t in the script. But it was real.

“I don’t pity you,” she said, recovering.

“You should. It’s safer than wanting me.”

The air thickened. Their bodies were close now too close. Breath mingling. Unscripted intimacy.

“Cut!” the director finally called, clapping. “Excellent. Bloody electric.”

The room burst into murmurs of approval, applause. Jameson held Avery’s gaze another second, then turned smoothly and walked away.

Her heart was still racing.

She hated him for knowing it.

Break Room — 3:04 PM

Avery stirred her tea violently.

“You okay?” Lily, Jameson’s manager, leaned on the counter beside her.

“Define ‘okay.’”

“Still breathing. Still furious. Still in denial.”

Avery gave her a side-eye. “What exactly are you implying?”

“That you’re either about to kill him or sleep with him, and I can’t decide which is worse for your career.”

“I’m not sleeping with Jameson Parker.”

“Shame. You two would burn London to ash.”

Avery sipped her tea, cheeks flushed. “He’s reckless. Chaotic. He wants to ruin everything.”

“He wants to feel something again,” Lily said softly. “And so do you.”

Avery didn’t reply.

Downstairs — Dressing Room Hallway

Jameson leaned against the wall, scrolling through messages. He could hear Avery laughing behind the closed breakroom door. The sound twisted something in his chest. Not unpleasant. Not safe.

“Still sniffing around your leading lady?”

The voice stopped him cold.

Jameson looked up, eyes darkening. Standing across from him in a cream coat and designer boots was her Celine Maddox. Actress. Model. Ex-girlfriend. Tabloid queen.

“Didn’t realize ghosts were allowed backstage,” he said flatly.

Celine smiled with a mouth that had ruined careers. “You always had a flair for dramatics.”

“What do you want?”

“Just visiting. Old times. New gossip.”

Jameson stepped forward, voice a quiet threat. “Stay away from Avery.”

She blinked, amused. “Oh, so it’s true then?”

“Goodbye, Celine.”

But as he turned, she added, “She’s too clean for you. You’ll drag her down.”

He didn’t respond.

Because deep down, he feared she was right.

Later That Night — Avery’s Flat

Her phone buzzed.

[Jameson]: You awake?

She stared at the screen. Then at the glass of wine in her hand. Then back again.

[Avery]: Shouldn’t you be charming someone else tonight?

[Jameson]: Can’t. You ruined all other company for me.

She rolled her eyes. And smiled. Stupidly.

[Avery]: What do you want, Parker?

[Jameson]: Five minutes. Out front. No pressure.

She debated. Fought herself.

Then grabbed her coat.

Outside — 9:03 PM

He leaned against his motorbike like every bad decision she’d ever been warned about.

No helmet. Just that lazy grin and storm-lit eyes.

“Don’t you know how to knock?” she said, arms folded.

“You’d have said no.”

“I still might.”

He handed her a coffee. “Figured it’s safer than wine.”

She took it reluctantly. “Thanks.”

They stood in silence.

“You were incredible today,” he said at last.

“You threw me off. That wasn’t in the script.”

“It was real.”

Avery stared down at the cup in her hands. “That’s the problem.”

He turned toward her, voice low. “Why?”

“Because I don’t know where the performance ends and you begin.”

His answer was barely a whisper.

“Neither do I.”

Flashback: 2 Months Ago Jameson’s Last Relationship

He’d thrown a glass at the wall. She’d thrown his script in the fire. They’d kissed like it was a war.

It always ended badly.

That’s what he was used to.

But Avery?

Avery had rules. She didn’t let you touch unless it was in character. Didn’t flirt unless it was a line. Didn’t trust unless you earned it.

And that terrified him more than any scandal ever had.

Present — Outside Avery’s Flat

The drizzle turned to rain. Neither moved.

Jameson shifted closer. “You know, if we kissed right now, they’d write about it for a week.”

She laughed. “So tempting.”

“Not for them. For me.”

Avery looked up, heart thudding. “Is that what this is? PR?”

“No,” he said, voice raw. “That’s what I want them to think. So they don’t see what’s really happening.”

“And what’s that?”

“I’m falling for you.”

Avery’s breath caught.

But before she could speak, a camera flashed from across the street blinding, undeniable.

Paparazzi.

Jameson pulled her closer instinctively, shielding her.

But it was too late.

The story was already being written.

Tabloid Leak — Next Morning

KISS OR COVER-UP?

Jameson Parker caught in “intimate moment” outside co-star Avery Scott’s flat.

Sources claim the actor is pursuing a real-life romance but others say it’s just clever promotion.

What’s the truth behind this theatre power couple?

End of Chapter Two