Chapter One: Curtain Call for Pretending

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.