5. I Deserved It
I DESERVED IT
LIAM
The party continued around me as if I hadn’t just been assaulted with baked goods by a woman who haunted my childhood and apparently my adulthood too.
And the source of my current annoyance wasn’t Deepika. No, my annoyance was currently wearing the same golden dress as Deepika and giggling at literally every word coming out of her trashy boyfriend’s mouth.
Diya Sharma.
“Oh my God, Yash, you’re so funny!” she squealed, touching his arm like he had just invented comedy.
Yash, Deepika’s ex-boyfriend, was objectively handsome in that generic leading-man way that made me instantly distrust him. I had seen his films during long plane rides to competitions, usually when I couldn’t sleep and needed something mind-numbing.
The man couldn’t act for shit. I had seen better acting in cat food advertisements. By the cats.
Which made it extra annoying that Deepika had been in two of those films, and every time she was on screen, I couldn’t look away. There was a magnetism to her, a raw honesty in the way she inhabited a character that made everyone else look like they were playing dress-up.
And I fucking hated that I noticed. I hated that even now I could remember specific scenes. I hated that I hated Yash’s terrible acting even more, because it made her look better by comparison.
Noticing her talent in the film was infuriating, since I was supposed to hate her.
“Liam!” Valentina appeared at my elbow, phone in hand, barely suppressing a grin. “You need to see this.”
She turned her screen toward me, and there it was. The video footage of the Great Cupcake Incident, already uploaded and going viral.
The video had everything. The champagne throw in perfect slow motion.
My ‘accidental’ bump sending Deepika into the dessert table.
Her face covered in frosting, looking like a very angry and very beautiful accident victim.
And then the cupcake, red velvet with cream cheese frosting, hit me square in the face.
The comments were already flooding in:
@RomanceLover2026: This is the sexual tension I NEED
@ShipperQueen: They’re going to kill each other or kiss and I’m here for BOTH
@SportsGossip: Olympic Swimmer vs. Hollywood Rising Star: THE FEUD WE DIDN’T KNOW WE NEEDED
“Your ship name and hashtag Liamika is already trending,” Valentina said, giggling. “You two are everywhere. Twitter, Instagram, TikTok, and someone already made an edit with ‘Enemies to Lovers’ music.”
I pretended to gag and closed my eyes. “Kill me now.”
“Oh, come on. It’s kind of cute,” she said, patting my shoulder. “Listen, I’m going to head out. I have a shoot at six, and this party is…” she glanced at Diya, who was now practically sitting in Yash’s lap. “Getting weird.”
“Thanks for coming,” I said sincerely, giving her a side hug.
“Thanks for the viral moment. My follower count is already up,” she said, kissing my cheek. “Good luck with... whatever this is, and give me updates, because I ship Deiam too.”
She winked and left me alone with my ruined Tom Ford jacket draped over a chair, my shirt slightly damp from champagne, and the lingering smell of frosting in my hair even though I had already washed it off.
I wasn’t surprised when Deepika walked back into the party a few minutes later.
Marcus Reynolds was at her side, looking amused, and she had somehow cleaned most of the frosting off, though her hair was still slightly damp and her golden dress had visible stains.
She held her head high, greeting guests as if she hadn’t just committed assault with pastries, accepting compliments on her dress with a smile that didn’t quite reach her dark eyes.
She didn’t look at me and didn’t even glance in my direction.
I should have been relieved.
Instead, I was annoyed all over again, fidgeting with the champagne glass I was holding.
Diya bounced over to her as if they were in a Disney movie and said something too quiet for me to hear. Deepika’s smile went brittle, and she nodded once before turning away.
The twin thing was disorienting. They had almost similar faces with the same basic features. But Deepika had this sharpness to her, this edge that Diya didn’t have. Where Diya was soft and giggly, Deepika was all angles and fire.
And she was also taller than Diya.
I hated that I could tell them apart so easily.
Two hours later, Marcus had left. Not that I noticed or anything. I watched Ethan and Kiara do their rounds, thanking guests and looking disgustingly happy.
I found myself at the bar, nursing what had to be my fourth or fifth glass of champagne, when a familiar voice said, “Move. You’re in my spot.”
Great. Just what I needed.
Her hair was tucked over her ear, letting me gaze at her freely, and she looked tired in a way that made her seem almost human. Almost.
“It’s a bar,” I said. “There are no assigned spots.”
“There are now,” she said, shouldering past me and signaling the bartender. “Tequila, please. I need the good stuff.”
The bartender was a kid who looked barely twenty-one himself, and he looked between us with visible concern.
“You two need shots or therapy?”
Ha. Good question.
“Shots,” we both said in unison.
He poured, and we drank.
Silence stretched between us, and it was uncomfortable, since whenever we met, it was chaotic.
“I can’t believe you’re still an ass after all these years,” she said finally, staring at her empty shot glass.
“I can’t believe you’re still holding grudges.”
She turned to look at me, and her eyes were darker than I remembered. The kohl makeup around them made them look mysterious and so fucking pre—hurt.
She looked angry.
“You humiliated me all the time when we were kids.”
“You pushed me into a pool and tried to drown me.”
“You deserved it.”
“Probably,” I shrugged and signaled for another round. “But you still tried to drown me.”
“You lost my grandmother’s ring.”
“It was a fucking accident,” I said, rolling my eyes.
“You told everyone my bra size on Valentine’s Day,” she said, scoffing at me.
And even though she didn’t look like it bothered her now, it still felt like a punch to the gut.
We had been circling this for seventeen years, never addressing it, and never acknowledging the elephant in every room we occupied together.
“That,” I said slowly. “Was not an accident. That was me being a dick.”
She blinked at me, surprised by the admission.
“I’m sorry,” I continued, the words feeling rusty and awkward. “I’m sorry about the Valentine’s Day thing. I was fourteen and stupid, and you hit a nerve about Kiara, and I lashed out. It was cruel, and you didn’t deserve it.”
The tequila was making me honest, and that was a dangerous line to cross. Especially with her around.
Deepika stared at me for a long moment before she said, “I’m sorry I pushed you in the pool and tried to drown you.”
“It’s okay. I deserved it.”
“You really did.”
I looked at her, and the impossible happened. The corner of my lips turned up as we laughed. It was the first genuine, real laugh in a long time that came from somewhere deep and unexpected, fueled by tequila and seventeen years of unresolved tension.
“Another round,” Deepika told the bartender.
“I really think you two have had enough—”
“You heard the lady,” I said. “Another round.”
Five shots later, we were both thoroughly hammered.
The world had that pleasant fuzzy quality where everything was funny and nothing hurt as much. Everything felt blurred on the edges and I enjoyed the feeling.
Deepika’s hair looked luscious and thick, falling in waves around her shoulders. She had kicked off her heels at some point, and there was still a tiny smudge of frosting behind her ear that I wanted to point out but couldn’t quite form the words.
“I bet I can drink more than you,” she announced, swaying slightly.
“You’re on, Sharma.”
“Wait, what are we betting?”
I thought about it, the alcohol making everything slow and syrupy. “Loser has to admit the other one isn’t completely terrible.”
“Deal.”
We shook on it. And I noticed that her hand was smaller than mine. Her palm was warm, and she held on a fraction too long.
A couple more shots later, we both lost track of who was winning.
“Your twin sister is annoying,” I said, too loudly.
“I know, right?” She said, throwing her hands up. “She giggles at everything that dumbass spouts. Everything. Yash could recite the phone book and she w-would act like it was Shakespeare.”
“Yash can’t act for shit.”
“Thank you!” She grabbed my arm for emphasis, and I liked how it felt.
“I’ve been saying this for years. He’s terrible.
But everyone loves him because he’s ‘charming’ and ‘handsome’ and…
” She made air quotes that nearly knocked over her glass.
“‘Has great chemistry with his co-stars.’ What a bunch of bullshit!”
“You have better chemistry with inanimate objects than he has with other actors,” I pointed out.
She nodded proudly and stopped to blink at me. She tilted her head, so I also followed her action.
“Was that a compliment?”
I shook my head. “Don’t let it go to your head, Sharma.”
“Too late. I’m framing it,” she grinned, and it was the first genuine smile I had seen from her all night. “Liam James thinks I’m talented. Alert the media. The TMZ. The Times.”
“They’re already alerted. We are trending, remember? Hashtag Liamika.”
“That’s a terrible couple’s name,” she grimaced.
“We’re not a couple.”
“Obviously.”
But she was still smiling, and I was still staring, and the alcohol was making everything feel significant.
“We should go,” I said eventually, when the party had thinned to just a few stragglers, and Ethan and Kiara had long since said their goodbyes. “Neither of us can drive.”
“Hotel,” Deepika said. “Two beds, though.”
“Obviously.”
“I’m serious. Two beds. I’m not sleeping with you.”
“I wouldn’t sleep with you if you were the last woman on Earth, Sharma,” I confessed, letting her hold my arm and be a gentleman with her for once.
“Good.”
“Great.”
We glared at each other, and I couldn’t remember why we were arguing.
I booked a room on my phone at the nicest hotel nearby because I was drunk, but not drunk enough to forget I had standards. Two beds. I checked. Double-checked and, for good measure, triple-checked.
Because if it turned out to be one bed, Deepika would never let that go.
The elevator ride down from the rooftop was quiet, both of us sobering slightly in the fluorescent lights. Deepika leaned against the wall, her golden dress rumpled, her makeup smudged, looking nothing like the polished actress who had walked in hours ago.
She looked genuine and so beautiful in a way that had nothing to do with her stylists or that tight dress showing her ample curves or the warm lighting.
Thankfully, I didn’t have to stare at her for too long when our cab arrived. My house was nearby, but… taking her there felt too intimate and scary. As if we were crossing a line, so the hotel was a safe bet.
Unfortunately, the hotel elevator was smaller and more intimate.
We stood on opposite sides, the hum of machinery the only sound besides our breathing. The alcohol was still warming my blood, making everything feel slower, heavier, and more dangerous.
Deepika’s dress strap had slipped off her shoulder, and she didn’t move to fix it.
My hand clenched at my side, looking anywhere but at her slender throat, the curve of her collarbones or the cleavage—remember you made fun of her bra size like an idiot?
Her cheeks were flushed from the alcohol and from the California heat, or maybe she was blushing? Her eyes were soft in a way I had never seen before, and I didn’t like the effect they had on me.
She was looking at me the same way I was looking at her. And neither of us wanted to look away.
“You look terrible,” I said, my voice rougher than intended.
She bit her lip and swallowed hard. “So do you, Fish Boy.”
Fish Boy. The nickname from when we were eight, when I would spend entire summers in the pool.
“Deepika, I—”
She stepped forward, closing the distance between us. Not touching, but close enough that I could smell her perfume mixed with champagne and sugar.
“Don’t,” she whispered. “Don’t say whatever you’re about to say.”
“Why not?”
“Because we hate each other.”
“Do we?”
Her eyes dropped to my mouth. “Yes.”
“You’re a terrible liar, Sharma.”
“You’re a terrible person, Fish Boy.”
“Probably I am.”
I was terrible because I was having inappropriate thoughts about my nemesis. About her. Which involved little to no clothes and her pretty face flushed with sweat and blush.
The elevator doors tried to close when we didn’t step off. I held them open, my other hand braced against the wall behind her, not touching but close enough to feel the heat radiating off her skin.
“We’re drunk,” she said, but she didn’t step back.
“Very.”
“This is a bad idea,” she said.
“The worst,” I agreed.
Her hand came up, fingers ghosting over my collar, not quite touching but close enough to make my breath catch.
“Two beds?” she asked.
“Two beds,” I nodded.
Neither of us moved.
The elevator alarm started beeping, angry that we were holding it.
Deepika’s eyes met mine, dark and endless and full of want.
“We should—” I started.
She kissed me.
Or I kissed her.
I wasn’t sure who moved first, just that suddenly her mouth was on mine and my hands were in her hair and seventeen years of hatred combusted into something else entirely.