80 - The Kiss That Broke the Rules
The camera clicked one final time before the director raised his hand.
"Alright, we'll take a short break—fifteen minutes. Touch up makeup, rehydrate, relax a little. We'll start the next setup soon."
Scarlett stepped back the moment the words left his mouth, creating a noticeable space between her and Ethan—as if she needed air, distance, anything to stop feeling like her skin was still humming from his touch.
She didn't say a word as she walked to the side, loosening her hold on the heavy gown's skirt. Linda followed her with a bottle of water, chatting lightly, but Scarlett only half-listened, her mind swirling with what had just happened.
Ethan, meanwhile, remained exactly where he was. Unmoving. His arms folded, his jaw tight.
Why did she freeze like that?
He shouldn't care.
He didn't care.
Except... he did. He'd felt her breath hitch. Seen her struggle. Her eyes had spoken volumes—uncertainty, conflict, vulnerability.
It wasn't supposed to matter. But it did.
And that was the problem.
He ran a hand through his hair and exhaled sharply.
Pull yourself together, Ethan. She's just your wife—on paper. This is business. You're doing what needs to be done.
Then he heard her voice, light and familiar, excited tobut softened in a way she hadn't spoken to him in weeks.
"Andrian?"
He turned his head slightly.
Scarlett had stepped aside, phone pressed to her ear, a faint smile curving her lips.
"Yes, we're still at the studio... No, it's going fine... just a bit exhausting."
Her tone was casual, warm.
Ethan's jaw clenched unconsciously.
Adrian.
The name alone was enough to sour his mood. He didn't even need to hear the rest.
Scarlett laughed quietly into the phone. "No, I'm not alone. Linda's here. And—Ethan's somewhere around. It's for the new campaign, remember?"
A pause.
Then she said, "Wait—you're here? In the office?"
Ethan's head snapped up.
"Really? You want to come here?" she asked. "Now?"
Another pause. "Alright. Sure. I'd love that. I'll text you the location."
Her voice dropped slightly, more intimate. She ended the call, still smiling.
Ethan turned his back on her, muttering something to the director about lighting. His eyes had darkened.
Of course he had to show up. As if this photoshoot wasn't complicated enough already.
He didn't say a word as Scarlett returned to her seat, retouching her lipstick in the mirror. But when the director clapped his hands and called them back in, something had shifted in Ethan.
The warmth he'd shown during the first half of the shoot had vanished.
He was all business now—stern, cold, commanding.
"Scarlett, your arm's too stiff. Loosen it up."
She blinked, surprised by the sharpness in his tone.
"I—sorry," she murmured.
"And the way you're standing—off balance. Fix it."
The director raised a brow but said nothing, sensing the tension.
Scarlett's eyes narrowed slightly, but she bit her tongue.
They resumed the pose—Ethan behind her, his hand brushing her waist again. But this time, there was no softness. No pause. No whisper.
"Stop leaning back," he said under his breath. "It looks awkward."
Scarlett stiffened. "I'm not leaning—"
"Yes, you are," he cut in, voice low but firm. "You're making it harder than it is."
Her chest tightened. She didn't know what had changed so suddenly. He was like a switchblade—sharp and unyielding.
The same man who had whispered to her minutes ago like they were sharing secrets now couldn't look at her without barking an instruction.
Scarlett didn't know why it stung so much.
But it did.
She turned her head slightly toward him. "Something bothering you, Mr. Blackwood?"
His eyes flicked to hers. Cold. Detached.
"Nothing can bother me."
Her breath caught.
He meant something else. She could feel it.
But she wouldn't give him the satisfaction of asking. Not after that call. Not when her chest was still tight from how his voice had felt in her ear earlier. Not when she still remembered how steady his heartbeat had felt under her fingers.
She forced her expression into neutral and returned to the pose.
Ethan watched her out of the corner of his eye.
She was holding herself back now. Smiling for the camera, but the light in her eyes was gone.
And the worst part?
It was his fault.
But he told himself he didn't care.
He had to not care.
Because the moment he let it in—that flicker of something growing between them—he'd lose control.
And Ethan Blackwood didn't lose control.
—---
The tension between them hadn't eased.
If anything, it had thickened—settling into every silent glance, every clipped direction, every carefully avoided touch.
Scarlett tried to stay composed, focusing on the poses, the angle of her wrist, the fall of the gown's fabric. But her thoughts kept spinning. Ethan's mood had gone from cold to cutting, his professionalism tainted with something she couldn't quite name.
She kept catching glimpses of him from the corner of her eye—tense jaw, clenched fists, stormy gaze flickering to her and away again like he was fighting a war within himself. One he refused to admit was happening.
The director stepped onto the platform, script in hand, smiling as though he hadn't just been watching two people quietly implode on camera.
"Okay, final setup," he said, cheerful and oblivious. "This one's the money shot."
Scarlett turned toward the Director and Ethan .
"It's the kiss," the director continued. "Front-facing. Framed with the terrace behind you. Classic, intimate, cinematic. We want it to feel like the climax of a love story."
The crew bustled around the set, resetting lights and shifting backdrops for the final frame. The golden terrace backdrop was being adjusted behind them, its soft arches bathed in warm artificial sunset, casting a romantic glow over everything it touched.
Scarlett froze.
Her breath caught in her throat, and for a long second, all the ambient noise dulled around her. She blinked, unsure if she'd misheard.
"The... kiss?" she echoed under her breath.
She leaned a fraction closer to Ethan, her voice a quiet whisper only he could hear. "What's happening, Ethan?"
He didn't respond.
Didn't glance her way.
Didn't even twitch.
Just stood still, hands relaxed at his sides, gaze locked on the director like the words hadn't landed with the same weight on him.
Something sank in her gut. Slowly, she turned toward him, her heart thudding against her ribs.
He knew.
She saw it in the tight set of his jaw. The flicker of something in his eyes. That dangerous, all-too-calm composure.
"You knew?" she hissed under her breath. "You already knew about this?"
Still, no reaction. But then—barely perceptible—he gave a single, cool nod.
Her voice rose, sharp and quiet like a hiss of steam. "You didn't think to tell me?"
His lips pressed into a thin line, and then came the warning, low and furious: "Don't make a scene, Scarlett."
"I'm not making a scene," she snapped, her fingers curling around the silk of her gown. "But I can't do this."
She stepped back, trying to move, to create distance—but Ethan's hand shot out with controlled force and caught her wrist. His grip was firm, anchoring her in place.
"You agreed," he said, voice clipped, eyes dark and unreadable. "You agreed to play the role. To act like a couple. So you don't have another option. Cooperate."
Scarlett opened her mouth, her protest lodged halfway up her throat—but before she could answer, the director called out, "Shot's ready! Let's get into position. Lights—roll!"
She felt her pulse slam.
Ethan's hand shifted from her wrist to her waist, firm, steady, like he'd done it a thousand times. He pulled her in smoothly, the motion too practiced to seem forceful, but it was. Beneath the elegant choreography was the truth—he wasn't giving her a choice.
Scarlett's hands found his chest, fingers splaying instinctively, not as an embrace—but a barrier. She held him at bay, creating just enough space so their lips hovered without meeting.
From a distance, the illusion was perfect.
To the lens—it was intimacy.
To her—it was a battlefield.
Her body was trembling, barely noticeable, but Ethan felt it. He laughed under his breath, the sound soft and sharp against the space between their mouths.
"What are you doing, Scarlett?" he murmured, voice rich with challenge. "Do you really think you can stop me?"
Her eyes snapped to his, wide, furious. "We agreed," she breathed. "No kissing. That was the deal."
Ethan tilted his head slightly, his breath brushing her lips. "We agreed to look real. Do you think this changes anything between us?"
"It should," she said, voice cracking at the edge. "You don't kiss someone unless you love them, Ethan."
Something flickered in his expression—a hesitation, brief and sharp. His brows drew in, lips parting just slightly.
He looked into her eyes like he was trying to read something that had suddenly changed meaning.
But all he said, low and bitter, was, "And you're not allowed to love anyone. Isn't that what you've decided?"
Her breath hitched. She didn't reply.
"And don't worry," he added coolly, "I have no intention of kissing you."
The camera clicked once.
Scarlett pulled away immediately, heart pounding in her ears. She turned, ready to step off set, away from the intensity.
But Ethan stopped her again, fingers wrapping around her wrist.
Her breath caught—again—just as the studio doors creaked open.
Andrian stepped into the light.
Impeccably dressed in a charcoal suit, his scarf loosely knotted around his neck. His usual charm was visible in the way he carried himself—but the moment his gaze found them, the smile on his face faltered.
He raised a hand in a casual wave toward Scarlett.
Her eyes lit up before she could stop them. Her lips parted, and she whispered, unthinking, "Andrian..."
Ethan's entire body shifted.
The passiveness he had worn like armor shattered—not outwardly, but internally. His muscles coiled. Something dark sparked behind his eyes.
Ethan turned to Scarlett, his voice low and tense. "What's your relationship with him?"
She blinked. "Why are you asking?"
He didn't look away. "I told you before—whatever you do reflects on us. On our reputation."
She scoffed softly, frustration edging her tone. "Who I talk to, who I see, is none of your business."
"It is," he bit out, his control fraying. "As long as we're tied together, it is."
"You don't own me, Ethan," she hissed, eyes flashing. "You don't get to control me. You made that clear the day you decided to shut me out."
The director's voice echoed through the set again. "Let's run it one more time. Same pose—just hold it longer. I want a clean, passionate moment for the final shot. Real connection, people."
Scarlett didn't move.
Couldn't.
Her legs felt rooted to the polished floor beneath her heels. She could hear the murmur of the crew around them, the shuffle of lights, the adjustment of lenses. But it all blurred, muted behind the roaring of blood in her ears.
Then, she felt it.
Ethan's hand.
Firm. Steady. Sliding once again around her waist. But this time... there was something different in the pressure. Possessiveness. Intention. Like his grip alone could tell her things he refused to say aloud.
She turned her head slightly, her voice barely a breath. "Ethan... what are you doing?"
His face was already too close. His breath brushed hers—slow, warm, deliberate.
"What I should've done a long time ago."
Scarlett's brows knit, confusion flickering across her features before she could mask it. Her fingers pressed more firmly against his chest, feeling the steady thud beneath his shirt.
What does that even mean...?
"What does that mean?" she whispered, voice fragile with uncertainty.
Ethan didn't answer.
Her throat tightened.
Why isn't he saying anything? Why is he just looking at me like that?
"Ethan...?" she tried again, softer now.
Still nothing.
His gaze didn't leave her for a second.
Not when she shifted.
Not when she drew a shallow breath.
Not when she instinctively tried to lean back.
She attempted to step away—to create space, distance, air—but his arm around her waist tightened just enough to stop her. Not rough. Not forceful.
Unyielding.
Her pulse skipped.
Why won't he let me move? What is he doing?
"What are you—"
His hand rose.
Slowly.
Deliberately.
Her thoughts scattered.
Wait...
His fingers brushed her jaw.
Warmth spread instantly beneath his touch, startling and disorienting. Her breath caught mid-word, lashes fluttering as confusion tangled with something far more dangerous.
She tried to pull back again.
There was nowhere to go.
His hold didn't loosen.
"Ethan..." she whispered, the sound barely there, more question than protest. "What are you doing...?"
No answer.
Only his eyes.
Watching her.
Reading her.
Unwavering.
Her heart slammed harder against her ribs.
Why is he looking at me like that...?
His thumb grazed her cheek.
Her voice faltered. "I don't—"
He tilted her face upward.
Wait—
And kissed her.
His lips met hers in a kiss that wasn't hurried or aggressive, but firm. Deep. Intimate in a way that felt more dangerous than passion alone. It wasn't just a kiss—it was a statement. A claim. A challenge. A secret delivered with the press of a mouth.
Scarlett inhaled sharply through her nose, her hands instinctively pressing against his chest—not pushing, but not pulling him in either. Her fingers curled slightly in the fabric of his shirt, her pulse racing beneath her skin.
His grip at her waist tightened.
Not painfully—but like he was anchoring her. Keeping her from running. From unraveling.
His thumb at her jaw stroked upward, his palm cradling the side of her face as if she were fragile porcelain—though everything else about him contradicted it. His kiss deepened slightly, molding his lips more fully to hers, and she swore the floor shifted beneath her.
Time fractured.
For a second—just one—it wasn't about the cameras. Or Andrian. Or the deal between them.
It was just his lips. His hands. The quiet, electric tremble that passed through her like a wave.
Then, just as suddenly as it started, it was over.
Ethan pulled back.
Not hurriedly. Not carelessly. But slow, deliberate—his gaze locked to hers the entire time.
Scarlett didn't breathe. Her lips were still parted, her chest rising and falling too fast. Her eyes remained wide, dazed.
She couldn't speak. Couldn't even think.
And then her knees buckled.
It wasn't dramatic—just the slightest falter. A loss of balance no one else would've noticed.
Except Ethan.
His hand shot out again—gripping her elbow, steadying her, holding her just long enough to stop her from collapsing completely. His eyes didn't soften, but there was something sharp and unreadable in them now. A glint of something deeply buried, fighting to stay locked away.
She tried to step back, to escape the pressure of his hand, but she couldn't find her footing.
Couldn't find herself.
Then the sound of a camera shutter echoed.
Click.
The director clapped his hands once. "That's it! That's the one!" he called, his voice triumphant. "Perfect! We got the shot—wrap it up!"
Scarlett blinked.
She still hadn't moved.
Ethan's hand dropped from her arm as he stepped back, letting her stand on her own again. For a second, the absence of his touch felt like a chill.
But then he turned.
No words. No backward glance.
Just the smooth, calculated composure of a man who knew exactly what he'd done—and didn't regret it for a second.
As he walked off the set, he passed Andrian—who stood at the edge of the studio now, frozen in place, his hands tucked into the pockets of his tailored trousers, a stiff smile plastered on his face.
Ethan's gaze caught him for the briefest second.
And then... the smirk.
Subtle. Arrogant. Confidence.
Triumphant.
The kind of smirk that said I win, without needing to say anything at all.
Andrian's jaw tightened, the fake smile slipping ever so slightly. His eyes followed Ethan like a hawk stalking prey.
Scarlett remained where she stood, motionless.
Her lips still tingled.
Her knees are still weak.
And her heart—damn it—was still beating too fast.
She didn't know what to feel.
Fury. Embarrassment. Something dangerously close to longing.
But most of all... she didn't know what scared her more—
The kiss Ethan had given her.
Or how desperately, deeply afraid she was... that some part of her had wanted it.