Page 205 of From Rivals to I Do

As I reflect on these memories, I can't help but acknowledge the complexity of our relationship. Jackson's presence has always been a challenge to

everything I stand for—a constant reminder of the diverging paths we have taken.

I can feel my blood simmering beneath my skin, the tension building with every passing moment. It's like an invisible forcefield between us, an unspoken

agreement that we will never see eye to eye. I take another sip of my coffee, its bitterness mirroring the taste of our relationship.

As if sensing my gaze, Jackson finally looks up from his newspaper, his piercing blue eyes locking with mine. There's a flicker of recognition, a fleeting moment where our shared history hangs heavy in the air. He raises an eyebrow, a smug grin tugging at the corners of his lips.

"Maya Anderson," he drawls, his voice dripping with mock surprise. "Shouldn't you be off somewhere painting rainbows and unicorns? I am just playing with you, how are you”?

I roll my eyes, my irritation bubbling to the surface. "Jackson Reed," I reply, my voice laced with equal parts sarcasm and disdain. "Shouldn't you be somewhere saving kittens from trees?"

The air between us crackles with tension, our words like tiny sparks dancing in the space that separates us. The café seems to fade into the background as our gazes remain locked, an unspoken challenge passing between us.

His lips curl into a smirk. "I'll have you know, Maya, I save far more than just kittens."

I snort, unable to contain my frustration. "Oh, I'm sure you do. The world is forever indebted to the mighty Jackson Reed, savior of all."

He leans back in his chair, his eyes glinting with amusement. "At least someone appreciates my heroic efforts."

The banter continues, each exchange dripping with sarcasm and thinly veiled insults. Our words are like daggers, sharp and cutting, meant to wound rather

than heal. It's a dance we've performed countless times, a battle of wills that never seems to reach a resolution. I look around the café wondering if we are

drawing attention to ourselves, but thankfully our bickering was not that important to others.

But amidst the animosity, I catch glimpses of something else in his eyes—flickers of vulnerability and genuine emotion that hint at a deeper complexity beneath his commanding façade. It's in those moments that I question whether our antagonism is rooted in something more than a clash of personalities.

He's always thought of me as an entitled artist who doesn't understand the real world.

"Maya Anderson." He says my name again with more emphasis, his voice dripping with disdain. "I heard you're still struggling to pay rent."

I bristle at his tone, but I'm not going to let him get to me. "What's it to you?" I snapped back.

He smirks. "Nothing, really. Just thought I'd offer to lend a hand. After all, your brother and I go way back." He says as he stands to his feet and starts gathering his items.

I can feel the anger rising in me. "I don't need your help," I say through gritted teeth. "I can take care of myself."

He leans in close, his breath hot on my cheek. "Are you sure about that?" he says softly. "Because it looks like you're barely getting by."

I push him away and step back. "I don't need you or anyone else to take care of me," I say firmly.

He shrugs. "Suit yourself. But don't say I didn't offer."

With that, he turns and walks away, leaving me seething with anger. I can't stand that guy. He's always been so judgmental, and he acts like he's better than everyone else. I don't know why my brother is friends with him, but I'll be avoiding Jackson Reed from now on.

With his condescending smirk and arrogant demeanor, Jackson Reed embodies everything I despise. It's as if he takes pleasure in putting me down, in

reminding me of my struggles as an artist. The café buzzes with the sound of murmured conversations, the clinking of glasses, and the faint music playing

in the background. Yet, amidst all the noise, our exchange feels like a standoff in an empty room, the tension between us thick and suffocating.

I can't help but wonder why he had to be here just at the same time as me. Does he derive some perverse pleasure from belittling me? It's infuriating how

he takes pleasure in putting me down, as if my struggles validate his superiority. The gall of this man, thinking he knows anything about my life or my art.

As I watch him walk away, his broad shoulders disappearing into the crowd, I'm left seething with anger. How dare he insinuate that I can't take care of

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