Page 2 of Accidentally Wed to My Enemy

“All right,” said Berg. “I think we’re all here. Now, I’ll warn you, this won’t be a straightforward read-through. We’ll be jumping around, hitting some big scenes. I want to see how you gel, how you spark off each other.”

I scowled at my script, half-listening. Berg’s flat Swedish accent set my teeth on edge. Or maybe that was Eric, still smirking his smirk. This had to be a nightmare — Eric fuckingHarper?The dick who’d been taunting me since my big-screen debut? I pinched my thigh hard under the table, pinched till my nails dug in, but I didn’t wake up. I could still see him parked there across the table, a slouched, lazy shape in my peripheral vision.

My face burned with the sting of it, the utter unfairness. Berg had to know what Eric had done. How he’d spoiled my big moment and sparked off our feud.Everyoneknew. The tabloids loved our drama.

Berg cleared his throat. “Lacey?”

“I’m sorry, what?”

“I said, can you start with the prison scene, or do you need to warm up first?”

I swallowed. The prison scene. That was a big one. I glanced up at Eric and he tipped me a wink.

“I’m ready,” he said. “But if Lacey needs time, I’m fine with whatever.”

IfIneeded time, the condescending gasbag! Like I hadn’t worked my ass off to be here today. Maybe to him, I was some talentless hack, but he was mean-spirited. Rude. Overhyped. If it wasn’t for his six-pack and his Superman jaw, where would he be? Nowhere, that’s where. Toasting buns at the Fry Shack.

“I’m good,” I said.

“Excellent.” Berg flipped through his script. “So, before the war hit, you two were in love. Now you’re reunited on opposite sides — a wounded prisoner, and you’re his guard.” He jabbed his finger at Eric, and then at me. “Whenever you’re ready.”

I’d come in ready, but not for Eric. How was I supposed to act like I’d loved him, even some time in the hazy past? I’d respected him once, his talent at least, but that was before I knew from real talent. Now I could see him for what he was, hot but generic. Like he’d once called me.

I closed my eyes and dove into my own past, that night six years ago, my first big premiere. I’d stepped out of the limo into a glittering dream, diamonds and sequins and popping flashbulbs. All I’d ever wanted, all here for me. The reporters had swarmed me and I’d welcomed them, beaming. I’d ducked a fat boom mic swinging over my head. I’d been smiling, laughing, and then, like a slap—

Lacey! Miss Hall! Do you have a response to Eric Harper?

My heart leaped. Eric Harper? He knew my name?

He says you’re overrated. Coasting on looks.

I let the feelings surge through me, now as back then, cold waves of shock, deep, stinging shame. Hurt and surprise. Panic. Betrayal. All the worst things I’d ever thought about myself, and to find out here, now, Eric Harper thought the same? Did everyone think that way? Were they laughing at me?

I opened my eyes and scowled straight at Eric. “Dinner,” I said, toneless and flat.

Eric lifted his head. His expression shifted through puzzlement, joy, and despair, and settled on anger. He looked away.

“Eat or don’t eat,” I said. “I’m not here to make you.” I’d have turned to leave then, if we’d been going for real. Eric waited a few seconds, as if I had. Then he lurched forward.

“Wait, Kate. Don’t go.”

I frowned at him and said nothing. His lips spasmed down. He stretched one hand toward me across the table.

“How are you here? How are you alive?” His outstretched hand trembled and he let it drop. “I never stopped mourning you, and to think you were here. Fighting forthem, like some kind of, some—” He coughed, made a pained sound, and let his hand drop.

I stared at him, measured, and kept my face blank. When I didn’t say anything, he let out a sigh.

“You were better than this, or I thought you were. You believed in something. You believed—”

I slapped my hand on the table, cutting him off. “You think you’re better than me because you got out. You think you joined the good guys, but you know what I’ve learned? The good guys are whoever’s not blowing you up.”

“That’s your standard for good, who doesn’t kill you?” Eric sneered at me, and I felt myself snap. The old hurt I’d harnessed broke free of its yoke, filled me up to my eyeballs and spilled out as tears. I gripped my script tight, and my next line wasyeah, but what came out of my mouth was something more honest.

“Maybe my standard is kindness. Respect. Maybe here, I get treated like I have something to offer. Like I’m worth something, like—”

“Respect is earned.”

“And I haven’t earned it?” I jerked toward him, gripping the table. “I worked my ass to the bone to get where I am today. I fought and I sacrificed. You think it came easy?”

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