KISS ME, ENEMY

Chapter Two: The Script is a Time Bomb

The fluorescent lights of the screenwriting classroom buzzed with the quiet hum of a hundred brilliant minds. Or at least, that’s what Lalessa’s professor, the formidable and highly-respected Dr. Anya Sharma, always said. Lalessa sat in the front row, her notebook open, but her mind was miles away, still replaying the humiliating scene at the cafe. Raymond James's smirk was a ghost that haunted her thoughts. His voice, that infuriatingly smooth baritone, echoed in her head.

This isn't over, Banks. Not by a long shot.

Dr. Sharma’s voice cut through her thoughts. "Alright, class, settle down. I have an announcement to make about the short film project."

A wave of excitement swept through the room. This was the final project of the semester, a chance for one student's script to be produced by a professional team. Lalessa's stomach fluttered. Her script, the one she had poured her heart and soul into, was a contender. It was a dark, tense romance called "The Last Act," a story about two rival actors forced to work together on a play. The irony wasn't lost on her. She had written it as a cathartic way to deal with her real-life rivalry with Raymond, never once imagining it would get this far.

"The winner is..." Dr. Sharma paused for dramatic effect, her eyes sweeping over the eager faces. "Lalessa Banks."

A collective gasp, followed by a smattering of applause, filled the room. Lalessa's face flushed with a mix of pride and sheer terror. Her script had won. This was the moment she had been working toward for years, a step toward proving she was more than just her father's daughter.

Dr. Sharma smiled, her gaze settling on Lalessa. "Your script, 'The Last Act,' is a masterful blend of tension and romance. The dialogue is sharp, the conflict is clear, and the chemistry... well, the chemistry is what we're going for here."

Lalessa felt a shiver of dread. "The chemistry is what we're going for here." The words felt like a warning.

"Now, for the cast," Dr. Sharma continued. "After much deliberation, we believe we have found the perfect actors to bring this story to life. For the role of Clara, the fiery and headstrong playwright, we have Lalessa herself."

Lalessa’s heart pounded. She had written the part for herself, hoping to finally showcase her acting skills, which she had secretly been honing for years. This was it. This was her chance.

"And for the role of Leo, the arrogant and famous star who steals her spotlight..." Dr. Sharma's eyes twinkled with mischief. "We have the perfect person to embody that charming arrogance. The one, the only... Raymond James."

The entire class went silent. Lalessa’s jaw dropped. She looked across the room, past the stunned faces, and her eyes locked with Raymond's. He was leaning back in his chair, a bored expression on his face, but his eyes were wide with a kind of surprised amusement. The moment was surreal, like a terrible joke that she was the only one who didn’t get.

"I'm sorry, Professor," Lalessa stammered, standing up. "Did you say Raymond James?"

"I did," Dr. Sharma said, her smile unwavering. "It was his own idea, actually. He read the script and said he had to have the part. He said the dialogue was too good to pass up."

Lalessa’s mind raced. He had read her words. Her most private thoughts about him, disguised as fiction, and he wanted to perform them. This was a nightmare. This was his chance to mock her, to twist her art into a joke.

"Professor, I don't think this is a good idea," Lalessa said, her voice shaking slightly. "Raymond and I... we don't get along. At all. Our rivalry is… it's not pretend."

Dr. Sharma raised a hand to silence her. "Exactly," she said, as if Lalessa had just handed her a winning lottery ticket. "The director and I discussed this at length. The tension between you two is a goldmine. The characters in your script are sworn enemies who are forced to fall in love. You two are a walking, breathing embodiment of that dynamic. We want to see that real-life friction on screen. It will make the romance, when it happens, all the more powerful."

Raymond finally spoke up, a slow, taunting smirk spreading across his face. "Relax, Banks. It's just a role. I'm a professional. I'll make you look good."

Lalessa felt a hot wave of anger. "This isn't about me," she snapped. "This is my script. My heart. My art. I don't want you touching it."

"Too late," he said, his voice laced with arrogance. "The professor already signed me up. Looks like you're stuck with me, Princess."

Dr. Sharma cleared her throat. "The final, important detail," she said, ignoring their bickering. "This is a short film. The entire plot takes place over one scene. One powerful, climactic scene. It’s what makes the story so unique."

Lalessa sank back into her chair, the air feeling heavy and thick. One scene. The whole film was one scene. Her mind raced, trying to remember the final few lines of the script she had so meticulously crafted. The words she had poured her heart into, the moment of raw, unexpected tension she had been trying to capture at the cafe.

The class dispersed, the students buzzing with excitement about the casting news. Lalessa stood alone, clutching her notebook. She couldn't believe this was happening. Raymond, the person she hated most in the world, was going to be her co-star in the most important project of her life.

Raymond approached her, his hands in his pockets, a casual swagger in his step. "Looks like you're stuck with me after all," he said, his eyes glittering with mischief. "What's the matter, Banks? Worried you're going to fall for me?"

"Don't be ridiculous," she snapped. "I just don't want you to ruin my script."

"I would never," he said, his voice dropping to a low whisper. "I'm a huge fan of your work. I love a good romance."

He gave her a wink and walked away, his laugh echoing in the now-empty classroom. Lalessa felt a mixture of revulsion and a strange, terrifying curiosity. She couldn't understand him. He was a puzzle she had no desire to solve.

She looked down at her notebook, her hands trembling. She needed to see the script again. She needed to remember the c****x. The single scene that would make or break her film.

She flipped through the pages, her heart pounding a frantic rhythm against her ribs. She found the c****x, the final two lines of the script. The words she had written to capture that raw, desperate moment of tension.

She read the final line of her script, her blood running cold with a horrifying realization. The line that was now the core of her short film, the one that she was now destined to perform with Raymond James, read simply:

"And then, they kiss."