KISS ME, ENEMY

Chapter Three: The Unbearable Rehearsal

The rehearsal space was a chaos of tangled wires, misplaced props, and a palpable tension that had nothing to do with the script. Lalessa stood center stage, clutching her script, her face flushed with frustration. Across from her, Raymond leaned against a fake brick wall, a bored expression on his face. Their scene was supposed to be a fiery exchange of insults that ended with a moment of surprising vulnerability, a hint of the feelings bubbling beneath the surface. Instead, it was just… them.

"You're late, you arrogant son of a..." Lalessa began, her voice full of genuine fury, the line already feeling too real.

"My sincerest apologies, Your Highness," Raymond interrupted, his voice dripping with condescension. "My car was late. You know, the one that cost more than your father's entire company."

Lalessa's eyes widened in disbelief. "That's not in the script!" she hissed.

"No, but it's in my heart," he shot back with a sarcastic grin.

The director, a portly man with a perpetually tired expression named Mr. Davis, slapped his script against his leg. "Cut! Cut, cut, cut! What is this? This isn't acting! This is a playground argument!"

He stormed onto the stage, his face red with frustration. "Lalessa, your character is supposed to be angry, not genuinely ready to commit murder. And Raymond, your character is supposed to be arrogant, not actually trying to provoke a homicide."

Raymond just shrugged, a look of pure indifference on his face. "I'm just adding some... realism."

"Realism is not what I asked for!" Mr. Davis yelled. "I need chemistry! I need a spark! Right now, all I'm getting is a fire that's burning down my set!"

Lalessa felt a hot wave of shame. Her script, her words, were being ruined by their constant bickering. It was all her fault for hating him so much.

Mr. Davis pulled them both aside, away from the nervous cast and crew. "Listen to me, both of you," he said, his voice dropping to a low, serious tone. "This is a passion project. I believe in this story, and I believe in your potential. But your personal issues are getting in the way. You have no chemistry. None."

Lalessa opened her mouth to argue, but Mr. Davis held up a hand. "You two are the leads. If you don't connect, this film is dead. So here's what you're going to do. The script for your next scene is ready, and it's a very important one. I want you to spend the rest of the night going over those lines. Together."

Raymond scoffed. "And where, exactly, are we supposed to do that? My place? I'm pretty sure Lalessa would rather jump off a bridge than be there."

"Not your place," Mr. Davis said with a weary sigh. "There's an exclusive, members-only club downtown. I've made arrangements for you to meet there. No distractions. No cameras. Just the two of you and the script. You have until sunrise to fix this, or I'm pulling the plug. Understand?"

Lalessa’s heart sank. A whole night alone with Raymond? It sounded like a t*****e session. She felt a shiver of dread that had nothing to do with fear and everything to do with her racing heart.

They arrived at the club just after sunset. The place was elegant and quiet, with dim lighting, plush velvet chairs, and a bar that seemed to glow. It was the kind of place Lalessa's father frequented, and she felt a strange mix of comfort and unease.

Raymond, to her surprise, didn't make a big deal of it. He just led her to a private booth, ordered them both a drink, and pulled out the script. "Let's just get this over with," he said, his voice stripped of its usual bravado.

They started reading the lines, but a few minutes in, Lalessa noticed something strange. He wasn't the arrogant buffoon she was used to. He was focused. He gave her notes on her delivery, and they weren’t insults; they were genuinely thoughtful suggestions. He had a natural understanding of the character that was… impressive.

"Your character is holding back too much," he said, tapping a finger on the page. "Clara is furious, but she's also scared. You need to show that a little more."

Lalessa was stunned into silence. She looked at him, really looked at him, for the first time since the rehearsal began. The smirk was gone, replaced by a concentrated look in his hazel eyes. He wasn't the enemy right now; he was a fellow actor.

"How do you know that?" she asked, her voice barely a whisper. "How do you know she's scared?"

He leaned back in his chair, a small, genuine smile on his face. "Because I've read your script, Lalessa. Your writing isn't just about anger. It's about fear. The fear of being vulnerable. The fear of being seen for who you really are."

Lalessa’s heart skipped a beat. He had seen her. He had understood her script in a way no one else had. The air between them shifted, the tension turning from a sharp edge to something softer, more electric.

They spent the next few hours talking about the script, their characters, and even their shared love for acting. They laughed at a couple of Raymond's jokes, and Lalessa found herself impressed by his quick wit. He wasn't just a show-off; he was witty and thoughtful, and he clearly took his craft seriously. She saw a side of him she never knew existed, a person who was passionate, intelligent, and even... nice.

She found herself telling him about her own dreams, her desire to prove herself to her family, and her fears about the film. And to her surprise, he listened. He didn't make a joke or a snide remark. He just listened.

As the night drew to a close, a heavy silence settled over them. The animosity that had been a constant between them for years had vanished, replaced by a strange, quiet understanding. Lalessa was more confused than ever. Who was this person?

They stood up to leave, the silence still thick between them. Lalessa was halfway to the door when Raymond’s voice stopped her.

"By the way," he said, his tone casual, almost a whisper, as if he hadn't just completely changed her perception of him. "That script of yours? It’s not half bad."

Lalessa turned to look at him, her heart doing a strange little flip in her chest. She refused to acknowledge it, refusing to believe that his casual compliment had made her feel something other than irritation.

"Goodnight, Raymond," she said, her voice trying to sound nonchalant.

But as she walked out into the cool night air, she knew. That single compliment, from the person she hated the most, had made her heart flutter in a way she refused to acknowledge. And she was terrified.