Page 35 of Don't Date Your Nemesis

“It has mold. I can see it in the corner,” he said, pointing at the ceiling and squinting his eyes.

“That’s… uh, vintage water damage, thank you very much.”

He moved toward the door, and I realized with horror how much space he took up. His shoulders nearly touched both walls. If we had sex on my bed—not that we would, obviously, despite what happened at the hotel—he would have definitely broken it.

I shook off that thought violently.

“You should go,” I said, suddenly desperate for him to leave, to stop filling my tiny apartment with his presence and his stupid, perfect face.

“Gladly. This place is depressing.”

“Goodbye, Fish Boy.”

“See you at the wedding, fiancée,” he smirked, waving his fingers, and I wish I had bitten them before I shoved his massive body out of the door.

Now, a few days later, I sat in the same spot on my bed, staring at the empty chair where he had been, looking ridiculous and somehow still attractive.

My phone buzzed, and I rolled my eyes at another interview request and another magazine wanting our ‘love story.’ Our socials had blown up and everyone—even Mrs. Kim’s mother-in-law from South Korea—wanted to know about me and Liam.

I looked down at my grandmother’s ring, now permanently on my finger, and wondered what the hell I had gotten myself into.

My acting career was finally taking off. I had a meeting with Ananya Mehta next week, and finally, people were treating me with respect instead of pity.

All because of a fake engagement to a man I had spent seventeen years hating.

11

MUTUAL TOLERANCE

LIAM

My phone rang at eleven, right as I was walking through the door of my condo, exhausted from a day of dodging reporters and pretending my life wasn’t in complete chaos.

Ethan’s name flashed on the screen.

I answered, already bracing myself, and shook my head when he cursed at me. “Hello to you too, darling,” I purred.

“What the fuck,” he said, his voice flat.

He was in a mood.

“Is that a question or a statement?” I asked, peeling off my jacket, tossing it over the back of my leather couch and apparently, the one that cost more than Deepika’s entire apartment.

“You’re engaged.”

“So it seems,” I said casually, moving toward the bedroom and pulling my shirt over my head one-handed.

“To Deepika Sharma.”

“So it seems.”

“Are you fucking nuts?”

“Tsk, tsk, tsk,” I said, dropping the shirt on the floor. “Where are your manners, darling?”

“I’m so fucking sick of you.”

I sighed, collapsing onto my bed, a California king that took up barely a quarter of my bedroom. “Same here.”