Born enemies, bound by something far more dangerous.
Maven is fire. Adrianna is ice. Their attraction was never meant to exist-and once it does, it refuses to fade.
Every choice costs them something. Every moment together risks everything.
They were...
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Ignoring Maven was like trying to ignore a Category 5 typhoon—loud, unrelenting, and guaranteed to leave emotional debris in its wake.
Case in point: Serendra's upscale gym.
I came in ready for war—or at least a solo workout. Navy-blue Adidas sports bra, high-waisted leggings, Yeezys, and a playlist designed to drown out every thought louder than my heartbeat. The receptionist chirped a cheery "Good morning," but I didn't bother replying.
Too crowded. Too early. Too many distractions waiting to pounce.
I ducked into the locker room, tied my hair into a high ponytail, stared down my reflection, and muttered, "No drama. No Maven."
But fate, of course, had other plans.
Fifteen minutes later, I climbed onto the treadmill—ready to sweat it all out—only for someone to claim the machine beside mine like a smug deity descending from Mount Olympus.
Maven.
Out of all the treadmills. Out of all the people.
He wore red gym shorts and a white tank top that clung to his body like it was in love. His coal-black eyes met mine in the mirror, a slow grin tugging at the corner of his mouth.
"Hello, neighbor."
I jabbed at the treadmill buttons harder than necessary. "We're not neighbors. You live five floors above me."
"I like you under me anyway."
My jaw dropped. Brain: blue-screened. A highlight reel of morally questionable thoughts flash-fired behind my eyes.
"Maven," I hissed. "There are people here."
He shrugged, unapologetic. "So I've noticed." He took my hand for a second, gave it a light squeeze—and somehow, it felt like a scandal.
I shoved in my earbuds like armor and hit start. Selena Gomez sang about restraint—how cute for her.
I tried not to look. I swear I did.
But then there were his legs. His chest. Every muscle moving like a choreographed threat to my concentration. A bead of sweat slid down his neck, tracing a slow, sinful path beneath his shirt.
I watched it with the focus of a wildlife documentary.
Then—mirror contact.
He caught me. Grinning.
"You're terrible at ignoring me," he said, yanking one earbud out.
"I'm not ignoring you. I'm working out."
"Your eyes are doing most of the lifting."
I bit my cheek to keep from laughing. "Decent view, sure. But I didn't want your ego inflating to Hindenburg levels."
