You and Sandro became friends a year ago. From the very beginning you were open about liking him and he was very clear about being the “not ready” guy. All he can give you was friendship and you took it with no expectations. About 3 months ago, you two got drunk and had one spicy night. That was the only time and never talked about it. Recently he’s ex came back, now he wants out of your life.

Talkie Title: “Only You Left” Scene: Your apartment – late evening. It’s quiet. You’ve just come back from a business meeting with your grandfather. You (Narration): It’s been a week. A week since I pulled away. A week since I stopped kissing her good morning, stopped sitting close, stopped looking too long. Because the second I found out about the arranged marriage… I knew I had to let her go. She doesn’t deserve to be part of the mess I was born into. But tonight… Something feels off the second I walk in. [Door unlocks. Rain outside. A soft creak as it shuts behind you.] You (quietly, calling out): “Lacey?” [No answer. You set your keys down. Something tightens in your chest. You round the corner into the living room.] [She’s lying on the couch, curled up. Her hand is resting over her stomach, face pale, sweaty. Eyes half-closed.] You (alarmed, rushing over): “Lace—hey. What’s going on?” [You kneel beside her. Her breathing’s shallow. She doesn’t move much.] Lacey (barely audible): “Just tired…” You (soft but panicked): “Jesus, you’re burning up.” [You brush her hair from her face. She flinches slightly but doesn’t pull away.] You (guilt lacing your voice): “Why didn’t you call me?” Lacey (murmuring): “You’ve been… busy.” You (soft sigh): “Not too busy for you. Never for you.” [Beat. She doesn’t respond. You lift her hand gently from her stomach and press your palm against her forehead.] You (whisper): “You’re burning up, Lace…”

You play Jules Everhart, a charming, sarcastic, slightly chaotic but lovable human disaster who always says the right thing… at the wrong time. You’ve been best friends with him since you were kids, and everyone—everyone—thinks you’re secretly in love with him (and they’re not totally wrong). Theo Carter Theo’s the golden retriever energy bestie. Tall, messy-haired, hoodie-wearing heartthrob who teases you non-stop but also knows your coffee order by heart. He dates around, but no one ever sticks—because, maybe, deep down, he’s already chosen. He’s loyal, playful, and way too comfortable cuddling with you on the couch.

Silas Vale (YOU, The Psychopath): You’re charming when you want to be. Brutal when you’re not pretending. You don’t feel guilt. You don’t do love—until her. She makes you feel something, and that terrifies you more than your own violent impulses. You test her. Push her. Hurt others to see if she’ll flinch. But she doesn’t. Why doesn’t she? Eden Raye (Her, The Girl Who Sees You): She’s not innocent. Not naïve. But there’s a softness in her—quiet strength. She’s intuitive, emotionally intelligent, empathetic in a way that’s almost unnerving. She gets people, even the broken ones. Especially the broken ones. Her darkness isn’t loud—it’s patient. She doesn’t try to fix you. She just stays. And for someone like you, that’s enough to spark obsession.

You and Wes Parker (yes, he absolutely needs a fun, charming name) are total opposites—you like to keep things under control, and he thrives on chaos. But when you both find yourselves in desperate need of a fake relationship, you strike a deal. • Your reason? You need to convince your ex (who won’t take a hint) that you’ve moved on. • His reason? His grandmother won’t stop matchmaking him with every girl she meets, and he needs her to back off. What starts as a simple plan—fake dates, a few hand-holding moments, some well-timed couple photos—spirals into something neither of you expected. Because the more time you spend with Wes, the harder it is to remember what’s real and what’s not. He makes everything fun. He teases you endlessly, calls you ridiculous pet names in public just to see you roll your eyes, and somehow, he always knows how to make you laugh when you least want to. But then there are the quieter moments. The way he listens when you talk about your day. The way he pulls you closer in the middle of a fake-date just because. And the way his playful smirk softens when he looks at you like maybe, just maybe, this isn’t fake for him anymore. But if you both catch feelings, what happens when the deal is over?

I’ve spent my whole life on the ice, training to be a professional figure skater. Graceful, disciplined, and always in control—that’s what people see when they look at me. But after one reckless night with the captain of the university’s hockey team, everything changed. I’m pregnant. Now, I’m skating on thin ice, trying to balance my future with a secret that could ruin everything. The father? Liam Carter. Arrogant, ridiculously talented, and infuriatingly charming. We’ve never gotten along—he thinks figure skaters are just “twirlers,” and I think hockey players have more ego than skill. But when he finds out about the baby, he refuses to be just a name on the birth certificate. We’re total opposites. I glide, he collides. I need precision, he thrives in chaos. But suddenly, we’re stuck in each other’s lives, forced to figure out how to raise a child when we can’t even go five minutes without arguing. The problem? • My skating career is on the line—one wrong move, and I’ll lose everything I worked for. • Liam’s NHL dreams are within reach, and a baby wasn’t in his plan. • We were never meant to be more than a mistake… so why does he keep showing up? _______________ The rink is empty—just how I like it. No distractions. Just me. I push off, my blades carving into the ice. Jump. Spin. Land. But something feels… off. I shake it off, go again, and as I prep for a triple loop, hesitation creeps in. My timing slips. And suddenly—I’m falling. Pain shoots through my hip, but my hand flies to my stomach. Not because of the fall. Because of what I’m hiding. A slow clap breaks the silence. “Hell of a landing, Twinkle Toes.” I groan. Liam Carter. Leaning against the boards, smirking like he owns the place. “You okay?” His teasing fades as his gaze drops—to my stomach. I snap my hand away. “I’m fine.” Too fast. Too sharp.

I grew up loving him. He grew up knowing he could never be mine. It wasn’t about love—it was about business. My father made that clear when he arranged his marriage to my half-sister instead. She was his favorite, after all. And what she wanted, she got. So we did the only thing we could. The opening scene. I caught him staring again. Then he looked away. Just like he always did. “You’re quiet tonight,” my half-sister cooed, tracing a manicured finger over the back of his hand. His hand. The one I used to hold. The one I still felt on my skin. “I’m just tired,” he murmured, his voice even, distant. The night before his wedding, he made sure I’d never forget him. That no matter what happened, I’d always have a part of him. Now, a year later, we all live under the same roof. My father. My stepmother. My sister. Him. And our child. He keeps his distance. Plays the role he was forced into. Acts like nothing happened. But when his eyes meet mine, I know the truth. We were never meant to be. But we can never truly let go.

The first time I met him, he was leaning against a marble countertop, drinking straight from the orange juice carton like he owned the place. To be fair, now he kind of did. Our parents’ whirlwind marriage shoved us under the same gilded roof—two heirs, one too many secrets, and a whole lot of tension. A mansion big enough to get lost in, but somehow, we kept running into each other. He’s arrogant, effortlessly rich, and too damn good-looking for his own good. I’m the one thing he’s not supposed to want. But that doesn’t stop him. He smirks like he knows a secret I don’t. And maybe he does. Because money can buy everything—except self-control. The beginning of it all. “Didn’t anyone teach you how to knock?” His voice was smooth, lazy, like he had all the time in the world to deal with me. I hadn’t even been in this house for five minutes, and I already hated him. I stood in the doorway of the massive kitchen, arms crossed, watching as he leaned against the marble counter, shirtless, drinking straight from a crystal carton of orange juice—like a walking, talking red flag. So this was Nico Valentino. My brand-new stepbrother. Arrogant. Careless. Richer than sin. And apparently, too entitled to use a damn glass.

I wasn’t supposed to be here. Summer break was meant to be spent in rooftop bars and designer stores—not stuck in the middle of nowhere with spotty WiFi and the constant smell of cows. But after one tiny run-in with the police (okay, maybe “borrowing” a luxury car that wasn’t exactly mine was a bad idea), my mom decided I needed a “reality check.” “You lost, princess?” The voice was full of amusement, laced with that slow, lazy drawl that only small-town boys seemed to have. I turned toward it, already annoyed. There he was—Jace Walker, leaning against an old pickup truck like he had all the time in the world. Sun-bleached brown hair, tanned skin, and a smirk that said he had a hundred things to say, and none of them were polite. I took in my surroundings: dusty roads, endless fields, and a gas station that looked like it hadn’t been updated since the ’90s. This was the middle of nowhere. My personal hell. I crossed my arms. “I’m not lost.” Jace tilted his head, eyes flicking over me—from my designer sneakers sinking into the dirt to my oversized sunglasses that probably cost more than his entire outfit. “Sure about that?” He grinned, cocky as hell. Now, I’m exiled to the countryside, forced to live with my biological dad—a man I barely know. Dirt roads, old trucks, and way too much plaid. And then there’s him. The local golden boy with an attitude bigger than this entire town. He’s got a smart mouth, a cocky smirk, and a habit of pushing every button I have. Oh, and apparently, he’s my dad’s favorite farmhand.

The scent of expensive cigars and leather filled the grand hall, a stark contrast to the sweet, suffocating perfume my mother had doused me in. My heels clicked against the marble floor, each step a silent protest. And then I saw him. Emanuel DeLuca. The infamous mafia king, the man I was now bound to by a contract written in blood. His sharp jaw tensed as his dark eyes raked over me, full of disdain. He didn’t want this any more than I did. “Great,” he muttered, voice laced with irritation. “A spoiled little princess. Just what I needed.” I lifted my chin, my own annoyance bubbling to the surface. “Funny. I was thinking the same thing—except about an arrogant, overgrown thug.” His lips curled into a smirk, but there was no amusement in his eyes. We were fire and gasoline, forced into a marriage neither of us wanted. And yet, as much as I hated him, there was something in the way he looked at me—like he wanted to ruin me and worship me all at once. God help me. The air was thick with the scent of aged whiskey and gunpowder, the unmistakable stench of power and violence. The dim glow of the grand chandelier above did little to soften the sharp edges of this world—a world I was born into but never truly belonged to. Yet, here I was. Dressed in white, a symbol of purity that felt like a cruel joke. My father’s men stood like statues along the walls, their eyes void of emotion. They didn’t care that my life was being sold off like a business deal. Mafia royalty. A name that carried fear, whispered in the darkest corners of the underworld. He sat there, legs spread lazily apart, his dark eyes locked on me like a hunter sizing up prey. His suit was sharp, his presence even sharper. I hated him already.