The sleek glass conference room felt suffocating as I spread fabric samples across the polished table, my hands steady despite the storm brewing inside me. Anastasia sat across from me, scrolling through her phone with the same casual indifference she'd always carried, as if this consultation was just another item to check off her endless to-do list.
"So, what style are you envisioning for your wedding dress?" I asked, keeping my voice professionally neutral as 'Rhea,' the successful designer who had nothing to do with the naive girl she'd once betrayed.
Anastasia barely glanced up from her screen. "Something that looks expensive. Traditional, I guess. White. The usual." She waved her hand dismissively. "Just make sure I look pretty and don't embarrass myself."
Her tone was so flat, so devoid of the excitement I'd expect from a bride-to-be, that I found myself studying her face more closely. This wasn't the glowing happiness of someone about to marry the love of their life. This was resignation.
"And your fiancé?" I pressed gently, pulling out my tablet to take notes. "What's his name? I'll need his measurements for the tuxedo fitting."
"Finn," she said without looking up. "Finn Morrison."
The name hit me like a physical blow. My pen froze mid-air, and for a moment, the carefully constructed walls of my new identity threatened to crumble. Finn. The same Finn who had orchestrated the bet that destroyed my life six years ago.
I forced myself to breathe, to maintain the composed facade of Rhea. "Morrison," I repeated, my voice somehow remaining steady. "And when is the wedding date?"
"Six months from now. His family wants something grand." Anastasia finally looked up, and I caught something in her eyes—a flicker of something that looked almost like dread. "Look, I just need to get through this without looking like a fool. Can you make that happen?"
The question hung in the air, loaded with meaning I couldn't quite grasp. If she was so unenthusiastic about marrying Finn, why was she going through with it? But as 'Rhea,' a professional wedding designer meeting a client for the first time, I had no standing to ask such personal questions.
"Of course," I managed. "That's what I'm here for."
As if summoned by my mounting anxiety, the conference room door swung open. A familiar figure strode in, and my blood turned to ice.
Jett.
Six years had been kind to him—he was still devastatingly handsome, still carried himself with that confident swagger that had once made my heart race. Now it just made my stomach churn.
"Sorry I'm late," he said, flashing that charming smile I remembered too well. "Traffic was murder."
I watched in stunned silence as he greeted Anastasia with a casual nod—no lingering looks, no secret touches, nothing that suggested the intimate relationship I'd witnessed that night six years ago. They seemed... friendly. Nothing more.
"Jett's Finn's best man," Anastasia explained, her tone still maddeningly indifferent. "Since Finn's stuck in Canada on business, Jett's here to give you his measurements and preferences."
Jett turned to me then, and I braced myself for recognition, for the moment when he'd realize exactly who was sitting across from him. But his eyes held nothing but appreciation for what he saw—a successful, sophisticated woman who bore no resemblance to the girl he'd once mocked.
"And you must be the famous Rhea," he said, extending his hand with that same confident charm. "I've heard amazing things about your work."
I stared at his outstretched hand, my mind reeling. This was the same hand that had touched me, had held me, had pushed me away when he was done with his cruel game. Now he was offering it again, completely oblivious to our history.
"Yes," I managed, briefly shaking his hand before pulling away. "I'm Rhea."
The moment our skin touched, something electric passed between us—at least, from his perspective. His eyes widened slightly, and that predatory smile I remembered so well spread across his face.
"Wow," he breathed. "Has anyone ever told you that you're absolutely stunning?"
The audacity of it—the sheer, breathtaking audacity—left me speechless. Here was the same man who had called me ordinary, easy, forgettable, now looking at me like I was the most beautiful woman he'd ever seen.
"I'm sure you say that to all your designers," I replied coolly, turning back to my notes.
But Jett wasn't deterred. If anything, my dismissal seemed to encourage him. "Actually, I don't. I'm usually much more professional than this, but there's something about you..." He leaned closer, his voice dropping to that intimate tone I'd once found irresistible. "I feel like we have a connection. Like I've been waiting my whole life to meet someone like you."
The words were like acid on old wounds. Connection. Someone like me. The same lies, the same manipulation, just packaged differently.
"We just met," I said sharply, my professional composure starting to crack. "You don't know anything about me."
Jett's smile only widened. "I know enough. Sometimes you just know, you know? Love at first sight and all that."
Love at first sight.
The phrase hit me like a slap across the face. Those exact words—the same lie he'd used to reel in the naive college girl I'd once been. The same explanation for why someone like him would be interested in someone like the old me.
Something inside me snapped.
The careful control I'd maintained, the professional distance, the protective walls I'd built around my heart—all of it crumbled in an instant. Six years of therapy, of rebuilding myself, of learning to trust again, and here he was, using the exact same playbook that had destroyed me.
Before I could stop myself, before rational thought could intervene, my hand flew across the table and connected with his cheek with a sharp, satisfying crack.
The sound echoed through the conference room like a gunshot.
