The silence stretched between us like a taut wire, ready to snap. My hand still tingled from the impact, and Jett's cheek bore the red mark of my palm. I stood frozen, my chest heaving, realizing the magnitude of what I'd just done.
As a professional designer meeting a client's best man for the first time, slapping him was beyond inappropriate—it was career suicide. How could I possibly explain this reaction to someone I was supposed to have never met before?
But instead of the explosion of anger I expected, something extraordinary happened. Jett's shocked expression melted into something else entirely. He threw back his head and laughed—a rich, genuine sound that filled the conference room.
"Well," he said, his eyes sparkling with an emotion I couldn't identify, "that was unexpected."
Anastasia stared between us, her mouth agape. "Jett, are you okay? Should I call—"
"I'm perfect," he interrupted, still grinning as he gently touched his reddening cheek. "Absolutely perfect."
I found my voice, though it came out sharper than intended. "You're insane."
"You know what?" Jett's smile widened. "I'll take that. In fact, I think I like it when you call me crazy." He leaned forward, his eyes never leaving mine. "You've officially captured my complete and undivided attention, Rhea."
The way he said my chosen name made my skin crawl. "This is exactly what I was trying to avoid."
"Too late for that." He stood up slowly, like a predator who'd just spotted his prey. "You see, this is only the second time in my life a woman has slapped me. The first time..." His voice took on a distant quality, almost reverent. "The first time was unforgettable. Life-changing, even. But that woman slipped away before I could properly appreciate what she'd awakened in me."
My blood turned to ice. He was talking about that night six years ago—about me. About Robin. But the way he described it, like some romantic awakening rather than the moment I'd discovered his betrayal, made my stomach turn.
"So I've decided," he continued, his voice dropping to that intimate tone that once made me weak in the knees, "to consider you my compensation. My second chance to explore what it means to be with a woman who has fire."
"You're completely deranged," I whispered, backing away from the table.
"Maybe." His grin turned predatory. "But you're going to find out just how persistent a crazy man can be."
Anastasia finally found her voice. "Jett, this is completely inappropriate. She's my wedding designer, not—"
"Which means," Jett interrupted smoothly, "I'll have plenty of opportunities to change her mind about me."
The realization hit me like a freight train. I was trapped. I'd accepted this commission, signed the contract, taken their deposit. Walking away now would mean breaking professional obligations and potentially damaging my reputation in the industry I'd worked so hard to build.
And Jett knew it. I could see the calculation in his eyes, the satisfaction of a hunter who'd cornered his prey.
Over the next few days, my worst fears materialized. What should have been simple consultations with Anastasia about fabric choices and design preferences turned into elaborate productions starring Jett in the role of devoted suitor.
He appeared at my studio without invitation, carrying ridiculously expensive bouquets of orchids and roses. When I refused to accept them, he had them delivered to every surface in my workspace until the place looked like a funeral home.
"The white orchids remind me of your skin," he'd said during one particularly nauseating visit, "and the red roses match the fire in your eyes when you slapped me."
I'd maintained my professional composure, treating him with the same cool politeness I'd show any client's associate. But inside, I was burning with a rage that had nothing to do with his current pursuit and everything to do with the past he couldn't even remember.
The gifts escalated daily. Designer handbags I'd never use, jewelry that probably cost more than most people's cars, even a vintage bottle of champagne with a note that read: "For when you finally say yes to dinner."
Each gesture made me want to scream. This was the same man who'd called me easy, ordinary, forgettable. Now he was pulling out all the stops to impress a woman he thought was worth his effort—not knowing she was the same person he'd once discarded like trash.
I'd expected his interest to wane when faced with my consistent rejection. Men like Jett typically moved on when the chase became too difficult. But I'd underestimated his persistence—or perhaps his obsession with recreating whatever twisted thrill he'd gotten from that long-ago slap.
The breaking point came on Thursday afternoon. I was in my private design room, sketching preliminary ideas for Anastasia's dress, when I heard the outer door chime. Elise's voice carried through the walls, polite but firm.
"I'm sorry, sir, but Ms. Rhea is in a private work session. I can schedule an appointment—"
"I'll just be a minute," came Jett's smooth reply. "I know she's busy, but I have something special for her."
I heard footsteps moving deeper into the studio, past the reception area where clients were supposed to wait. My blood ran cold as I realized he was heading straight for the design room—the one space that was absolutely off-limits to anyone outside my team.
The door handle rattled. Then came the sound of him testing the lock.
"Rhea?" His voice was muffled but determined. "I know you're in there. Come on, just give me five minutes."
Panic flooded my system. The design room was small, windowless except for one narrow opening that led to the building's external fire escape. If he managed to get in here, I'd be trapped alone with him in a space no one else could access.
The lock rattled again, more insistently this time.
I grabbed my phone and texted Elise quickly: "Distract him. Emergency."
Then I did something I never thought I'd have to do in my professional life—I climbed onto my desk, pushed open the narrow window, and squeezed through onto the metal fire escape.
The autumn air was sharp against my skin as I made my way down the external stairs, my heels clicking against the metal grating.
My heart hammered against my ribs as I realized how far Jett was willing to go in his pursuit.
I reached the alley behind the building, pulling out my phone to text Elise about the situation. My fingers flew over the screen as I walked toward the street, my head down, focused on making sure she could handle Jett until I figured out my next move.
I was so absorbed in typing that I didn't see the taxi pulling up to the curb. Didn't notice the man stepping out with a suitcase until I walked straight into him, the impact sending my phone skittering across the pavement.
"I'm so sorry," I gasped, bending to retrieve my phone. "I wasn't watching where I was—"
I looked up to apologize properly, and the words died in my throat.
The man staring down at me had familiar dark eyes, familiar sharp features that had matured in the six years since I'd last seen them. But unlike Jett, there was no confusion in his gaze. No question about who I was.
"Robin?" Finn Morrison said, his voice filled with shock and something that looked disturbingly like hunger. "Is that really you?"
