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.

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?"