Ghosts from the past

Logan -

I watched as she stopped near one of the floral displays, her fingers brushing the edge of her gown as if she wasn’t sure what to do with them. It was a small gesture, almost imperceptible, but it made her seem... human. Like maybe, under all that poise, she was just as overwhelmed by this whole scene as I was.

"So why is she here?" Trent asked.

"She, my dad, is marrying her mom," I explained.

"Holy sh*t! She is your new stepsister!" Trent's eyes widened in surprise as he processed the information.

"Well, this just got a lot more interesting," he remarked with a mischievous grin.

"She is not my sister." I clarified, feeling a mix of amusement and annoyance at Trent's reaction. "But yeah, this whole situation just got a lot more complicated."

“Are you going to say hi, or are you just going to stand here gawking?” Trent teased, elbowing me.

I blinked, snapping out of my trance. “I’m not gawking.”

“You so are,” he said with a smirk.

Before I could retort, she turned slightly, her eyes meeting mine from across the garden. For a heartbeat, the world seemed to fall away, leaving just the two of us.

Then she looked away, and the spell was broken.

“She saw you,” Trent said, grinning. “Dude, you’re in trouble.”

“Shut up,” I muttered.

************************************

Isabella

It was like a nightmare high school all over again.

I froze, my fingers tightening around the stem of the champagne flute I’d been holding. Across the garden, casually leaning against a marble column with that same smarmy grin plastered on his face, was Trent Matthews. The sleazeball himself.

I should have checked the guest list. Why didn’t I check the guest list?

Memories flooded back. He was the guy who thought every girl was just waiting for him to charm her with his half-hearted compliments and predatory smirk. Seeing him here so comfortably mingling among the Sinclair crowd sent a jolt of unease through me.

I turned my back to him, feigning interest in the rose centerpiece on my table. My heart raced, a cocktail of anger and embarrassment brewing inside me. Was anyone else here from high school? Had Logan dragged half the alumni directory into this circus?

Before I could spiral further, the sound of violins filled the air, soft and enchanting. The wedding music had started. Gradually, conversations hushed, and all attention shifted to the ceremony stage, where the officiant stood waiting beneath an arch of white roses and twinkling lights.

And then she appeared.

My mom, stunning as ever, floated down the aisle in a designer gown that must’ve been shipped directly from a Paris runway. The dress clung to her like it had been designed solely for her, every bead and fold emphasizing her elegance. Her smile was radiant, her every step poised and confident. She looked happy. Truly happy.

I wanted to feel happy for her too, but the lump in my throat wouldn’t go away.

As she reached the stage, standing beside Logan’s father, a strange pang hit me. It wasn’t sadness, exactly, or anger. It was something in between—a feeling of watching someone you love drift further into a world you’d never quite fit into.

The ceremony passed in a blur. I clapped along with everyone else when they exchanged vows, kissed, and walked back down the aisle as husband and wife.

And then came the reception.

The Sinclair ballroom was even more extravagant than the garden, if that was possible. Massive crystal chandeliers hung from the ceiling, casting a golden glow over the sprawling dance floor. Tables draped in silk and adorned with towering floral arrangements lined the perimeter. Waitstaff flitted about, carrying trays of champagne and hors d'oeuvres.

I lingered near the edge of the room, clutching another flute of champagne like a lifeline. Guests were already beginning to take to the dance floor, the orchestra striking up a waltz that sounded both beautiful and unbearably pretentious.

I should’ve known better than to think I could avoid the inevitable.

“Miss Isabella,” a voice said behind me. I turned to see one of the wedding coordinators smiling politely. “It’s time for the best man and maid of honor to dance."

Oh, right. That.

I resisted the urge to groan aloud. Of course, my mom had insisted on this outdated tradition, pairing me with Logan Sinclair for a dance in front of hundreds of people. Just the idea made my skin crawl—not because of Logan, per se, but because I hated being the center of attention.

Before I could protest, Logan appeared, looking every bit the picture of polished charm. His tuxedo was perfectly tailored, his hair styled just enough to look effortless, and there was an air about him that screamed “Sinclair heir.".

“Shall we?” he asked, holding out a hand.

I hesitated. There was no way out of this. Everyone was already watching. Perfect.

With a resigned sigh, I placed my hand in his and let him lead me to the center of the dance floor. The orchestra began a slow, lilting melody, and Logan slipped an arm around my waist, his other hand holding mine gently but firmly.

“You don’t seem thrilled about this,” he said quietly, his lips quirking in a small, knowing smile.

“Observant,” I replied dryly, glancing around at the sea of eyes focused on us.

“Don’t worry,” he said, his voice low enough that only I could hear. “We’ll get through it. Just try not to step on my toes."

A reluctant laugh escaped me, and for a moment, I forgot about Trent, about the crowd, about everything. Logan’s hand was warm against mine; his movements were smooth and easy, guiding me effortlessly across the dance floor.

“You’re good at this,” I admitted grudgingly.

“You sound surprised."

“I am,” I said.

His laugh was soft. As the song ended and applause erupted around us, I realized something unexpected: for those few minutes, I hadn’t thought about Trent or the wedding or my mom. I’d just been there, in the moment, dancing with Logan. And that was a little terrifying.

"We can continue if you wish," he said as others started joining the dance floor.

"Nah ! I am good; I don't like dancing much." I made an excuse and walked away.