The wedding day

Isabelle -

Dear Diary,

Tomorrow is my mother’s wedding. Mum’s always loved grand events—the bigger, the better. And while I want to be happy for her, truly, sometimes it’s hard not to feel like a visitor in her world. But for once, tomorrow isn’t about that. It’s about her happiness, her fresh start, and I can respect that. She deserves it.

But then… there’s Logan.

I still remember the first time I saw him in high school: tall, effortless, and extremely handsome. He was the epitome of everything I wasn’t—popular, confident, and arrogant beyond reason. And God, did he make it his mission to remind me of that?

But tomorrow... he’s going to be family, and soon my boss. But I am not that meek girl anymore. I’ve worked hard to become someone I respect. I’ve built myself up from every bruise he left on my confidence and from every cruel joke that made me feel invisible. If Logan Sinclair thinks he can waltz back into my life and keep tormenting me, he has another thing coming.

I’ll be civil, sure. But if he thinks he can get under my skin, he’s in for a shock. I’m not the girl he remembers. I’m stronger now, and if he tries to bring me down, I’ll show him exactly what I’ve learned in these past years.

So here’s to tomorrow: a day for Mum’s happiness... and for me to prove that I’m no longer the girl he can bully.

I fished my diary entry and looked out of the window of my apartment. Some people might regard writing a diary as an old fashioned juvenile activity. But for me, it's a way to process my thoughts and emotions. I used to write a diary in school, but I lost it on the day of graduation. In a way, it was good; I was able to start fresh in my adult life without the weight of my past entries. I slipped into my bed and closed my eyes. Tomorrow was a big day.

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Logan -

I took a long sip of coffee, staring out the window at the sun creeping over the treetops. The house was quiet—too quiet, considering the circus that would unfold here in a few hours.

Footsteps echoed down the hallway, loud and irritated. I didn’t need to turn around to know who it was. My older sister, Clarissa, was here from France, freshly landed and already launching into her usual state of disapproval.

"Good morning to you too, Clarissa," I said, not bothering to look up from my coffee.

She dropped into the chair across from me with a dramatic huff. “Well, somebody’s not nervous about this wedding,” she grumbled. “I mean, don’t you care that Dad’s getting married to some gold-digging socialite?”

I rolled my eyes, knowing exactly where this was headed. “You do remember that our parents divorced about a decade ago, right?”

“Yes, Logan, but still!” She shot back, her voice laden with the kind of indignation that only a Sinclair could muster at 8:00 AM. “Dad seems to fall for these golddiggers like clockwork."

I bit back a laugh. “Clarissa, it’s not like he’s getting married to a Bond villain. Besides, he seems happy.”

She scowled at me, clearly unimpressed by my lack of concern. “And you? You don’t care at all? Not even a little suspicious of her motives?”

“Look, I’m just here for the vows—a slice of cake. I have more pressing things on my mind, like not spilling coffee on my suit.”

She leant back, crossing her arms in classic disapproval mode. “Unbelievable. Sometimes I wonder if we’re even related.”

“Me too,” I smirked, unable to resist. “Maybe you and I should’ve been switched at birth.”

“Very funny,” she retorted.

She sighed, her fingers drumming on the table.

“Who is that ?" She said.

I followed her gaze and nearly choked on my coffee when I saw Isabelle Munroe pulling up in a cab. She stepped out, adjusting the strap of her small luggage case over her shoulder, her other hand smoothing down the fabric of a light, flowery dress that made her look like she’d just stepped out of a summer postcard.

“That’s Isabelle Munroe,” I said, keeping my voice as casual as possible, though my gaze couldn’t quite break from her. “Amy’s daughter. "

Clarissa’s jaw dropped, her gaze moving from Isabelle to me, then back again. “Wait, wait, she’s going to be our stepsister? This… hot looking girl?”

“She’s not my sister, Clarissa,” I muttered, half-hoping it would help make this whole situation less real.

I stole a glance at Clarissa, whose eyes were still wide. "So, have you two, like, met before?” she asked, suspicion lacing her voice.

“You could say that,” I mumbled.

Clarissa turned to me, her brow raised. “How much not on friendly terms are we talking? You’re looking at her like she’s some kind of ghost.”

I shook my head, avoiding Clarissa’s stare. “We were in the same school. But that was a long time ago. We’re both different people now.”

My sister narrowed her eyes at me, clearly unconvinced, but thankfully decided to let it go. “If you say so. But you’d better pull yourself together before she catches you gawking at her like that.”

Clarissa wasn’t wrong. I gave myself a little shake, downed the rest of my coffee, and willed myself to stop acting like some clueless high school kid. Whatever had happened between Isabelle and me back then, it was in the past, and it was staying there. All I had to do now was keep things cordial, civil, and professional.

Right. Simple enough…