Unwanted Reunions

The grand hotel loomed before me, its marble stairs bathed in the fading amber of the late afternoon sun. I stepped out of the car, smoothing the folds of my elegant silver gown, wishing I could disappear into the pavement. This celebration had nothing to do with me, even though it was my mother’s wedding dinner.

I hadn’t seen her in months, not since she’d called to announce she was marrying for the fourth time, this time to a wealthy businessman, Robert Sinclair. I had only agreed to attend because I knew the alternative was worse: weeks of her relentless guilt trips and scathing remarks about my "ungrateful attitude." So, here I was, bracing myself for a night of fake smiles and shallow congratulations.

The grand entrance to the hotel shimmered with chandeliers and luxury. As I walked in, a sinking sensation twisted in my stomach. No matter how many times I was pulled into her world of glitz and glamour, I never quite fit in. My mother, once a minor actress who still clung to the remnants of her past fame, had always reminded me of that. Her favourite line, repeated throughout my childhood, was how she would have "made it big" in Hollywood if it weren’t for marrying my "loser father" and having me. She made it sound like my very existence had derailed her dreams.

My dad had left us when I was a baby; I grew up with my grandparents. They loved me and made sure that I never missed my mum.

When I was 17, my grandfather died. A heart attack. Suddenly, violently, and without any warning. His death shattered me. I had never felt so alone. My grandmother was getting too old, and with her dementia, she could no longer take care of me. My mother came back into my life. Not out of love or guilt, but because she needed someone to stand besides her at her public events. A daughter completed her image. I had no choice. I had nowhere else to go.

Now, at twenty-three, I was facing yet another event in her world. I stepped through the gilded doors into the ballroom; heavy tension gripped me. I scanned the room, noting the expensive gowns, the flawless hair, and the laughter that seemed forced, as if the air itself was staged.

And then my worst fear materialised, as if the universe had decided tonight wasn’t torturous enough. Across the room, in a tailored suit that clung to him like a second skin, stood Logan Sinclair.

I froze.

The blood drained from my face, my heartbeat roaring in my ears. It couldn’t be him. Not him. But it was. Logan Sinclair. My high school tormentor. The boy who had made my teenage years a waking nightmare. Why was he here ?

He hadn’t changed much, except for the fact that he looked sharper now, more handsome, as if it were even possible. But the same arrogant smirk was there, the same piercing blue eyes that had once cut me down with a single look. He was laughing with a few men, completely unaware that I had walked into the room. For a fleeting second, I considered bolting for the exit. I didn’t care about the scene it would cause. But before I could move, his gaze shifted and landed on me.

Our eyes locked.

I could see the exact moment recognition flickered in his eyes. His smirk faltered, but only for a moment, before he regained his composure, cool and unbothered. But I wasn’t. The air felt too thick. The ballroom walls seemed to close in on me. Memories I’d buried deep—ones I had spent years trying to forget—rushed back in an overwhelming wave.

The snide comments, the humiliating pranks, the casual cruelty that came so easily to him. Logan had been everything a high school bully could be—popular, untouchable, and relentless. And I had been his favourite target.

I clenched my hands into fists, trying to steady my breathing. Fear. It was fear I hadn’t felt in years—fear that made me feel small and powerless, like the sixteen-year-old girl who had spent too many lunch breaks crying in the bathroom stall, wishing she could disappear.

He excused himself from the conversation he was in and began walking towards me. Every step he took felt like the world was crumbling under my feet.

“Isabelle Munroe,” he said when he reached me, his voice smooth and casual, as if we were old friends. As if he hadn’t once made my life hell.

I forced myself to meet his gaze, even though everything inside me screamed to look away. “Logan,” I managed, my voice barely above a whisper.

He studied me for a moment, his eyes flickering with something unreadable before settling back into that infuriating calm.

“Long time no see,” he said, his voice low.

I swallowed hard, my heart hammering in my chest. I wanted to say something—anything—but the words caught in my throat. Before I could gather my thoughts or force my body to move, the sharp click of high heels echoed from behind me. My mother’s perfume—something expensive and floral—hit my senses before her voice did.

“There you are, Isabelle!” she called, her voice too bright, too loud, dripping with forced enthusiasm. She was already gliding towards us, her elegant gown trailing behind her like the train of a queen.

I turned, forcing a smile as she approached, her arm immediately curling around mine in a possessive gesture. “I’ve been looking all over for you,” she said, though I knew she hadn’t. Her eyes flicked between Logan and me, and she tilted her head, a gleam of satisfaction crossing her features.

“Ah, I see you’ve met Logan.” She squeezed my arm, not out of affection but as if to remind me that I was here to play a part in her perfect picture.

“Met?” Logan’s voice cut in smoothly, laced with amusement. “We go way back, actually. Went to the same high school.” His eyes remained locked on mine, a smirk pulling at the corner of his mouth, daring me to contradict him.

My mother’s laughter tinkled like delicate glass as she glanced between us, entirely oblivious to the tension coiling between Logan and me. “Oh, how delightful!” she said. “Isabelle, I’m sure you two will get along fabulously. Logan is Robert’s son and your new stepbrother.” She beamed at him like he was some kind of trophy son.