Grant Jameson.
The same bastard from five years ago. He still looks like a douchebag.
My jaw locks so tight it aches. I zoom in, searching for something, anything. A flinch. A crack. A sign she hates this.
Nothing.
She looks fucking fine. Content even.
Like she never once thought about the boy she left without a word.
Me.
A headline screams across the top of the photo:
Danforth Enterprises and Jameson Group hint at a more permanent merger. Maybe the heirs to the empire will finally seal the deal.
I laugh—it’s short and bitter. Of course they’re getting married. I was just the summer distraction after all.
Old feelings rush back. Suddenly I’m transported to that day . . .
The day that changed my life.
I throw my phone across the room. It hits concrete and clatters, but doesn’t shatter.
Fuck.
I drag a hand through my hair, pacing the length of the warehouse because if I stand still, I’ll put my hand through the wall. I should’ve known. Should’ve guessed she wouldn’t stay frozen like I did. That she’d move on. Thrive.Forget.
But with him?
It was always going to be him. Her father fucking told me it would be.
What the fuck did I expect?
I stalk across the room and punch the wall. It dents, and my knuckles crack and bleed.
It still doesn’t help.
I breathe in. Out. I’m still not calm. I grab my phone from where I threw it and then dial. “Rafe. Now.”
Ten seconds later, the door creaks open. Rafe steps inside, eyebrow raised like he’s already planning which exit to sprint toward if I go feral.
“What’s up?”
I shove my phone with the photo in his face.
He squints, then whistles low. “Well, shit.”
“Exactly.”
“Did she always have a taste for suits?”
“She had a taste for me,” I snap, heat flaring in my chest. “This? This is a downgrade.”
He shrugs. “Looks more like a power play.”
I turn away, because if I keep looking at that screen, I might crack the earth open.
