The Reunion

The Harrington Building was supposed to be my triumph.

Three years of pitching, six months of design work, and four rejected proposals before the historical society finally approved my renovation plans. I'd fought for every cornice, every original window frame, every inch of the 1920s Art Deco facade that made this building worth saving.

And now Drew Morrison owned it.

I stared at the email on my phone, reading the name again. Drew Morrison, Morrison Development Group. The same Drew Morrison who'd made my high school years a living hell. The same Drew Morrison who'd christened me "Tiny Tessa" in sophomore year and watched the nickname stick like gum on a shoe for three years. The same Drew Morrison who'd once filled my locker with tampons and sanitary pads as a "joke" after I'd had the audacity to turn down his friend for prom.

Fifteen years. I'd spent fifteen years becoming someone who didn't flinch at her own reflection. Someone who commanded boardrooms and won design awards and never, ever thought about the girl who used to eat lunch in the library because the cafeteria felt like a minefield.

And now he was going to walk into my site meeting in—I checked my watch—seven minutes.

"You look like you're about to murder someone," said Jackie, my project manager, appearing at my elbow with coffee.

"Just contemplating the heat death of the universe." I took the coffee. "Or maybe just one specific person's heat death."

"The new owner?"

"The new owner."

Jackie had worked with me for five years. She knew my moods, my methods, and my tendency toward hyperbole. But this wasn't hyperbole. This was justified, historical, completely warranted rage dressed up in a professional blazer and sensible heels.

The door to the construction trailer opened.

He was taller than I remembered. Broader. The lanky cruelty of his teenage years had filled out into something irritatingly athletic, all shoulders and confident stance. His dark hair was shorter now, professionally cut, and there were fine lines around his eyes that hadn't been there when he was seventeen and making my life miserable.

"Tessa Chen?" He smiled like we were meeting for the first time. Like my name meant nothing. Like he hadn't spent three years turning it into a weapon. "I'm Drew Morrison. I've heard incredible things about your work."

He extended his hand.

I looked at it.

Then I looked at him—really looked, searching for some flicker of recognition, some hint that he remembered what he'd done. But his expression was open, friendly, utterly vacant of guilt.

He didn't remember me.

Of course he didn't. I'd been forgettable then—small, quiet, easy to torment because I never fought back. Why would a bully remem...