She made it so easy. She was everything I wasn’t—everything I didn’t want to be.
A reminder that from the moment I was born, I was the outcast. The rebel.
I went against everything that was expected of me and created a life on my terms. I built my own empire, carved out my own destiny.
Then she shows up at my tattoo studio, representing everything I tried to escape. She expects to just fit in, like she ever could.
The posh girl trying to prove everyone wrong… that she can be something else—someone else. She hates me because she knows I’m right.
Or so I think. Turns out this isn’t the first time we’ve met; and our hate has history. We have history.
I might not have remembered, but I damn sure won’t forget now. Won’t forget how her smile is always directed at everyone but me.
If everything changes and she proves she does fit in, will it still be hate I’m feeling or something else entirely?
And if I’m wrong, then she’s right where she belongs… with me.