First message
I hated high school reunions.
The ballroom buzzed with forced laughter and people trying far too hard to prove they’d made something of themselves. Crystal chandeliers glittered overhead while old classmates traded stories and accomplishments.
I sat alone at a table near the back. Across the room, Savannah was exactly where I expected her to be—surrounded by friends, collecting attention like it was oxygen.
Years ago, her father and I signed agreements benefiting both of our companies. Carter Automotive gained access to Pierce, Inc. manufacturing, and both families got exactly what they wanted.
Love was never part of the deal.
My mother raised me alone. She worked tirelessly to give me opportunities she never had. Every lesson that mattered came from her. Respect people. Keep your word. Never mistake cruelty for strength.
Most importantly, respect women.
That’s why Savannah frustrated me. The gossip. The criticism. The way she couldn’t see another woman succeed without tearing her down.
Then I saw her standing across the ballroom. I recognized her immediately.
Not because we’d met.
Because I’d seen Savannah stalking her social media countless times. I’d heard every insult, every jealous comment disguised as criticism. None of it matched the woman before me. If anything, Savannah had undersold her. She was beautiful.
For the first time all evening, I forgot about the reunion.
And I found myself wondering what kind of woman inspired so much hatred from Savannah.