And then my soul stuttered.
Holy fucking shit.
I mean, holy fucking shit.
Was this—was this—
My jaw dropped open, my heart stopped, and I suddenly couldn't breathe. My eyes burned with the strain as I stared at the picture, studying it, trying to take in every detail all at once.
I blinked. And blinked again, my brain not working properly, my eyes not cooperating.
Blowing up the photo, I examined it again.
The hair color was different. Much darker than my mystery woman.
And the eyes were another color as well, not that it hadn't occurred to me the violet shade had to be courtesy of contacts.
Those were the obvious changes.
But then, I compared the smile, the one thing that couldn't easily be disguised.
And that's when I knew. I fuckingknew.
My mystery woman, the one I'd fallen so hard for? Astrid Stratton.
Astrid Stratton.
Was this a joke?
This had to be a joke.
With a sickening realization, it dawned on me that she knew exactly who I was. Tristan Hawthorne. Her high school tormentor.
My fucking God.
What did that mean?
Was she fucking playing me? Was this whole thing a sick revenge scheme in her mind? Her way of getting back at me?
There was no other plausible explanation for why she didn't want me to know her name.
Every hope and dream I had of something real with her came crashing down around me, because there was no way in hell this woman would ever want anything to do with me. Ever.
I was going to hurl.
This was too much. And I had no fucking idea what to do.
Twenty-Four
Astrid
Sweat trickled down between my breasts. Ugh, I hated that feeling. I didn't want to even think about what that was doing to my underwire bra.
But I'd worry about that later, because that was the least of my concerns right now. The big day was upon me, and we were only moments away from the runway show.
And I was totally in control. Yep. One-hundred percent.
"Astrid!" Katie shouted. "We need you over here."
