Words from a letter I never sent, and still want to every damn day:

I hope you go to hell, Trent Usher.

Buy yourself a nice long ticket and enjoy your stay.

I won't be waiting when you get back.

The worst thing you did wasn't leaving my father on his knees, screaming in tears. Or the fact that you left me flattened against the wall with my heart pounding, watching the color drain from Jace's face.

It wasn't even the things you whispered to me the morning after our night. Our first and last and only.

The last night I'll ever be this young, this stupid and this trusting. I believed in you too much.

It wasn't the promises you made, or how you strung me along with the magic and mystery I'd always wanted to hold, if just for an instant, in your bottomless blue eyes.

The worst thing you did was leaving without a word. Without an explanation. Without an apology.

I waited, Trent.

I waited so fucking long.

I thought you'd drop me a goodbye. Even if you had to in secret, just to say I want you, or I'm sorry, or there's some deep screwed up part of me that never meant for any of this to happen.

Now, I wonder if you meant it all along. Maybe a sick, deranged part of you enjoyed what you did to us, what you're STILL doing to me.

We opened our home and gave you the world. My parents treated you like another son. Jace loved you like a brother. But nothing like I did, drunk on your toxic promises and sadistically enchanting smirks.

I loved you, asshole.

You loved making me a fool.

I found your address in Portland. You wouldn't be reading this if I didn't. Don't worry – I'm not turning you in.

Even after everything that happened, you're safe. Even with every shred of common sense I have left screaming 'do it,' I can't.

Just can't.

So, I'm going to make sure you read this, and then I'm doing the next best thing to driving down there and kicking your crazy ass: forget you ever existed.

Move on. I suggest you do the same. Whatever dirty, evil stuff you've gotten into will play itself out. That's not my problem. Not anymore. I've wasted too many tears.

But if I'm able to make you think twice before doing this to another girl, leaving her heart a battered wreck, I'll have done my job.

If I find a conscience somewhere behind those beautiful blue eyes and hard body, I hope I stab its heart.

This isn't some guilt trip. It's the bleeding truth. Plus a nice big dose of 'fuck you,' written on my hundredth night in tears since you left, after I've spent too many hours alone in dad's wine cellar.

Stay in hell, Trent.

This lifetime and the next.

Don't come calling.

Fuck you very much,

“Precious”

* * *

It's three hours since I stepped off the plane, checked into my rental, and I'm right back in la-la land. Downtown Seattle is as dreary and bustling as I remember. It's separated from my aching eyes by a sheet of thick glass. The orange lit lobby of this huge tower is like a second home, as it should be for any daughter who grew up in the shadow of a powerful law firm.

I rub my eyes, still trying to forget that stupid letter. I found it just yesterday, digging through my things, taking a break from packing to pick through old trinkets I haven't seen since college.

Six years ago, I penned a Fuck You letter to the man who once meant the world. I never sent it.

For some ungodly reason, I tucked it in my purse. I read it three more times at the airport and once since I landed, like some strange homecoming ritual to this city where life showed me love and promises are fairy tales. Nothing more.

Tucking the long green straw from my iced coffee into the corner of my lip, I suck angrily, draining the last third of watered down coffee.

This isn't a freaking mud run, Ames. Let's pull ourselves together and get this done.

If only it were that easy. I'm feeling my jet lag as the building goes quiet for the day, employees scurrying out the door by the dozen. The guy at the front desk is the last to go, throwing his computer in his case, giving me a weak, unsure grin.

I turn to the man in the leather chair across from me and –

And my heart damn near stops.

My eyes go wide. The anxious electric hum prickling my blood has nothing to do with the caffeine hit.

Deep breath.

Deep freaking breath.

This isn't happening.

It's totally not him. Totally not sitting there in a magnificent suit, navy blue to match his eyes, his strong jaw covered in a delicious bristle of five o'clock shadow. Totally not staring me down, pinning me to my seat, locking my body, mind, and soul to the leather with the same uncanny ease he did when we were kids.

No. Dang. Way.

I blink, look away, and hold my breath. This is silly.

But God help me, I can't bring my eyes back his way. Can't look the man who ruined me and everyone I love dead in his baby blues.

I can't even face his spitting image. A person who looks exactly like him because all the logic in the universe dictates he's not the real Trent Usher.

There's a shuffle of movement to my side. I exhale slowly. When I look back, predictably, he's gone.

If he ever existed and this wasn't some feverish hallucination.

More air hisses out of my lungs. So fast I almost choke.

It has to be the letter, I tell myself. Bad luck. Stress.

I should've burned it the second I pulled it out of that box with the old travel magazines. Should've burned it twice and thrown the ashes to the breeze. Before it ever made it on this trip.

I'm such an idiot. This is my fault, no one else's.

My own dead angry words put Trent Usher's dark stamp on my brain. So does being back here, a universe away from the comfy bed and breakfast chain I've built with my bare hands on the other side of the Cascades.

I miss Spokane. It's smaller, simpler, cleaner than the Emerald City. This place is forever tainted with things I've tried so hard to forget.

Stress does crazy things to a person, too. That's another reason I'm seeing ghosts.

The man who was in front of me a few seconds ago couldn't possibly be him.

Trent Usher is in Oregon. Portland. That's all I know.

All I really care to, really, after the way he baited my heart and then blew it to smithereens.

This is present day Seattle. I have family business.

Whatever this place was to me before, whatever happened here, it won't be the same again. History doesn't repeat itself. Not as tragedy or farce.

It's my burned out brain playing tricks. Nothing more.

Just like Edgar Allan Poe's raven said. Or was it never?

I have to remember I'm safe. There's a better chance of being struck by a meteorite while I've got the winning lotto numbers in my pocket than encountering the man who destroyed me here.

I'm still telling myself how impossible it is, casting glances around the room for the mysterious stranger there's suddenly no trace of, when my phone vibrates in my purse.

“Yeah, Jace?” It's hot the instant I press it to my ear.

“You up there yet? Listen, I wanted to talk about that old green crap in dad's office, the jade theme? I want it gone. Replaced with something modern. Hell, maybe blow out the other wooden panel on the wall and throw in another window. That's an awesome fucking view up there, Amy Kay, and I'd be an idiot not to make the most of it. I –”

“Whoa. Calm down, bro. I haven't even gotten on the elevator yet,” I snap. “Jesus. I'm barely off my plane, and you're already bombarding me with details about a section of the place that won't do a lick of good for client retention?” I want to reach through the phone and slap my older brother.

“Well, taking clients into the board room for the big talk over coffee was dad's thing. Mine's treating them more like old friends. More whiskey shots at the sushi bar down the street, less sipping scotch. I've got a better shot at sealing the deal when they're at my desk, drinking in the best goddamn view of Rainier they've ever seen.”

“Only thing you're sealing right now is my patience. Putting it in the same ugly box holding all those questions, like why the hell I bothered coming back here. I'm not an interior designer, Jace.”

“Yeah, but sis, you do homey so well. You've got an eye for it. Friendly decor, ambiance, that's what really matters these days – especially with all this online bullshit. Making things look pretty, that's your strong suit. I've seen pictures of your rentals in Spokane. Don't be so modest. Business is booming, isn't it?”

It's up and down, like always, but of course I'm not telling him the truth. I also don't want to have to swallow my pride with a lie.

My inns are also business I desperately need to return to once this ridiculous stint decorating the family firm ends. I've got competent people running the show while I'm away, but nothing lasts on auto-pilot forever. “Jace, I'm here to do you a favor. Don't make me regret it. I can't work miracles.”

"Shit, sis. Not like I'm asking you to walk on water and turn dirt into gold. This is for our parents. Mom's health. Dad's sanity. They've worked their asses off our whole lives. Least we can do is make sure they've got a comfortable retirement."

Yeah. Retirement.

Like this isn't actually about my older brother finally getting his shot at dad's empire. My older, slower, lazier brother who's very prone to screwing up. And letting his greed own him.

"I'm still waiting for the office to clear out so I've got the space to myself. I'll see what I can do." I sigh.

"You'd better. Because if I keep hemorrhaging clients dad held down left and right, we're definitely in deep –"

"Correction: you are. This is your rodeo, Jace. Not mine. I never wanted it. I left this town for a reason."

“You ran, sis. I'm the one who stayed behind and took this crap by the horns. I couldn't stand to let our family name die once dad decided he'd had enough. We're part of Seattle. Chenocott turf forever." Jace takes an arrogant breath. "I get it, I guess. Your situation. You had to start over. It was harder on you than anybody, what happened, after that traitor fucking asshole –”

"No. Not now. I've got work to do and we don't have time to dwell on things we shouldn't. We're making this as brief as possible and then I'm done.” I stand, eyeballing the elevator.

It's a sober, tall, 1980s-looking thing. Glass and stainless steel. Part of Chenocott and Wick's illustrious heritage. "We'll talk in the morning. After I've been up there, I really need to check into my room and crash for a few."

Jace says something, but I don't bother listening. I've had it up to here with my brother's petulant, demanding, and always ungrateful attitude. I just want to get this done and rest. Maybe soak in a few drinks at the high-end sushi place down the road to take the edge off bad memories.

I grab my purse and head over to the elevator. It's getting dark outside. I hear a security guard's footsteps patter down the hall from the deserted lobby.

I tap the button, expecting a long wait for the elevator's silver doors to slide open. But it's late. Empty. Every normal person in this building who isn't stuck working overtime is gone. The elevator pings a second later and the doors grate open.

I step inside, punch the button for the floor I need, and slump against the wall. It never moves.

The door slides open again for another passenger.

My heart leaps in my throat for the second time this evening.

Mr. Totally Not Trent steps past me, adjusting his tie.

If the man in the suave navy suit isn't just a figment of my imagination, then he's a drop dead gorgeous mirror for the man I hoped I'd never see again.

A doppelgänger. A double. It has to be.

Has to!

But the longer I look and the harder I stare, the more my desperation sinks in. Slowly winding around my throat like a vicious snake, running its venom into my heart.

Of course, I barely realize how long it's been since I blinked. I'm wide-eyed, bewildered, and lost in my own head.

A perfect opening for the stranger to smirk and speak in a voice stolen from the gods. "What floor?"

More like what universe.

I practically crawl up the opposite corner from him. His crystal blue eyes are unrelenting. They're on me, waiting for an answer. Probably wondering if I'm a crazy person or just mute.

"Thirtieth floor please," I say. I can't remember the last time I ever sounded so weak, so mousy.

So scared, if I'm being honest.

Clenching my fist on the gold railing behind me, I softly exhale my relief as the stranger's eyes wander to the small digital screen above the door.

“Same place,” he whispers, stabbing at the button. The doors pinch shut.

We're going up fast. There's that heavy weight in my legs and a mechanical whoosh. It might as well be a dentist's waiting room, the only place in the world I'd thought with the miraculous ability to stretch time. Until now.

And there's plenty reason to start staring again. Gawking, really, my eyes fixed on a face that's older, handsomer, and eerily familiar. It can't be. It's not. It's impossible.

Not him.

Not here.

Not now.

Oh, but his voice...that's different. I haven't heard Trent speak for almost seven years.

This man's cadence sounds richer, smoother, older and wiser than the cocky boy I remember. Too much like how he'd sound if the playful confidence he always carried had aged, matured, and developed a soul.

It'd be a lot like this stranger's voice – all four words he's spoken.

Four. Holy crap.

This really is getting insane, isn't it? This isn't me. Amy Kay doesn't go all stalker freak and stare at strangers.

It's this place. This trip. It's set me off, tangled nervous, left me jumping at ghosts. I have to make it stop.

Just when I'm about to force myself to look through the window at the slowly illuminating evening city below, the stranger clears his throat.

His eyes shift to mine. More than a sideways glance. Like he's scoping me out, too, trying to place me in some tragic past we've both tried our damnedest to forget.

Or so I imagine. If this isn't real, then why the curl in his lip?

If he's not Trent, if there's any justice in this universe, then there's no way – no freaking way – his lips should be carbon copies of the ones I traced with my tongue countless times over one fatal summer.

This doesn't make sense.

Nothing about him ever did, it's true.

But this is a whole new level of coincidence, of hell, that shouldn't be possible.

Such a tall, handsome, improbable death blow to every set of odds, every sense of logic, can't be standing in front of me...right?

But he is. Right there. And now he's staring back.

That's where we're stuck for the next three seconds, the longest of my life, before my eardrums explode and everything spins in a furious metal shriek.

* * *

It's dark, but it doesn't mean a thing to the merry-go-round in my vision. I struggle to place myself, put my hand against the glass. Everything feels...off, somehow.

It's crooked. Slightly angled. One more thing that shouldn't be happening on an elevator ride to assess the furnishings upstairs. I see Seattle's lights through the cold glass and instantly start to sweat.

They're all wrong.

Too crooked. Too strange. Too sideways.

We're wrecked. Dangling God only knows how many feet in the sky.

Gasping, I twist my head to face my companion, who up until a few seconds ago was my biggest problem. “Jesus! We're –”

“Stuck, Presh. What are the chances?” Apparently, the horrific mortal peril we might be in doesn't faze his cool, or that smirk I'd really like to wipe off his face with a nasty flick of my palm.

The pet name doesn't register. Not at first.

When it does, my heart stops beating. My blood runs cold. A chill swarms up my spine.

Presh is something I haven't heard for years. Not outside my nightmares. That name is a ghost rising up, whispering in my ear, draining my life away.

Presh was what he called me.

Presh breathed sunny warmth into the coldest afternoon swept by the Pacific wind when it hung on his lips.

Presh is engraved forever in my mind.

How he groaned it mid-thrust, owning me, painting every inch of me with fire.

Presh, sometimes Precious, but always Presh. Always.

I was his precious girl. That means this stranger, this madness, is no one but...

“Trent?” I whisper his name. Half-curse, half-denial. Entirely get-me-the-hell-out-of-here.

The disinterested spark of recognition flaring in his eyes worries me a whole lot more than the world going crooked outside. He's too distracted to torment me as much as he'd like.

Proof positive there's something terribly wrong with this elevator, and one wrong move might send us plummeting to our deaths.

His smirk becomes a smile. The man, the bastard – Trent – nods.

“Like poetry, isn't it? Perched above the world with the Reaper at our necks. Hell of a delay I didn't really expect. Guess this is a bad time to say you're looking well, darling?” It's not just the elevator that's slanted.

It's him, his hand stretches behind him, holding on so gravity doesn't send him crashing into me. The floor is bent at such an angle it isn't easy to stand on his side without assistance.

“Delay? What?!” My brain hits its limit. It shuts down. I can't process what the hell's happening between the fear, the shock, the loathing that sweeps through me, curdling my blood. “What...what do you mean?”

“You didn't stop to wonder why I'm on an elevator heading up to your family's office? Shit. You've been through a lot in the last sixty seconds, Presh. Couldn't have been much fun twisting around, nearly bashing your head on the glass, this rusty old thing crapping out...so I'll go easy. ” He pauses, taps behind him on the glass, a sound that ricochets through the small compartment like a bullet. “Let me fill in the blanks for you, darling, because you were never much good at puzzles. I'm back in town to pay your fuckhole brother a visit. Back for justice. Fancy meeting you the evening I swore I'd get even.”

The air I've had trapped in my lungs for what seems like forever hisses out. For a brief second, I imagine the cold glass behind me giving way, cracking, putting me out of my misery. Tumbling through the chilly spring air and impacting solid concrete seems easier than this.

Far too easy.

Luck, Fate, and Heaven itself just trampled me in the mud and laughed. The years I've spent running marathons, trying to forget, ruining endless pairs of sneakers in sticky muck haven't prepared me for anything.

Not for today. I'm at least twenty stories up, hanging in mortal danger, trapped with the boy who trashed my family and left my heart a burning ruin.

“Presh –”

We lock eyes the instant I cut him off. “Don't, Trent. Just don't.”

There's more clinging to the tip of my tongue, a proper lashing, heavy and bitter, but I just can't get it out. It's still caught in my throat when the elevator shakes a second time, groans, and drops.

I'm thrown into a deep inky blackness before I can breathe the last words I want to say on this Earth.

Don't you dare, Trent Usher. I still hate your fucking guts.