At last, the day arrived. My mother and I drove to the apartment she had reserved in advance. As I unloaded our luggage from the car, I felt a piercing gaze fixed upon me. I turned-and instantly recognized him.
Davis King.
The only son of the current owner of King's Beach Resort. The Kings were the wealthiest family in town. His father, Mr. Richard King, had inherited vast fortunes from generations past, and with his wife, he had three children: Davis, and his sisters Maddie and Alice. Yet whispers always circled him-rumors of illegitimate children fathered with mistresses.
The sight of Davis ignited an old, bitter flame within me. I loathed him. I had carried a grudge against him since the eighth grade, when he had humiliated me in a way I could never forget.
It was during lunch break. I had taken my tray outside, relieved to find an empty bench where I could sit in solitude. I cherished my aloneness, though I never refused to share if someone asked politely. Then Davis arrived with his entourage. He demanded I leave the bench. I explained gently that there were no other seats, but he sneered, picked up my lunch, and dumped it on the ground. His friends jeered, one of them laughing, "The floor suits you, dog."
Humiliation burned me alive. I reported the incident, but of course, nothing was done. The excuse was predictable-they dismissed it as a "mere mistake." After all, Davis's father was the school's greatest benefactor. I never told my mother; I knew she would transfer me to another school, and I refused to abandon the one place I actually loved, even if it meant enduring silent pain. So I swallowed it. But I never forgot.
That evening, on the night of our arrival, King's Beach hosted a welcome party for all families spending the summer there. At first, I resisted attending, but my mother gently persuaded me. I stood before my closet, unsure of what to wear, until I settled on a red dress.
The venue was overflowing with chatter and laughter. Noise pressed against my ears; I felt like a stranger in a foreign world. Uncomfortable, I slipped toward the bar and ordered a cocktail. Soon after, I wandered toward a quiet spot near a coconut tree by the beach, plugged in my earpods, and lost myself in old-school classical music.
Then I heard it-an arrogant, mocking voice behind me.
"Hey, baby girl."
I ignored it. But then a tap on my shoulder forced me to turn. It was him. Davis.
"I said hi," he added smoothly.
I met his gaze, uncertain what to say.
"Are you new around here?" he asked casually.
Still, I remained silent. Instead, I stood, preparing to walk away.
"You do walk out on people," he chuckled. "That's not cute." He reached for my hand, flashing a smile he thought irresistible.
Rage surged through me. Without hesitation, I flung my cocktail at him, the liquid splashing across his shirt. His stunned expression almost satisfied me. I turned to leave, but he chased after me, only to be stopped by a voice in the crowd.
"Don't you recognize her?" one of his friends called.
"Who?" Davis frowned.
"That's Isabella-the girl whose lunch you smashed back in eighth grade. Remember?"
His eyes widened. "The nerdy one? Whoa... she's beautiful now."
I rolled my eyes and kept walking. My phone buzzed-I texted my mother that I was heading home. Suddenly, I heard my name.
"Isabella! Isabella, wait!"
He caught up to me, breathless. "Please... I was a jerk. I'm sorry for the way I treated you. Truly, I am." He extended his hand. "We cool?"
I glared at him. "You're a fool," I hissed. "Even though I have forgiven you, I will never forget the humiliation you put me through. You think I can forget it that easily?"
His face fell, disappointment clouding his features. But I did not care. I had nursed this resentment for years. The truth, though, was crueler-I had once harbored a crush on Davis. Even my late sister knew it; she had teased me endlessly. But that incident poisoned everything. My affection had curdled into hatred.
The following day, a package arrived. I opened it-and froze. Inside was the exact lunch Davis had thrown away four years ago: two chicken sandwiches, five nuggets, and a can of Mountain Dew. Alongside it lay a note, written neatly: "I am really sorry."
From the window of his house, he watched me. Expecting me to soften. Hoping for redemption. Instead, I carried the tray outside and, with deliberate cruelty, dumped it straight into the trash before his eyes. His face faltered with disappointment. But that did not stop him.
The meals kept coming. Morning and evening, day after day, they appeared on my doorstep. Until, at last, on the fifth day, I relented and accepted one. From his window, he beamed, victorious. Yet within me, irritation still simmered. I could not stand him.
The next morning, as I took out the trash, I felt his eyes on me again. Watching. Always watching. Infuriation rose in my chest. I hurried back inside, my heart pounding with anger. I could not yet decipher his intentions-but his persistence unsettled me more than I cared to admit.