Small Island | W2S

THREE.

Did you think we'd be fine?
Still got scars on my back from your knife
So don't think it's in the past
These kind of wounds they last and they last

- Bad Blood, Taylor Swift (Taylor's Version)

I stood outside the building that would be my new workplace, staring up at its modern façade, a mixture of anticipation and dread swirling in my chest. Inside, I knew lay a future full of opportunities, the kind of chances people moved to London for. But along with that, lurking in the corridors, was the one thing I could barely stomach—Harry Lewis. The boy I'd been conditioned to despise.

The hatred I felt towards him ran so deep, I wasn't even sure where it started anymore. I couldn't recall the exact moment it began, but the feeling was there, woven into the fabric of my upbringing. It was like a family inheritance—an unspoken rule passed down from my father that the Lewises were the enemy. It wasn't just personal; it was tribal. Our families had been at odds for as long as I could remember, and Harry was the living, breathing embodiment of everything I'd been told to hate.

To turn out like him was the worst fate imaginable. That had been drilled into me from childhood, almost as if being anything like Harry was a moral failure. And yet, here I was—standing in the shadow of a future that would see me working for him. Not just in the same industry, but actually for him and his group. The very idea would send my father into a fury.

I could almost hear Dad's voice now, sneering with disgust at the thought. Always one step below them, he'd shout. His voice was always sharpest when it came to the Lewises, especially Harry.

Harry. He wasn't the same boy I'd grown up with. He'd changed in the years since I'd stayed behind in Guernsey while he moved away and, as far as I could tell, thrived. He'd grown into himself—confident, careless in the way only someone who has never had to fear failure could be. He was no longer the awkward boy who fumbled through conversations, nervously seeking approval. Now, he walked through life with the privilege and ease of someone who'd had everything handed to him.

And that's what burned. His success, his status, his very presence in this world of influencers and brands—it was like he'd never had to fight for it. Meanwhile, I had to claw my way through every challenge, and still I was just the girl trying to make a name for herself in London. The thought of working under him, of having to interact with him on a near-daily basis, sent my blood simmering.

But I wasn't doing this for Harry. I was doing it for me. For my future. For the life I wanted to build far away from the island and the smallness of my old life. I needed to prove that I could make it here, no matter how much it felt like a betrayal of everything I'd been raised to believe. My father would be furious if he knew, but maybe that was just one more reason to see this through.

And despite it all—the seething resentment, the baggage of the past—there was one reconciling factor: I still hated Harry Lewis. That hadn't changed. I could do this job, I could succeed, and I could keep my distance. Keep it professional. Because no matter how much the world had changed, some things, like my hatred for Harry, felt like they never would.

"You gonna stand outside staring at the building all day?" A friendly voice cut through my thoughts, pulling me back to reality. The voice was unfamiliar, and instinctively, my guard shot up, locking away all of the swirling personal thoughts I'd been drowning in. It was as if I'd been caught red-handed, my feelings exposed for the world to see.

I spun around quickly, my mind scrambling to match the voice to the face standing next to me. It took a moment to register, but I recognised him immediately. Simon. He looked a little different from the photo in the file—more relaxed, less posed—but it was definitely him.