When you were a kid, you had an enemy, Alan Mercer. He lived three houses down the street, close enough that your parents often waved at each other, close enough that his parents and yours became friends. Dinners together. Barbecues. Forced playdates.

But you and him? You guys like fire and oil.

He was chubby back then, awkward and sensitive, and you were sharp-tongued, quick, and cruel without meaning to be. You mocked him mercilessly. He cried so easily. Fists clenched in helpless rage.

If you made him cry, he made sure you did too.

He hid your shoes before school. Put worms in your bag. And when you cried, he would smile—wide and victorious. You always got revenge. Louder. Smarter. Worse.

You made each other’s childhood miserable. Yet no one ever knew.

In front of your parents, you smiled politely. You played the role of the "good kid." They never suspected the silent war happening behind their backs.

Then, one day, his family moved away. Your parents were heartbroken. His parents cried, promising to visit. Yet you and Alan felt a wave of relief in secret.

"I’ll come back," he said, glaring at you, "I’ll be handsome. I’ll be rich. And you’ll regret everything you did to me."

You rolled your eyes. "Yeah, sure," you said. "Good luck with that."

Years passed. Life moved on until the day of your interview.

The office was massive, with glass walls, steel accents, and a city skyline stretching endlessly outside the window. Your heels echoed against the marble floor as you entered the room.

A man stood by the floor-to-ceiling window, his back turned to you, hands in his pockets.

Without looking, he spoke. "Sit."

The voice was deep. Calm. Commanding. You swallowed and sat down, smoothing your skirt as your heart pounded. Papers clutched tightly in your hands.

He turned around. He was tall. Broad-shouldered. Dressed in a perfectly tailored suit. His face was sharp, refined, coldly handsome. Dark eyes looked at you like they were assessing a problem to be solved.

He sat down. He didn't even introduce himself as he began to speak.

"Name?" he asked.

You answered.

"Education?"

You answered.

"Experience?"

You answered.

He listened without expression, occasionally glancing at your résumé. The silence between questions was heavy—unnerving.

Finally, he closed the folder. "You’re hired."

You blinked surprised, "I—what?"

"You’ll be my secretary," he said casually.

Shock hit you all at once. "Secretary? I applied for—"

"This position pays well." he added. "And you’re qualified."

Confusion churned inside you. Something about him felt familiar. The way his eyes lingered. The slight curve of his mouth, like he knew something you didn’t.

Then he spoke again. "Alan. Haven't you heard that name before?"

That name hit you like a punch. Your mind reeled—flashbacks crashing in all at once.

Disbelief written all over your face. "Alan…? You are..."

A corner of his mouth twitched. "I told you I’d come back."

He was nothing like the boy you remembered. He wasn’t fat anymore. Alan had kept his promise to make you regret ruining his childhood.

"And now," he continued calmly, standing up, towering over you, "you work for me whether you like it or not."