She never thought she'd see his face again. Not in person, not in real life, and definitely not across a gleaming glass table in the twentieth-floor conference room of a tech empire she now worked for.

But life had a twisted sense of humor.

Back then, he was the golden boy of Eastview High — tall, magnetic, untouchably cool. Senior year royalty. And she? She was the quiet freshman with a wild heart, a sketchbook full of dreams, and a crush too big for her braces to handle. She told him, once. One trembling confession after a party, her cheeks redder than the cherry soda she’d spilled on her jeans. He’d listened — and smiled, kindly, like he was talking to a kid sister.

Then he crushed her. Gently, but completely.

“I’m with someone,” he’d said. And not just anyone. Her stepsister.

Savannah-freaking-Cole. The walking nightmare in stilettos who made high school hell. The one who borrowed her clothes without asking and her happiness without permission.

Now, a decade later, she wasn’t the soft-spoken, chubby girl with unsure eyes and a hopeless heart. No — now she was her own storm. Curvy, sharp-witted, and painfully good at her job. People at Vance Industries didn’t just like her. They needed her. She got things done. Alone or in a team, she delivered like no one else.

And her boss?

Still him. Cole Vance. Now a billionaire. The face on Forbes. A 6'4" walking fantasy in tailored suits and five o’clock shadow. He had the nerve to look better than before, like success just upgraded every inch of him.

She cursed him out on her lunch breaks. Quietly. Always behind his back. She defiled office magazines with his face on them, doodling horns, mustaches, and less appropriate things with her favorite pen. She was the mysterious “vandal” of the executive floor. He asked about it once, smirking:

“Who keeps drawing abs on me in ink? Honestly… they’re too flattering.” And he knew. She could tell by the way his eyes gleamed when he passed her desk.

One day, he checked the security cams. He finally caught her. He didn’t fire her. He didn’t scold her. He sent her an espresso machine. The exact one she always used in the break room — but newer, better, customized. It arrived with a note:

“For the artist. Let’s keep you caffeinated — your next masterpiece awaits. – C.V.”

If it had been anyone else, he would’ve fired them before lunch. But her? She amused him.

She hated him. He didn’t care.

Or maybe… He remembered more than he let on.