The moment Sienna Clarke walked through my office door, I felt like someone had punched me in the gut. Ten years. It had been ten years since I'd seen that face, and yet my body recognized her instantly. Same golden hair that caught the light like honey. Same green eyes that used to look at me with such contempt. Same perfect bone structure that made every other girl at Westbrook High seem plain by comparison. But something was different. Gone was the designer wardrobe, the confident smirk, the cruel gleam in her eye. The woman standing before me wore an off-the-rack blazer that had seen better days, and her hands trembled slightly as she clutched a worn portfolio. "Mr. Chen will see you now," my assistant had said moments before, completely unaware that she was sending in the girl who had made my teenage years a living hell. Sienna's eyes met mine, and I watched the color drain from her face. "Ethan?" Her voice was barely a whisper. I leaned back in my leather chair, forcing myself to remain composed even though my heart was racing. "Ms. Clarke. Please, have a seat." She hesitated, and for a moment I thought she might bolt. Part of me wanted her to. The other part—the part I didn't want to acknowledge—needed her to stay. She sat, perching on the edge of the chair like she might need to make a quick escape. "I... I didn't know you owned Chen Digital Solutions," she said, her voice shaking slightly. "I wouldn't have—" "Wouldn't have what? Applied for the position?" I picked up her resume, scanning it with feigned disinterest even though I'd already memorized every word. "Your portfolio is impressive. The marketing campaign you designed for Riverside Boutique increased their social media engagement by two hundred percent." "Thank you." She looked down at her hands. Silence stretched between us, thick with unspoken history. I should have ended the interview right there. Should have told her the position had been filled, shown her the door, and gone back to my life where Sienna Clarke was nothing but an unpleasant memory. Instead, I heard myself say, "Tell me why you want this job." Her eyes snapped up to mine, surprise evident in their green depths. "I... I need it. I'm good at what I do, and your company is doing incredible work in the digital marketing space. I could be an asset to your team." "That's a very diplomatic answer." I set down her resume and folded my hands on my desk. "But it doesn't tell me what I want to know. Why do you *need* it, Sienna?" She flinched at my use of her first name. Good. I wanted her uncomfortable. Wanted her to feel even a fraction of what I'd felt every day at Westbrook High when she'd made it her personal mission to destroy me. "My mother is sick," she said quietly, and something in her voice made my chest tighten. "Stage four breast cancer. The treatments are expensive, and her insurance doesn't cover everything. I've been freelancing, but it's not enough. I need a steady salary, benefits, something stable." I studied her face, looking for signs of deception. Sienna had always been a good liar. She'd convinced the entire school that I'd cheated off her test when it had been the other way around. Had told everyone I'd asked her out and she'd rejected me, when I'd never said a word to her beyond what was absolutely necessary. But the pain in her eyes looked real. "I'm sorry about your mother," I said, and meant it despite everything. "Thank you." She took a shaky breath. "Look, Ethan, I know you have every reason to throw me out of here. What I did to you in high school was cruel and inexcusable. I was a terrible person, and I've spent years trying to be better. I don't expect forgiveness, and I won't blame you if you don't want to hire me. But I'm asking you to at least look at my work objectively. I'm good at what I do." I should have said no. Should have ended this right there. Instead, I opened her portfolio. For the next twenty minutes, I reviewed her work while she sat in excruciating silence. And damn it, she was right. She was good. Really good. The campaigns she'd designed were creative, effective, and exactly the kind of fresh perspective my company needed. "The position pays eighty-five thousand a year, plus full benefits," I said finally. "Three weeks paid vacation. Standard 401k matching. You'd be working directly under me as senior marketing strategist." Her eyes widened. "Are you... are you offering me the job?" "I'm considering it." I closed the portfolio and met her gaze. "But I have conditions." "Anything." "You work harder than anyone else on my team. You prove every single day that you deserve to be here. And if I ever see even a hint of the person you were in high school—the cruelty, the manipulation, any of it—you're gone. No second chances. Understood?" "Understood." She nodded vigorously, and I saw tears gathering in her eyes. "Thank you, Ethan. I swear you won't regret this." But as I watched her leave my office, her shoulders straighter than when she'd entered, I already wondered if I would. Because despite everything she'd done to me, despite all the reasons I should hate her, I couldn't shake the image of those vulnerable green eyes. Or the dangerous thought that maybe, just maybe, people could change.