Chapter 3
Nina
I fled the office building like a deserter, sprinting all the way back to my rundown studio apartment.
The moment I closed the door, I collapsed onto my couch, my heart still pounding wildly. Enzo's words echoed in my mind:
"I recall someone who enjoyed these little stunts even back in school."
He definitely remembered!
I clutched my head, feeling the world spin around me. Those words were absolutely referencing high school! Six years had passed, and I thought those ancient stories had been buried by time, but no...
"Damn it, Nina Simons, what have you gotten yourself into!"
Under the dim lamp light, I began to recall the nightmare from six years ago.
2018, Portland Citywide High School Debate Championship.
I represented Lincoln High School; he represented Saint Mary's Academy. From our first meeting, I was stunned by this guy.
I wore a thrift store suit with the previous owner's name tag still faintly visible on the cuff; Enzo Shaffer wore custom Tom Ford, his cufflinks gleaming under the lights.
The debate topic was "The Relationship Between Money and Happiness."
I passionately argued that "money can't buy true happiness," while he coolly countered that "economic foundation determines the superstructure."
Back then, I thought he was just another trust fund kid corrupted by wealth, and he probably saw me as an impractical idealist.
Head-to-head, neither of us backing down.
The result? He won. Not because his viewpoint was better, but because his research was more thorough, his data more authoritative.
I remember the look in his eyes as he glanced at me—that slight contempt, that superiority.
"Poor kid's idealism," I overheard him tell his friends, "worthless."
That was the moment our war began.
The next two years were an epic prank battle.
My classic masterpieces:
During summer, I stuffed a mackerel into his BMW. The next day, Portland hit 95 degrees, and that smell... they say the entire parking lot reeked.
In computer class, I hacked his calculator to display "RICH BOY SUCKS" every time he turned it on.
At the Model UN conference, I secretly replaced his speech with a nursery rhyme version. He actually delivered a five-minute foreign policy address based on "Twinkle, Twinkle, Little Star."
But Enzo's revenge was more brutal.
He bribed the student council host to play a video of me at age seven wearing diapers during my campaign speech for student body president.
During the talent show, while I was soulfully performing "My Heart Will Go On," the background music suddenly switched to "The Wheels on the Bus."
The final showdown happened at graduation.
It was our last high school confrontation. As an honors graduate, I was to deliver a speech and had carefully prepared an inspirational address about "pursuing dreams."
But when I stood on stage and opened my speech notes...
"Mary had a little lamb, its fleece was white as snow. And everywhere that Mary went, the lamb was sure to go..."
The audience of over a thousand people—including my parents, teachers, and classmates—froze in confusion. My face instantly turned tomato-red.
But that wasn't enough. What was truly devastating was when the background screen suddenly displayed photos of me at age three, taking a bath!
Social death. It couldn't get worse than this.
The audience erupted in thunderous laughter. I heard someone shout, "Stupid Nina!"
I stood frozen on stage, wishing the ground would swallow me whole. Meanwhile, Enzo sat in the audience, elegantly applauding, a satisfied smile on his lips.
After the speech, we locked eyes backstage one last time.
"Nina Simons," he said, adjusting his collar, "I'll remember this."
"Anytime, Enzo Shaffer," I replied through gritted teeth.
Then we walked toward different life paths. I thought I'd never see him again.
But now...
I clutched my laptop, frantically searching. The more I thought about it, the more terrified I became as a horrifying truth gradually emerged.
"Six months ago, I sent out so many resumes. Why did Shaffer Advertising respond first?"
I opened the job search website, checking my records. Indeed, other companies never responded, but Shaffer Advertising invited me for an interview the very next day.
"During the interview, he should have recognized me, but he pretended not to..."
I recalled Enzo's expression as he looked at my resume that day. That familiar pause—I thought he was contemplating, but now...
He recognized me from the start!
"Is this six-month period of good treatment just a 'boiling frog' strategy?"
I started searching keywords online: "workplace revenge," "professional gaslighting," "how bosses torment employees"...
The search results intensified my panic:
[How to Legally Make Unwanted Employees Quit]
[18 Methods of Workplace Cold Violence]
[Psychological Warfare: Defeating Your Opponent Without a Fight]
I'm done for! This is a long-term revenge plan!
I recalled various details from the past six months:
The seemingly easy work—actually designed to lower my guard.
The occasional harsh criticism—testing my psychological endurance.
Today's client meeting invitation—possibly the final public execution!
The more I thought, the more anxious I became, my hands starting to shake.
3 AM, my phone screen suddenly lit up in the darkness.
A text message.
Sender: Enzo Shaffer.
My heart nearly stopped.
[Dress formally tomorrow. Don't embarrass me.]
Just one sentence, but I instantly decoded countless threatening signals:
Important client meant public humiliation venue?
Don't embarrass me meant a warning?
Dress formally meant prepare to be shamed?
My phone dropped to the floor as I curled up on the couch, trembling.
He's going to humiliate me in front of clients for revenge, just like at graduation!
Six years ago, I swore to make Enzo Shaffer pay. Now I realize I underestimated him.
He was more patient than me, more strategic, and better understood the concept of revenge being a dish best served cold.
Tomorrow marks the beginning of his revenge...
I sat hugging my knees in the darkness, feeling like a death row inmate awaiting sentencing.
The Enzo Shaffer who once socially destroyed me at graduation was now my boss, controlling my economic lifeline.
And I was still the same poor Nina Simons in a second-hand suit.
The only difference was that this time, I didn't even have the option to run away.
My phone screen lit up again, showing the time: 3:47 AM.
Less than five hours until tomorrow's client meeting.
How would I face this impending judgment day?