High school corridors echo with more than footsteps—they carry laughter, whispers, and sometimes the sting of cruelty. For Ethan, those halls were a minefield, and Tyler—star athlete, effortless charmer—was the detonator.
Years later, London's skyline throws shards of light across a glass‑walled conference room. Ethan smooths his CV on his lap and studies the man opposite him. Tailored suit. Measured confidence. Eyes that track details the way a hawk tracks wind.
Tyler.
The name lands like a stone in still water.
Back then, Ethan had no sanctuary—only books, a quick mind, and a basement where a disappointed voice told him he was good for nothing. The Ashfords fed and housed him, yes—but affection was rationed. He learned to move lightly, to leave no trace, to become useful enough not to be noticed.
And Tyler? He didn't bruise with fists. He bruised with laughter, with a crowd, with the easy power of belonging. Ethan remembers ironing shirts, mowing lawns, studying under a single lamp, and promising himself an escape: a scholarship, a ticket to Ireland, a life built from his own hands.
It worked. He grew up. He got away.
Now fate has him sitting across from the king of a long‑lost kingdom, except the crown has changed. The arrogance is gone, replaced by something steadier. Tyler reviews the application, then looks up—really looks.
"Ethan," he says slowly, as if tasting a familiar melody he can't place. "You're…impressive. I could use someone like you."
Ethan's pulse stutters. He needs the job. He needs the paycheck. He needs, most of all, to survive this moment.
"Thank you," he replies, voice even. "When would you like me to start?"
Tyler smiles. "Monday."
Ethan nods, stands, and collects his things. At the door, he hesitates. The question climbs to his throat and stops there, poised on the edge of old shadows and new beginnings.
Boss… do you remember me?