The reception was held on the top floor of a luxury hotel.

The moment we entered, Nathaniel became a different person.

Cold.

Precise.

Untouchable.

Executives came to shake his hand.

Investors smiled too eagerly.

Women looked at him for too long.

I followed with my tablet, wrapped in his enormous jacket.

Then a young CEO glanced at me and laughed.

“Moore, new girlfriend?”

I nearly choked.

“Assistant,” Nathaniel corrected.

“Thirty-ninth,” I added.

Nathaniel looked at me.

I smiled professionally.

The man laughed.

“Thirty-nine assistants? You’re impossible.”

Nathaniel’s expression remained blank.

“This one will stay.”

My smile disappeared.

The certainty in his voice made my heart skip strangely.

Later, while Nathaniel discussed an acquisition, I wandered toward the dessert table.

A woman approached me.

Beautiful.

Elegant.

And obviously familiar with Nathaniel.

“You’re Emma Bennett?”

“Yes.”

She smiled.

“So you’re the famous Emma.”

I stopped chewing.

“Famous?”

“I’m Sophia Grant.”

She extended her hand.

“Nathaniel and I went to university together.”

My survival instincts activated.

“What exactly did he tell you about me?”

“Almost nothing.”

Thank God.

Sophia’s smile widened.

“But when he was drunk, he once said he spent half his childhood following a girl on a bicycle.”

I nearly swallowed the spoon.

“Sophia.”

Nathaniel’s voice came from behind us.

She immediately looked delighted.

“Oh, you’re here.”

“Leave.”

“Still charming.”

She walked away laughing.

I slowly turned.

Nathaniel’s ears were red.

Again.

I crossed my arms.

“Mr. Moore.”

“What?”

“You followed my bicycle?”

“No.”

“Sophia says—”

“Sophia lies.”

“And climbed my wall?”

His jaw tightened.

“No.”

“My father remembers beating you.”

“That part happened.”

“Why?”

Nathaniel stared at me.

Then he picked up a glass of water.

“You ask too many questions during working hours.”

“It is currently nine forty.”

“Overtime.”

“You haven’t approved overtime.”

“I’ll approve it tomorrow.”

And he walked away.

I stared after him.

That man had built an international company but apparently couldn’t survive one conversation about being a lovesick teenager.

I became determined to investigate.

Not through company records.

Through my mother.

She sent me photographs the next morning.

And there he was.

Nathaniel at fourteen.

Tall.

Skinny.

Standing behind me at a village festival.

Another photograph.

Nathaniel carrying my schoolbag while I walked three meters ahead eating ice cream.

Another.

Me asleep under a tree.

Nathaniel sitting nearby with a book.

I called my mother.

“Why don’t I remember any of this?”

She laughed.

“Because you were obsessed with Daniel Carter.”

I covered my face.

Daniel Carter.

The village heartthrob.

At fifteen, I thought his hair deserved national protection.

“And Nathaniel?”

“Too quiet.”

My mother sighed.

“That poor boy used to bring peaches for you.”

I suddenly remembered something.

Every summer, a bag of peaches appeared outside our gate.

I had always thought they came from my aunt.

Oh no.

That afternoon, I entered Nathaniel’s office carrying a peach.

I placed it on his desk.

He looked at it.

Then at me.

His entire body seemed to freeze.

“Where did you get that?”

“Supermarket.”

He relaxed.

Interesting.

I leaned forward.

“But apparently someone used to leave them outside my house.”

Nathaniel closed his laptop.

“Do you have work?”

“Yes.”

“Then work.”

“Were they yours?”

“Emma.”

“Yes, Mr. Moore?”

“Get out.”

His ears betrayed him.

I left victorious.

After that, our relationship changed.

Only slightly.

Nathaniel was still demanding.

He returned reports for one misplaced decimal.

He expected schedules to be perfect.

He once called me at six in the morning because an overseas client moved a meeting.

But he also remembered that I hated coriander.

If meetings ran late, dinner appeared on my desk.

When I caught the flu, he sent medicine.

When I returned, he claimed human resources had arranged it.

Human resources denied everything.

Three months later, I understood why thirty-eight assistants had left.

It wasn’t because Nathaniel was cruel.

It was because he expected people to keep up with him.

Strangely, I could.

Six months later, I was no longer merely organizing his calendar.

I was attending strategy meetings.

Then preparing negotiations.

One evening, after I corrected a major error in an acquisition proposal, Nathaniel asked:

“Why did you apply to be an assistant?”

“I didn’t.”

He frowned.

“You assigned me.”

He went silent.

“Right.”

“So why did you?”

He looked at the document.

“Your qualifications were good.”

“Thirty-eight people before me had qualifications.”

Nothing.

I leaned closer.

“Did you hire me because you liked me when we were children?”

“No.”

Too fast.

I smiled.

His eyes narrowed.

“Stop smiling.”

“I’m not.”

“You are.”

Before I could torment him further, his phone rang.

The moment passed.

The real answer came two weeks later.

My father visited the company.

He brought eggs.

Six boxes.

I wanted the floor to open and consume me.

“Dad, this is a multinational corporation.”

“Executives don’t eat eggs?”

Nathaniel appeared.

My father saw him.

Nathaniel saw my father.

The atmosphere became murderous.

Then Dad smiled.

“You.”

Nathaniel nodded.

“Uncle Bennett.”

I stared.

Uncle?

My father slapped Nathaniel’s shoulder.

“You became handsome.”

“Thank you.”

“And rich.”

Nathaniel looked at me.

“I’ve done adequately.”

Adequately?

The man owned half the skyline.

My father leaned toward me.

“See? I told you. The wall-climbing boy.”

“Dad!”

Nathaniel coughed.

My father ignored us.

“Do you still like my daughter?”

Silence.

Absolute, catastrophic silence.

“Dad.”

“What?”

I wanted to die.

Then Nathaniel answered.

“Yes.”

My father stopped smiling.

I stopped breathing.

Nathaniel didn’t look away.

“I do.”

My father’s eyes narrowed.

“How much?”

I almost screamed.

“Dad!”

Nathaniel, however, understood.

“Enough that I won’t climb your wall again.”

My father nodded approvingly.

“Good.”

Nathaniel continued:

“Next time I’ll use the front door.”

That night, I couldn’t concentrate.

At nine, everyone else had gone home.

I stood in Nathaniel’s doorway.

“Was that true?”

He looked up.

“Which part?”

“That you still like me.”

“Yes.”

No red ears.

No avoidance.

Just yes.

My heart began beating ridiculously fast.

“For how long?”

He leaned back.

“Do you really want that answer?”

“Yes.”

“Since I was fourteen.”

I stared at him.

“That’s insane.”

“Probably.”

“And you hired me knowing who I was.”

“Yes.”

“That’s professionally questionable.”

“Yes.”

“At least you’re self-aware.”

For the first time, Nathaniel laughed.

A real laugh.

It completely changed his face.

I suddenly understood why my teenage self had failed so catastrophically.

I had never actually looked at him.

But then Nathaniel became serious.

“I didn’t hire you because I expected anything.”

“Then why?”

“Because your resume was excellent.”

He paused.

“And because when I saw your name, I wanted one chance to know the person you became.”

My heart softened.

“What if I don’t like you back?”

“Then you continue working here until you decide to leave.”

“No punishment?”

“No.”

“No revenge for my father?”

“He already settled that debt thoroughly.”

I laughed.

Nathaniel stood.

“But there’s another problem.”

“What?”

“I’m your boss.”

He walked toward me.

“So I won’t pursue you while you report directly to me.”

I blinked.

“Seriously?”

“Yes.”

A week later, I was transferred.

Not demoted.

Promoted.

Strategy department.

Higher salary.

Different reporting line.

On my first day there, a bouquet arrived.

No name.

Just peaches.

I called Nathaniel.

“You’re ridiculous.”

“I’m working.”

“You sent peaches.”

“Can you prove that?”

“Dinner tonight.”

Silence.

Then:

“Are you asking me?”

“Yes.”

His voice became suspiciously careful.

“Seven?”

“Seven.”

He arrived at six forty.

My father was waiting outside my apartment.

Holding a broom.

Nathaniel stopped.

My father lifted it.

“I heard you’re taking my daughter out.”

Nathaniel looked at the broom.

Then at the scar near his eyebrow that, apparently, my father had helped create years ago.

“Yes, Uncle.”

My father pointed the broom at him.

“Ten o’clock.”

“Dad!”

Nathaniel nodded solemnly.

“Understood.”

I dragged him toward the elevator.

Only after the doors closed did he whisper:

“Your father is terrifying.”

“You’re a billionaire CEO.”

“I’ve faced hostile takeovers with less fear.”

I laughed so hard I had to lean against him.

Nathaniel looked down at me.

And his ears turned red.

Again.

Two years later, on our wedding day, my father gave Nathaniel a small gift.

A framed photograph.

It showed fourteen-year-old Nathaniel sitting outside our house while I rode away on my bicycle without noticing him.

Underneath, Dad had written:

“You can stop waiting outside now.”

Nathaniel stared at it for a long time.

Then he looked at me.

I slipped my hand into his.

“Was I really worth getting beaten up for?”

“No.”

I gasped.

He smiled.

“You were worth coming back afterward.”

My father overheard him.

“Good answer.”

Nathaniel immediately straightened.

Some fears apparently never disappear.

And that’s how the strangest job interview of my life gave me three things:

A career I loved.

A husband I had somehow overlooked for half my childhood.

And proof that when Nathaniel Moore said my father had beaten him once, he’d left out the most important part.

My father had beaten him for climbing a wall.

Nathaniel had spent the next fifteen years trying to become the kind of man who could walk through the front door.