Revenge
Rodney grew up as a quiet, clever boy. His parents spared no expense for their only child, enrolling him in every club and activity imaginable—anything to shape him into a well-rounded, educated man. He practiced aikido, played chess, painted well. As he grew older, he picked up the guitar.
While boys his age took girls to the cinema, sneaked cheap wine and cigarettes, Rodney sat strumming chords, singing softly in a rough-edged voice.
His parents dreamed of his success. He needed to keep studying. There was nothing for him in their small market town of fourteen thousand souls. After school, Rodney—with his top marks—easily got into a prestigious IT programme at a university in the nearest city.
A day before term began, his father drove him to stay with his aunt. She had lost her husband a year prior, her own children long since moved away. Student halls were too noisy, full of distractions. His mother stayed behind—no need for long, teary goodbyes. His father left him with money for the first term and drove off.
For the first time, Rodney was on his own. His aunt cared little for his affairs. As long as he was fed and home before dark, she was satisfied.
Freed from parental oversight, his classmates ran wild, skipping lectures. Rodney kept to himself. He never had friends, and partying wasn’t his habit. From the first day, his attention was seized by Vanessa, a striking blonde.
The boys whispered she’d only enrolled in the male-dominated course to land a rich husband. She struggled in class, yet rarely failed. A girl like her didn’t need grades. Lecturers enjoyed gazing at her, explaining concepts, leaning close to correct her mistakes with a hand on her shoulder.
But Vanessa had no shortage of admirers. She dismissed Rodney as a bore—what would they even talk about? Music? Chess? Dry computer science? By every measure, he didn’t measure up.
Yet he ached with unrequited love. He wanted to be near her every minute—in lectures, in halls. On his next visit home, Rodney announced he wanted to move into student accommodation. His aunt lived too far; the commute wasted time. His father roared; his mother wept.
But Rodney swore it wouldn’t harm his studies, that he could be trusted. He was already an oddity—one of the few not living in halls. Reluctantly, they relented.
Rodney was over the moon. Now he’d see Vanessa not just in lectures (which she rarely attended) but in the evenings too. He invented any excuse to visit her. Still, she remained indifferent.
Even in group gatherings, she refused to dance with him, slipping onto the balcony for a smoke. Rodney started smoking too—but it didn’t bring him an inch closer to the golden-haired beauty.
Summer break was torture. Two months at home, unable to see her. He suffered, counting the days until term resumed. Another year passed.
Rodney excelled. Tutors praised him, predicting great things. Returning to halls on the 31st of August (his mother wouldn’t let him leave sooner), he learned Vanessa had married. The news shattered him. Her choice: a star athlete, a senior, the university’s pride.
Vanessa no longer stayed in halls. She and her husband lived in his flat. Rodney only saw her in lectures, watching from afar. Once, before winter exams, he asked to borrow her notes, claiming he’d missed a lecture.
“Ask someone else,” she said. “I need to study too.”
“The test is the day after tomorrow. I’ll return them tomorrow, I swear,” he pleaded, eyes full of longing.
She relented.
The next day, Rodney skipped lectures for the first time—just to return her notes in person. Overheard in the canteen: her husband was away at another competition. His grades came easy.
Rodney got her address from the girls. Timing it just right, he went to her flat. He wanted nothing—just to be near her, to speak, to confess. His heart hammered as he rang the bell.
The door swung open. Not Vanessa—her broad-shouldered husband.
“What do you want?” the man growled.
“Vanessa’s notes,” Rodney mumbled.
“Hand them over.” The athlete held out a meaty palm.
Rodney tried to peer inside, but the man filled the doorway, blocking any glimpse of her.
“I wanted to give them to her myself,” Rodney said, clutching the notebook to his chest.
The husband eyed him with contempt, snatched the notes, and slammed the door in his face.
Rodney switched groups, moved back to his aunt’s.
***
Fifteen years later
The office buzzed, toasting Rodney Everett Carver’s promotion to director. His predecessor had moved up—transferred to London. Among the staff were old classmates. Like unassuming, diligent Lydia Zotova, mother of twin boys.
She pulled Rodney aside, genuinely pleased for him.
“I always knew you’d go far,” she said, adjusting thick-framed glasses with one hand, champagne flute in the other.
*Plain as toast, yet married,* Rodney noted. A framed photo on her desk showed a smiling family.
“I’m glad too,” he said smoothly. “Now I can offer you the position you deserve.”
“Thank you.” She fiddled with her glasses. “But that’s not what I wanted to talk about. Do you remember Vicky? Vanessa Olshany? She was in our year.”
Of course he remembered—her, his unreturned love, her indifference. But he feigned effort, scratching his head.
“She married in third year, took his name. Her husband graduated with us—you must know him. Star athlete, uni’s pride. Michael Dolnyk. Ring any bells?” Rodney shrugged.
Of course he remembered the humiliation when Dolnyk shut the door on him.
“It’s ugly. Vicky got pregnant right away. He talked her into an abortion. Said they had time, she needed to finish uni… Then no more babies. A year ago, she found out he’s got a mistress—a son on the side. She filed for divorce. Stayed with me a week. Flat’s in his name.” Lydia paused, studying him. “I always thought you fancied her.”
“Did I? Can’t recall,” Rodney lied.
“Anyway, she needs work. I know she wasn’t academic, but I’ll help her.” Lydia’s eyes pleaded.
Rodney pretended to consider. His heart thundered. *She knows about his success. Asked for a favour. Soon, he’d see her…* He took Lydia’s glass, drained it.
“Sorry. Thirsty,” he said, handing it back.
“So, shall I call her, tell her to come in? You’ll help?” Lydia pressed.
“Fine. I’m swamped now—taking over. Remind me next week; I’ll see when I’m free.”
“Thank you, Rodney!” Lydia beamed. “I knew you’d be decent.”
“Don’t thank me yet. If she underperforms, I’ll sack her.”
“I understand. She’ll try.”
As the team drank, hoping for better days, Rodney thought, *Time to end this before they wreck the place.*
Driving home in his new Audi, he thought of Vanessa. *Divorced. How does she look now? Still beautiful?*
***
After uni, Rodney joined a major firm. His software designs stood out; he climbed fast.
He married a sweet, simple girl who knew nothing of his work—just social media, shopping, holidays abroad. Bored, he divorced her in two years. Women came and went. None tied him down. He focused on work.
***
Monday. Lydia peeked into his office.
“Hi. Got a minute? You asked me to remind you about Vanessa. When can she come?”
Rodney leaned back.
“If you’re busy, Oleg could—your deputy.”
“No, I’ll handle it.” He flipped through his diary—for show. He wouldn’t forget.
“Thursday, one o’clock.”
“Brilliant. I’ll ring Vicky now.”
On Thursday, a client meeting ran late—just as well. No pacing the office like a schoolboy.
He made her wait. Entering reception, he nodded coolly, passed her, shut himself in his office. Five minutes later, he buzzed his secretary.
Vanessa stepped in timidly.
“Sit.”
He studied her. Her beauty had matured, subdued. Her movements, her eyes—meek, unsure. She wore a stern dress, fitting for a job interview. Minimal makeup.
“Hello, Rodney,” she ventured. “Don’t you recognise me?”
“I do. How could I forget?”
Vanessa dipped her head.
He let silence stretch.
“You’ve changed…”
“Where’ve you worked? Why leave?” He took control.
She listed a few firms—secretary, office manager. Composure returning, she met his gaze.
“I need work. Any role.”
“Any? Even cleaning?” He savoured her flinch, the flush. He expected her to bolt.
Instead, she gripped her handbag, knuckles white.
“Joking,” he said.And in the quiet years that followed, Rodney often wondered if love had always been this—not a grand passion, but something kinder, softer, like the worn pages of a book read too many times to ever let go.
