Chapter 1
1446 Words
My worst enemy lost his damn memory.
To pay him back, I lied straight to his face, telling him he was my family's servant.
Then I dragged his amnesiac ass home and ordered him around like a slave every single day.
"Yo, laundry. Now."
"Mop the floor."
...
Until one fateful day, out of nowhere, I could hear his thoughts—clear as day:
'My wife is so cute... I wanna kiss her.'
'Tch. If she finds out I'm faking amnesia, will she kick me out?'
Me: 'What. The. Actual. Hell?'
I stood frozen in the hospital corridor, staring at the bandaged man on the bed, my mind racing with equal parts glee and panic.
Freaking Ethan—the guy who'd made my life hell since diapers—had actually gotten his brain scrambled.
The doctor said his head took a hit, wiping his memory clean, and he needed rest and observation.
And me? As his "only remembered contact," some overeager nurse had practically shoved me into his room.
"Mr. Ethan kept calling your name. We thought you were family..."
My eye did this weird twitchy thing it does when I'm pissed.
Calling my name? Probably screaming insults at me mid-coma.
That absolute bastard!
We'd been trying to one-up each other since we were in diapers.
From wrestling over toy trucks in preschool to sabotaging each other's college applications, right up to last week when he called my presentation "kindergarten-level garbage."
And now look at him.
Sweet, sweet karma.
I looked down at Ethan's sleeping form, his usually sharp features softened under the hospital lights.
A devilish grin crept onto my face as the perfect revenge plot hit me.
"He really doesn't remember anything?" I whispered to the doctor.
"No clue when—or if—he'll remember."
I practically vibrated with malicious joy.
—
Thirty minutes later, Ethan's eyelids peeled open like he'd forgotten how eyes worked.
He blinked at me, disoriented. "You... are...?"
I deadpanned, channeling my best evil-overlord voice, "I'm your master."
Ethan, "..."
I batted my eyelashes, laying it on thicker than cheap mascara, "You're my servant. Got hit by a delivery truck while fetching my dry cleaning yesterday."
I left him hanging for dramatic effect before adding, "Lucky for you, I took pity on your pathetic amnesiac self."
Ethan just stared, those dark eyes of his filled with pure, uncomprehending confusion.
A tiny, traitorous pang of guilt stabbed me—but I squashed it fast.
But the thought of all those years he'd made my blood boil instantly steeled my resolve.
"What, don't believe me?" I rattled off. "Then tell me—who are you? Where do you live? What's your bank PIN?"
The barrage of questions made Ethan's expression flicker with doubt. Seizing the advantage, I thrust our high school graduation photo in his face.
"See? Proof. You've been my errand boy since we were kids. Think amnesia lets you weasel out of that?"
Ethan studied the photo, brow furrowed like he was grappling with his memories. I leaned in close, dropping my voice to a threatening whisper.
"Call me 'Master,' or you're going hungry tonight."
Three torturous seconds crawled by.
Then—
"...Master."
His voice was low, laced with reluctant humiliation.
Yes!
I nearly cackled out loud. I barely managed to keep a straight face, giving a haughty nod.
"Good boy. Pack up—we're going home."
——
In the taxi, Ethan stayed silent, staring out the window.
Still having trouble swallowing the servant act, huh?
After a while, he finally spoke.
"So... how's my pay calculated?"
"Salary? Please. You live to serve me," I deadpanned.
A beat of silence. Then, to my surprise, he chuckled softly.
"Understood, Master."
——
My shoebox apartment instantly shrank with a hulking six-foot-tall man added to the equation.
Ethan hovered in the doorway, scanning the space before his gaze landed on the couch.
"I sleep here?"
"Obviously," I said, arching a brow. "Unless you were hoping to share my bed?"
He paused, giving me that infuriatingly unreadable look.
"...What's that expression supposed to mean?!"
"Nothing." His tone was casual as he looked away. "Just surprised my master's so... considerate."
Considerate? My eye twitched. Since when did doing the bare minimum count as—
He'd already strolled to the sofa, testing the cushions with a thump of his hand.
"Feels like a board."
"Want me to get you a bed of nails instead?" Ethan met my gaze, his lips curving into a smirk.
"As you wish, Master."
Ugh!
I was the one calling the shots, so why did it feel like he was in control?
I took a deep breath, snatched a sheet from the drawer, and slammed it onto the coffee table.
"Sign this."
Ethan glanced down, eyebrows arching.
"Servant's Rules? Seriously?"
"Damn right." I jutted my chin out. "Rule one: No backtalk."
He scanned the list, his smirk deepening.
"Rule two: available 24/7? Rule three: no leaving without permission?"
"Got a problem?"
"None." He signed with a flourish, then locked eyes with me. "What next, Master?"
That one word—Master—made my ears burn. I whipped my head away.
"G-go get me water! Now!"
"Of course."
He strode to the kitchen like he owned the place.
I stared at his retreating figure, unease prickling my skin.
...Had I gone too far?
What if he remembered everything? Would he murder me?
I was so lost in thought I didn't notice Ethan until he was right there, offering a glass.
"Your water, Master."
I grabbed it, and he straightened.
"What else?"
"...Mop the floor."
"Done."
I slumped onto the couch, gulping water while sneaking peeks at him.
Ethan bent over, his shirt stretching tight over his waist—
Wait. What the hell was I doing?!
I jerked my gaze away, my pulse racing.
Definitely the heat. That's all.
I set the glass down and lunged for the window—only to slip.
"Ah—!"
An arm snaked around my waist, yanking me back.
His breath tickled my ear, way too close.
"Careful, Master."
I froze. Oh no.
His hand burned into my skin, sending a jolt through me. "Y-you—let go!" I sputtered, my face burning.
Ethan released me immediately, stepping back with that infuriatingly calm look. "Just mopped. It's slippery."
My ears felt scorching hot, but I forced my voice steady. "I know! Just—get back to work!"
Before he could respond, I scrambled to my bedroom like my life depended on it, slamming the door behind me.
—
What the hell?!
I crouched on the floor, hands clutching my flaming cheeks, my heart pounding like a drum.
This wasn't right. None of this was right!
I was supposed to be the one messing with him—so why was I the one freaking out?!
Ethan's amused voice drifted through the door, "Dinner plans, Master?"
I gritted my teeth, refusing to answer.
I paced my room for ten solid minutes, trying to get my head straight.
No. I couldn't back down now.
This was Ethan—my lifelong rival, the guy who'd fought me for first place since we were kids. Now that I finally had him under my thumb, how could I lose my cool over some accidental touching?
Steeling myself, I threw open the door and sauntered out like I owned the place.
Ethan stood in the kitchen, dicing vegetables with scary accuracy.
I narrowed my eyes. "Since when do you cook?"
He didn't even glance up. "You told me I've been your servant forever, didn't you?"
"..."
I coughed, scrambling for a distraction. "I'm starving. Hurry up."
"Of course."
His tone was weirdly soft. Almost... gentle?
I shook my head violently.
No way. Was he messing with me?
Desperate for space, I retreated to the couch and grabbed my phone—only for a text from Olivia to pop up instantly:
Hey, word is Ethan got wrecked in a crash. You good?
My fingers froze. I shot a furtive glance at the kitchen before replying:
Like I give a damn if he got run over?
You hate his guts. Shouldn't you be celebrating?
I hesitated, but the urge to gloat won out:
Guess who's crashing at my apartment?
???
Waiting on me hand and foot.
????????
Olivia immediately spammed me with a voice call. Panicking, I declined and switched to text.
Her: Did you kidnap him?!
Me: He lost his memory, so I tricked him into being my servant.
Her: ...LOL
Her: But be careful—that sly fox Ethan's too clever. What if he's faking?
Me: No way. The doctor confirmed his amnesia.
Just as I sent it, footsteps sounded behind me.
- Writer
