The Girl Who Humiliated Me, Now Works for Me

Chapter 7

Clarissa arrived at the office carrying a storm of emotions beneath her carefully composed exterior. The report had been submitted, and though far from perfect, she knew she’d given everything she had.

William’s reply came at exactly eight in the morning—terse and surgical: Conference Room B, 9:00 AM. Report evaluation.

She stared at her phone screen, her pulse quickening. This was it. The moment when three days and nights of relentless work would be judged by the man who now held her career in his hands.

She spent thirty minutes reconstructing herself—concealer to mask the dark crescents beneath her eyes, coral lipstick to suggest vitality she didn’t feel, and the black blazer that always made her feel armored for battle.

“You can do this,” she whispered to her reflection. “You’re not that naive girl anymore. You won’t be intimidated.”

But as she walked toward Conference Room B, each step felt weighted with lead. Something indefinable twisted in her chest—a premonition she couldn’t name.

The conference room door stood open. David sat at the head of the table, his posture military-straight, eyes fixed on the laptop screen before him. Her report lay spread across the mahogany surface like evidence at a trial.

“Miss Clarissa,” he said without lifting his gaze. “Please, sit.”

That voice. Clinical, detached—it raised goosebumps along her arms.

Clarissa took the chair across from him, hands folded precisely in her lap to hide their tremor. “Good morning, Mr. William.”

David raised his head and met her eyes directly. Those eyes—the same ones she’d once seen brimming with tears on campus years ago—now regarded her with a coldness that seemed to freeze the air between them.

“Your report...” David turned the pages with deliberate slowness, his gaze scanning each line with forensic precision, his expression unreadable.

“Adequate.”

The word hung in the air like a blade. Not good, not impressive—adequate. After three sleepless nights, after wrestling with software she’d never touched, after sacrificing her health—merely adequate? Heat flashed through her veins.

“Though,” David continued, his fingers drumming the table in a rhythm so regular it felt like a countdown, “there are several errors that shouldn’t occur if someone were more... detail-oriented.”

Detail-oriented. The way he shaped the words—silk wrapped around steel.

“What errors, Mr. William?” Clarissa asked.

David lifted a page, rotating it so she could see. “Page twenty-three, customer behavior prediction chart. There’s an inconsistency in the data correlation. Page thirty-one, market penetration analysis—several variables weren’t properly weighted. Page forty-four...” He paused, lifting his head to study her with an expression that revealed nothing. “Algorithmic modeling that’s... overly simplistic.”

Clarissa knew those errors existed—she was a novice learning in seventy-two hours, of course things had slipped through. But the way David delivered his assessment... it was the art of refined cruelty.

“But I understand,” David continued, his voice dropping to barely above a whisper, as though he were dissecting her slowly, deliberately. “Not everyone is accustomed to high standards.”

Clarissa’s heart hammered against her ribs.

“Especially those who...” David paused, his eyes finding hers. “Once lived in... different circumstances.”

Time crystallized. Only the wild percussion of her heartbeat filled the silence.

Different circumstances. Once lived.

Their gazes locked across the conference table. In that suspended moment, Clarissa knew— David remembered. Everything. The scattered flowers, the mocking laughter, the cruel words that had spilled from her lips.

David knew exactly who she was. And he had no intention of letting her forget.

“Do you have any questions, Miss Clarissa?” David asked with exaggerated formality.

“No,” Clarissa replied.

“None at all.”

“Excellent.” David closed her file. “This report can be used, though it requires several revisions. I’ll send notes for corrections this afternoon.”

Revisions. Of course. This torment wasn’t ending—it was just beginning.

“For the next project,” David rose from his chair, “I hope you’ll be more... adaptable to our expectations here.”

Expectations. Adaptable. Each word chosen with surgical precision, time-delayed bombs exploding beneath her composure. Clarissa heard the message threading through his professional language:

You’re not good enough. You need to try harder. You need to prove yourself, just like you once made me prove myself to you.

“I understand, Mr. William.” Clarissa stood, her legs unsteady but her voice controlled.

“Meeting adjourned.”

David returned to his laptop as though she’d already vanished from the room. Clarissa felt like stone—immovable, lifeless.

She walked toward the exit, her chest feeling punctured by invisible wounds. Her hand touched the door handle when David’s voice cut through the air again.

“Oh, Miss Clarissa.”

She turned, hoping—hoping for what? Perhaps just one genuine smile to c***k the ice wall between them.

“Good work on the dedication,” David said without looking up from his screen. “Three days, three nights. Impressive commitment...”

Three days, three nights. He knew. He knew about her sleepless vigil, about her struggle. And somehow, that acknowledgment cut deeper than his criticism. Like a slap that reached her soul.

“Thank you, sir,” Clarissa managed before escaping the room.

The door closed behind her.

Clarissa stood alone in the long, empty corridor, her fists clenched at her sides. Her nails bit into her palms, but that physical pain was nothing compared to the ache spreading through her chest.

Those barbs were too specific to be coincidental. Once lived in different circumstances. High standards. Not everyone is accustomed.

David—William—the man she’d once humiliated publicly was now returning the favor with infinitely more sophistication, infinitely more cruelty. Not with rage or shouting, but with surgical precision that struck directly at her pride.

And the most devastating part—she couldn’t retaliate. Couldn’t rage. Couldn’t protest. Because technically, David had done nothing wrong. He’d simply evaluated her report, provided professional feedback, and communicated company expectations.

But Clarissa knew. She knew that every word, every pause, every glance was part of a game that had begun the moment she’d stepped into this office. A game whose rules she didn’t understand, yet she was trapped within it.

She walked toward the elevator with increasing urgency, desperate to escape that conference room, to flee the lingering scent of David’s cologne, to outrun the memory of eyes that watched her with familiar, cutting coldness.

She stabbed the elevator button repeatedly, as though that might make time move faster, carry her away from this waking nightmare.

“Fine,” she whispered when the doors finally opened. Steel began forming in her chest, resolve crystallizing from pain. “You want to play? I’ll play your game.”

Because one thing about Clarissa hadn’t changed—she never surrendered without a fight. Once, she’d crushed David's heart with arrogance and cruelty. Now, she would prove she was no longer that spoiled girl who trampled others underfoot.

She would prove she deserved recognition not from pity or karmic justice, but through ability and relentless work. She would rise—not for him, but for herself.

But as the elevator carried her down, one question haunted her thoughts: how far would David continue pushing her?

And more terrifying still—how long could she endure?

The battle would continue.

And she refused to lose without a fight.