**Revenge**
Rodney grew up as a quiet, intelligent boy. His parents spared no expense for their only child, enrolling him in every club and activity imaginable to ensure he became a well-rounded, educated man. He practiced martial arts, played chess, painted well, and later, as he grew older, took up the guitar.
While his classmates took girls to the cinema, fooled around with cheap wine and cigarettes, Rodney stayed in with his guitar, strumming chords and singing in a husky voice.
His parents dreamed of his future success. He had to study further—there was nothing for him in their small market town of fourteen thousand people. After finishing school, Rodney—with his stellar grades—easily got into a prestigious university in the county town for a degree in computer science.
The day before term started, his father drove him to his aunt’s house, his brand-new laptop in tow. His uncle had passed away a year prior, and her children had moved on with their own families. Student halls were too noisy, full of distractions—his aunt’s place was better for his studies. His mother stayed behind, spared the drawn-out emotional farewell. His father left him with some money and drove off.
For the first time, Rodney was completely on his own. His aunt barely took an interest in his life, only making sure he was fed and didn’t come home too late.
Freed from parental oversight, his coursemates promptly lost their heads—skipping lectures, partying. Rodney kept apart. He’d never had friends, and he wasn’t used to carousing. From day one, his attention was seized by Vanessa, a stunning blonde.
The lads said she’d only chosen a male-dominated course to land a wealthy husband. She struggled academically, yet few lecturers failed her. A girl like that didn’t need brains—it was simply a pleasure to look at her, to explain a concept, to lean in and correct her work with a light touch on the shoulder.
But Vanessa had no shortage of admirers. She dismissed Rodney as a bookish bore. What could he possibly talk about? Music, chess, dull programming lectures? By every measure, he wasn’t her type.
Yet he pined for her. He wanted to be near her every minute—in lectures, in halls. During a visit home, he announced he wanted to move into student accommodation. His aunt lived too far from campus—the commute wasted time. His father shouted; his mother wept.
But Rodney promised them his studies wouldn’t suffer, that he could be trusted. Besides, he was practically the only one in his group not in halls—people looked at him strangely. His parents 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 room. Still, Vanessa remained indifferent.
Even when they ended up in the same group, she refused to dance with him, slipping away to the balcony for a smoke. Rodney started smoking too, but even that didn’t bring him an inch closer to the golden-haired beauty.
The summer holidays were agony. Two long months back home, unable to see Vanessa. He suffered, counting the days until term resumed. Another year passed.
Rodney excelled in his studies, his tutors praising him, predicting a bright future. 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 new husband was a star athlete—older, the pride of the university.
Vanessa no longer appeared in halls. She and her husband lived in his flat. Rodney could only watch her from afar in lectures. Once, just 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 gazed at her, lovestruck.
Vanessa hesitated, then handed over her notebook.
The next day, Rodney skipped university for the first time—just to return the notes to Vanessa’s flat. He’d overheard her complaining in the canteen about her husband being away at a tournament again, his grades handed to him automatically.
Rodney got her address from the girls. Timing it for when she’d be home, he went to her. He didn’t want anything—just to be near her, to talk, to confess. Heart hammering, he pressed the buzzer… but the door was opened by her burly husband.
“What d’you want?” he barked.
“To return Vanessa’s notes,” Rodney mumbled, crestfallen.
“Hand ’em here,” the man said, palm outstretched.
Rodney tried to peer past him, but the athlete’s bulk blocked the doorway entirely.
“I wanted to give them to her myself.” Rodney clutched the notebook tighter.
The husband gave him a disdainful look, yanked it from his grip, and slammed the door in his face.
Rodney switched tutorial groups and moved back to his aunt’s.
***
Fifteen years later.
The office buzzed with congratulations—Rodney Eugene Carver, the new director. His predecessor had been promoted and moved to London. Among the staff were old coursemates—like Lydia Shaw, quiet, responsible, mother to twin boys.
She pulled Rodney aside, genuinely delighted for him. “I always knew you’d go far,” she said, adjusting her thick-framed glasses, champagne flute in hand.
*Plain as porridge, but married,* Rodney thought, recalling the framed photo of her smiling family on her desk.
“I’m pleased too,” he said smoothly. “Now I can offer you the position you deserve.”
“Thank you.” She fidgeted with her glasses. “But that’s not what I wanted to talk about. Do you remember Vicky? Vanessa Oldfield? She was in our year.”
Of course he remembered—the unrequited love, her indifference. But he pretended to search his memory.
“She married in third year—changed her surname. Her husband was a uni alumnus too. You must remember him—Michael Dilloway, star athlete, uni pride?” Rodney shrugged.
He remembered all right—the humiliation when that musclebound oaf shut the door on him.
“It’s ugly, really. Vicky got pregnant straight away, and Dilloway talked her into an abortion—said there was no rush, she should enjoy life, finish her degree… Then they never had kids. A year ago, she found out he had a mistress—a son, even. She filed for divorce. Stayed with me for a week—the flat was his.” She 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 exactly top of the class, but I’ll help her.” Lydia looked at him hopefully.
Rodney feigned thought, his heart pounding. *She knows about his success. She asked Lydia to put in a word. Soon, he’d see her…* He snatched Lydia’s glass and drained it.
“Sorry. Needed that,” he said, handing it back.
“So, shall I call her? Say to come in? You’ll help?” Lydia pressed.
“Fine. I’m swamped now—taking over, you know. Remind me next week—I’ll check my calendar.”
“Thank you, Rodney!” Lydia beamed. “I always knew you were a real friend.”
“Don’t thank me yet. If she can’t do the job, I’ll sack her.”
“I understand. She’ll try,” Lydia assured him.
As the team celebrated, Rodney thought, *Time to end this before they wreck the place.*
Driving home in his new Audi, he lingered over memories of Vanessa. *Divorced now. I wonder what she looks like? Still beautiful?*
***
After uni, Rodney joined a major firm. His software designs stood out; he rose fast.
He married a sweet but dim girl who knew nothing of his work—just social media and shopping. Bored within two years, he divorced. Other women came and went, but none tied him down. Work became his life.
***
On Monday, Lydia appeared at his door.
“Hi. Got a minute? You asked me to remind you about Vicky. When can she come?”
Rodney leaned back in his executive chair.
“If you’re busy, Oliver—your deputy—could see her.”
“No, I’ll do it.” He flipped through his diary—for show, not needing reminding.
“Thursday, one o’clock.” He wrote it down—for Lydia’s sake, not his.
“Brilliant! I’ll ring her now.”
Thursday brought a client meeting—serendipitous. Better than pacing his office like a schoolboy.
He delayed his return, making Vanessa wait. Nodding curtly as he passed her in reception, he shut himself in his office, then called her in five minutes later.
Vanessa entered timidly.
“Sit,” he gestured.
As she did, he studied her. Her beauty had matured, less vivid now. Her posture and gaze spoke of defeat. She wore a sensible dress, office-appropriate. Minimal makeup.
“Hello, Rodney,” she said softly. “Years later, as they watched their own children play in the garden, Rodney finally understood that real love wasn’t about possession or revenge—it was about patience, forgiveness, and the quiet joy of shared time.
