Growing up in the streets meant fighting to survive. Every busted lip, broken rib, and bruised knuckle from my rough youth was instantly shared with my unknown soulmate. I never knew who she was, but I eventually grew up, left the violence behind, and traded my combat gear for tailored suits.

Now, I work as the personal secretary to a powerful, brilliant female CEO.

To her, I am just a quiet, lean, and highly efficient employee. She has no idea that the girl who caused her years of random, agonizing physical pain is standing right in front of her, holding her morning coffee. I don't know it's her either.

One afternoon, she accidentally slams her hand in a heavy desk drawer. A sharp, stinging burst of heat flares up in my own fingers at the exact same second. I wince, dropping my pen, and gasp out loud.

She freezes, clutching her injured hand, and stares up at me in absolute shock as the truth clicks between us.