"Ms. Summerton, Mr. Jacobson has approved your resignation, but he didn't realize it was you. Do you want me to remind him?"

Emilia Summerton's bitter laugh echoed through the phone. No one knew the truth. By day, she was his secretary. By night, she was his lover.

She wasn't just leaving a job. She was walking away from him. Four years of love, memories, and secrets.

Her gaze dropped, a quiet surrender in her eyes. "No. Just let it be."

"But you've been Mr. Jacobson's secretary for four years. He trusts you more than anyone. Are you sure you won‘t reconsider?"

"No one is truly irreplaceable. My parents aren't well. I need to go back home. I'm getting married as well. Since Mr. Jacobson has approved my resignation, I'll follow the process, hand over my duties, and leave in a month."

The call ended. Emilia turned back to her work, her hands moving mechanically as she packed up her things.

She had lived in this mansion for three years, each year taking another piece of herself with it. Her belongings were minimal. She only took the essentials and discarded most of her other items.

As the room emptied, a wave of memories surged through her. For a moment, everything stopped. She froze.

Eight years ago, Emilia, a simple girl from a small town, had made her way into Washington State University. There, she met Natalie Jacobson, a girl from one of Washington D.C.'s wealthiest families. They quickly became inseparable.

Though their backgrounds couldn't have been more different, the bond they shared was undeniable. They spent every day together—classes, meals, shopping. Always together.

Soon, Emilia was drawn into Natalie's world. She met her family. And it was there, surrounded by them, that Emilia first noticed Natalie's older brother, Mortimer Jacobson.

She kept her feelings hidden, locked away deep inside. She never told anyone.

After graduation, Natalie left for her studies abroad. Emilia stayed in Washington, applying for jobs until she landed one as Mortimer's secretary, simply so she could see him more often.

Then, one night, everything changed.

Mortimer had been drugged.

As Emilia rushed to call for help, he grabbed her, pushing her against the wall. His lips were on hers before she could even protest. The passion of that night left them both breathless.

The next morning, Emilia woke up to find him sitting by the window. The smoke from his cigarette swirled in the air, his sharp features illuminated in the dim light. He was calm, yet distant.

He turned when he heard her stir and asked only one question.

"You like me, don't you?"

Emilia's heart stopped. She wanted to deny it, but the words died on her lips.

His voice was low and steady, and it cut through her defenses. "Every time you see me, you blush. You remember everything about me—my likes, my dislikes. You became my secretary right after graduation...

"Don't tell me that's all just a coincidence."

The words landed like a blow. She could feel her face burning, not sure whether it was from shame or the raw truth in his voice.

In the heavy silence, he handed her a card.

"Last night was an accident," he said, his voice cold, without emotion. "I already have someone I care about. I can‘t return your feelings or take responsibility for them. Natalie told me your background is pretty average. There‘s enough money in this card for you to live comfortably. Forget this ever happened."

Emilia stood frozen. The words struck like a blow. Then, she remembered. Last night, through the haze of their tangled sheets, he'd called a name.

Veralia. Veralia Morgan.

Natalie had once described her—Veralia was Mortimer's unforgettable first love. A love he couldn't shake.

Even after their breakup, even when she went abroad, dating a string of men, Mortimer had stayed faithful. He refused to move on, waiting for her return.

Emilia recalled Natalie's frustration.

"Our family is cold by nature. But my brother... he's different. A hopeless romantic. He's waited for her all these years, convinced everyone else is just second place. He won't settle for anyone but her."

The words echoed in Emilia's mind. Their truth hit her like a wave. She understood it now, in a way she never had before. With trembling hands, she found her voice. She stepped forward, her heart racing.

"I don't want the money. I just want you to give me a chance. Mr. Jacobson, try being with me. If she never comes back, or if she does but you can't let her go, I'll leave. I'll walk away. But just give me a chance."

Mortimer paused. His eyes met hers, soft yet filled with conflict. For a long moment, he said nothing. Finally, his words broke the silence. "Do as you wish," he muttered, and then he walked away.

From that moment on, Emilia lived two lives. By day, she was his secretary. By night, his lover.

Their secret unfolded in the office, in the backseat of his Maybach, behind the glass walls of his villa. They left their mark everywhere—reckless, passionate, hidden from the world.

Years passed, four to be exact. And no one knew their relationship. Emilia was content. Wrapped up in the quiet, unspoken rhythm of it all.

Then came his birthday. She had planned everything—a celebration, surprises, a perfect night. She couldn't wait to share it with him.

But he didn't come back. Not even when midnight struck. And instead of his familiar face, she found something else. A post on his social media.

"The best birthday gift is getting back what you lost."

It's Mortimer's first post. In the picture, he was kissing Veralia beneath a sky full of fireworks.

She clung to the last shred of hope as she dialed his number, her fingers trembling.

But it wasn't Mortimer who picked up. It was Veralia.

She called out her name, and when no answer came, she paused, struck by the silence.

"Mortimer, who's this Emilia? She's calling but not saying anything."

A moment later, his deep, steady voice filtered through the speaker, indifferent.

"She's no one important. Don't worry about it. Go back to sleep, sweetheart."

That was the moment Emilia knew. It was over.

She packed her belongings; each item was a reminder of the life she was leaving behind. She reached for the door, but there he was. Mortimer, standing in front of her.

They had shared so many nights in this house—so many that Emilia had made it her home, too. But not anymore.

His eyes scanned the things in her arms, his gaze sharp, calculating. Yet, he said nothing to stop her. "Found a place yet?" he asked.

"Yeah," she replied softly, her voice barely a whisper. "I'm going back to the old rental. The landlord's letting me stay for a month."

"A month?" Mortimer's brow furrowed, concern flickering in his eyes for a brief moment. "Why just a month?"

Before she could explain, he lost interest, his voice dropping to a level of finality. "I'll drive you."

Emilia tried to refuse, but his insistence made it impossible.

"The snow's coming down hard, and it's late," he said. "If something happens to you, Natalie will be upset."

She had no choice but to get in the car.

The car had been their domain once—reckless, wild, and filled with passion. But now, it felt strange to her, almost alien.

It was cluttered with toys, a bright mess of Hello Kitty seat covers, and snacks strewn everywhere—nothing like the controlled, icy world Mortimer normally thrived in.

Her eyes roamed over the mess, confusion swirling in her chest. How could someone like Mortimer—so composed, so disciplined—turn this car into something so juvenile?

As if noticing her gaze, he spoke, his voice soft but distant.

"Veralia likes these things."

Emilia's heart clenched at the words. She fell silent, the weight of them sinking in. After a long pause, she finally spoke, her voice almost a whisper.

"You've finally got her back, Mr. Jacobson. I'm happy for you."

The words struck him harder than she expected. His eyes darkened, and he didn't speak again.

As the car rolled through the night, Veralia's call came through. She wanted to build a snowman with him.

He pulled the car to the side of the road, his hands tight on the wheel. He was ready to rush to her place. But when his eyes flicked to the passenger seat, doubt crept in.

Emilia saw it in his face. She didn't need to wait for him to speak. She opened the door herself.

"Mr. Jacobson, I'll take a cab," she said, her voice calm, though her heart was anything but.

Mortimer gave a slight nod, stepping out to help her with her things.

As she grabbed the suitcase, her hand slipped. It fell to the ground with a thud, scattering its contents across the snow. Mortimer crouched down, and the harsh streetlight cast long shadows on the pavement. His eyes widened when he saw what had spilled out.

Letters—each one addressed to him but never sent. Photos she'd taken of him in secret, frozen moments of him unaware. And forgotten things he'd tossed aside, but she had kept—each item a small, hidden confession.

Her heart pounded, her hands trembling as she scrambled to collect them.

"Sorry," she whispered.

He didn't respond. Without a word, he got back in the car and drove away, leaving her in the cold, standing alone in the snow.

She waited for what felt like an eternity, but no taxi arrived. She hesitated, then decided to walk.

But before she could take a step, an electric bike whizzed past, slamming into her.

Her calf scraped against the hard concrete, a deep, jagged wound tearing open. Blood poured from the gash, turning the snow around her into a dark pool.

The rider didn't even slow down. They sped off, vanishing into the distance, leaving Emilia gasping for breath.

Eventually, the pain eased enough for her to push herself up. Her foot dragged through the snow, her steps slow and labored. Four hours later, she stumbled back into her rental.

She treated the wound as best she could, though her hands still shaking. Then she opened her phone, scrolling to the message Mortimer had sent after leaving.

"Stop loving someone so blindly. There are plenty of men out there. Don't miss the whole forest for one tree."

Emilia stared at the words, the screen blurring before her eyes. She couldn't move, couldn't think.

The morning light barely touched the room when she stood downstairs, the box of memories in her hands.

She set the things on fire—letters, photos, all of it. It burned quickly, the flames licking at the memories, reducing them to ash. And with them, the love that had consumed her for eight years also turned to dust.

"Mortimer," she whispered to the empty air. "I'll do as you wish."

After two days off, Emilia arrived at work right on time that Monday.

She dove straight into her usual tasks, ensuring everything was in order. Then, she informed Mortimer about the upcoming meeting.

When she reached his office, she stopped in the doorway, just enough to see through the crack in the door. And there she was. Veralia.

Sitting comfortably in Mortimer's lap, feeding him a half-eaten cookie.

The man who was always so particular about cleanliness smiled as he took a bite. He kissed her fingers gently, his voice soft and affectionate.

"You mentioned wanting these desserts yesterday, so I stood in line for three hours this morning to get them. How do they taste?" he asked.

"They're perfect, just like before—sweet but not overpowering. You used to go out of your way to get these for me. Now, you're the CEO. Why not just send your secretary for them?" Veralia teased.

Mortimer smiled again, his gaze tender as he rubbed her ankle. "When it comes to you, I want to do everything myself. I don't want anyone else involved."

Veralia's face softened into a sweet smile. She wrapped her arms around him and kissed him.

He returned the kiss, deepening it, fully absorbed in the moment.

Emilia stood there, frozen. Her breath caught in her throat. A bitter sting spread across her chest.

Her hands clenched into fists, knuckles turning white. Her palm burned with the pressure of her grip.

Minutes stretched on, time crawling. The meeting was getting closer, but her chest felt heavier with each passing second.

She took a steady breath, trying to calm herself. She lifted her hand and knocked on the door.

"Mr. Jacobson, the meeting is about to begin."

At the sound of her voice, Mortimer hesitated. He stood, but Veralia pulled him back into her embrace.

"I don't want you to leave. Stay with me a little longer," she said, her voice soft and playful.

Mortimer's expression softened, almost melting under her touch.

"Push the meeting back by two hours."

The meeting was crucial. It concerned a major collaboration between Washington's top corporations. The company's future depended on it.

Emilia understood its significance, but she couldn't help herself. She gently reminded him.

"The CEOs from the Collins Group, the Goldstein Group, and the Shaw Group are already waiting in the meeting room."

Veralia pouted, her voice dripping with playful annoyance. "Mortimer, your secretary is so annoying! Doesn't she know when to leave us alone?"

At the sound of her complaint, Mortimer's face hardened.

"I told you. I'm pushing the meeting back two hours. No work is more important than Veralia!"

Emilia's chest tightened, a suffocating weight pressing down on her lungs.

But she did nothing. She simply closed the door quietly and turned away.

Everyone knew Mortimer was a workaholic.

It didn't matter how overwhelming his personal life was. Even after surgery, he would push through the pain and finish his work.

Yet today, he had delayed a critical meeting—one that could affect their business relationships—all because of a few teasing words from Veralia.

Did he truly love her that much?

Emilia lowered her gaze, the exhaustion weighing heavily on her. She forced herself to calm down, to compose her thoughts. She stepped into the meeting room and offered her apology to the board.

The Jacobson family's empire was vast, and though the CEOs were irate, none dared to criticize Mortimer directly. Instead, their anger turned on her.

She didn't speak, didn't argue. She kept her head down and took their harsh words.

Two hours dragged by, each second like an eternity, until Mortimer finally arrived.

Emilia's legs ached as she stood, but before she could leave the room, Veralia's voice called out.

"You're Emilia, right? Mortimer says you make great coffee. The team's looking tired. Make a coffee for everyone. Mine with ice, no sugar."

Emilia knew Veralia was only so demanding because of Mortimer's affection. She couldn't refuse. So, she headed to the break room.

Two hours later, Emilia had prepared over four hundred coffees. One by one, she carried them out.

But when Veralia took her first sip, her face soured in disgust. Without warning, she hurled a coffee at Emilia.

The ceramic struck her forehead with a sickening thud, blood immediately seeping from the wound. The scene was gruesome.

Emilia gasped in pain, her face contorting. She pressed a hand to her head and collapsed to the floor.

But Veralia wasn't done. She grabbed more cups and threw them at Emilia.

Each hit, each cup shattering against her skin, left deep bruises. The broken shards cut through her flesh, the jagged pieces drawing blood.

The warm coffee soaked her clothes, mingling with the crimson stains that dripped down to the floor.

Emilia's body trembled with pain, but she could only curl up, protecting her head and chest. She couldn't move.

The office was eerily silent. No one moved, no one spoke. They simply stood by, watching as Veralia unleashed her fury.

It wasn't long before the commotion caught Mortimer's attention.

He emerged from his office, eyes narrowing at the chaos. His gaze fell on Emilia, lying in a pool of blood and broken cups. His brow furrowed deeply.

"What happened?" His voice was cold, his tone demanding.

Veralia immediately shifted into a pitiful pose, her voice trembling with false innocence. "Mortimer, I asked your secretary to make me coffee. I'm on my period, and she added ice. It made my stomach hurt so badly."

Her red-rimmed eyes, brimming with fake tears, only deepened Mortimer's frown.

"You've been working with me for four years, and you can't even handle something this simple? Or are you deliberately trying to make trouble for Veralia?"

Emilia, her face pale and pained, opened her mouth to explain, but Mortimer didn't give her the chance. He immediately called for his assistant.

"Emilia has broken company policy. She's to forfeit her salary and quarterly bonus for this month. She will also apologize in front of the entire company at next week's meeting."

Without another word, Mortimer shrugged off his jacket, picked Veralia up, and left.

As Mortimer's silhouette faded into the distance, the tears Emilia had been holding back finally spilled over.

She forced herself to stand, her body protesting with every movement. The pain shot through her, but she pushed it aside. She grabbed the broom and mop, her hands trembling. She began to clean the shards of broken cups, and the dark pools of spilled coffee as if the act could somehow wipe away the bitterness gnawing at her.

A few colleagues, their faces painted with sympathy, approached hesitantly. Their eyes flickered between the mess and her bruised face.

"I heard she asked for ice and no sugar," one murmured. "How did you end up taking the fall for it? Did you cross her or something?"

Another colleague shook their head. "Cross her? People say she's always been like that—selfish and quick to lash out when things don't go her way. A lot of people can't stand her, but no one dares say anything because of Mr. Jacobson. He spoils her."

A third voice, softer but equally concerned, added, "I've never seen Mr. Jacobson act like this with anyone else. Emmy, you need to be careful. We're just regular people, not some rich heiress. And she has him backing her up. No matter what happens, it feels like we're just supposed to take it."

Emilia felt a sharp ache in her chest. She knew they meant well, but their words hit her harder than they knew.

She couldn't find the words to reply, her throat tight.

In the past, Mortimer had always believed in her.

Even when a contract went wrong through no fault of hers, he'd stood by her, fought for her, and made sure her name was cleared.

But now, with one lie from Veralia, he'd shifted the blame onto her without hesitation, without giving her the chance to explain. He didn't bother checking the facts either.

She had given everything to him, handled problem after problem, all for him. But now? Now it felt like she didn't even have his trust.

Was that all it was? Did nothing else matter to him except making Veralia happy?

Her heart twisted, a bitter pang settling deep inside.

It took hours to clean up the mess, the physical exhaustion matching the emotional toll. Finally, she dragged herself home, each step feeling heavier than the last.

Just as she finished washing up, Mortimer's call came through.

"Send over some brown sugar and a heating pad," he said, his voice clipped.

Without hesitation, she gathered the items. She moved quickly, the exhaustion from the day's ordeal heavy on her shoulders as she made her way to his villa.

When she arrived, the villa she remembered was barely recognizable. In just a few days, everything had changed.

The peach tree Philip had planted years ago was gone, replaced with a garden of tulips. The black-and-white furniture she had once admired had been replaced with soft pastel pinks and yellows—colors Mortimer had always disliked. Display cabinets that had once held understated pieces now overflowed with jewels, bags, and lavish gifts.

The space screamed Veralia's influence.

Emilia stood quietly, taking it all in, a deep sense of sadness settling over her. She walked toward the brightly lit bedroom and knocked softly on the door.

A moment later, Mortimer opened it, reaching for the items. His gaze met hers, but then his eyes dropped to her face, lingering on the bruises now more visible without the coffee stains.

The shock in his expression was fleeting, but it was enough to make her heart skip a beat.

"Is it that bad?" he asked, his voice softer than she expected. "Have you seen a doctor?"

Emilia stayed silent. She shook her head slowly, unable to form the words.

Mortimer pressed his fingers to his temple, a rare softness entering his voice.

"Veralia's just not feeling well. She didn't mean to take it out on you. Don't let it bother you. The salary I deducted will be added to your year-end bonus. Go to the hospital later. If it's bad, take a few days off. I'll approve it without any hassle."

"I'm fine," Emilia began to speak, her intention to tell him she was leaving soon.

But he cut her off, handing her a card before she could finish.

"Do as I say. I still need you to organize a welcome dinner for Veralia. Rest and take care of yourself."

Her words, the ones she hadn't said, choked her. They stuck in her throat.

She nodded and took the card, turning away to leave the villa.

As the door clicked shut behind her, Veralia's voice drifted through.

"Mortimer, is my drink ready? And rub my stomach, please."

"I'll be right there. Just lie down and relax," Mortimer answered, his voice soft as silk.

Emilia's lips twitched into a faint smile, the bitterness of it sharp and cold. A flicker of self-mockery flashed in her eyes.

She had endured the same pain before—crippling cramps that once made her faint at the office. Her colleagues had rushed her to the hospital.

Mortimer knew, but he only approved her leave. Never once did he check on her, and never did he offer healing drinks or heating pads.

At the time, she'd convinced herself it was because he was too busy.

But now, it seemed so clear. He simply didn't care enough to bother.

Emilia went to the hospital afterward. A quick bandage, and then a few days of rest at home.

During that time, her assistant sent over the dinner plan.

Every detail was accounted for. From the flowers to the desserts, even the staff's dress code—everything had to be perfect.

With only three days to prepare, Emilia pushed herself to focus.

She didn't have the luxury to falter. The dinner was set for seven that evening.

Veralia arrived in a custom haute couture gown, drawing every eye in the room.

Guests swarmed around her, lavishing compliments, making her smile wider and brighter.

"Ms. Morgan, even after all these years, you still look as radiant as ever. This welcome dinner is just as grand as we expected. Mr. Jacobson's affection for you hasn't changed one bit!" one guest said, her voice filled with admiration.

"I remember when we were in school. Someone confessed their love to Veralia. When Mr. Jacobson found out, he made the guy transfer schools. If anyone sent her a love letter, he'd tear it up on the spot. If someone spoke ill of her, he'd go after them and leave them broken," another guest added.

"Everyone knows Veralia is Mr. Jacobson's first love. She's his princess, his treasure. Just look at the jewelry she's wearing. It's worth millions, easily. And this gown? It's one of a kind, custom-made just for her. Mr. Jacobson has always spared no expense to make her happy!" a third voice chimed in, awe clear in the tone.

Emilia stood a few paces away, her gaze fixed on the ground, not a single word escaping her lips.

Veralia approached, her steps deliberate, a smug smile curling her lips as she looked down at Emilia with contempt.

"You did okay with the dinner," she began, her voice dripping with feigned sweetness, "but there's a small issue. The ballroom doesn't have a carpet, and now my dress is ruined. To make up for it, you can help me lift my skirt."

Emilia kept her head down, her voice steady, not a trace of submission in her tone.

"Please wait. There's a carpet backstage. I'll have someone lay it out immediately."

Veralia's face twisted with disbelief. "How dare she refuse?"

Just as the tension grew thick, Mortimer walked in. His eyes flicked to the scene, immediately sensing the brewing conflict. He moved toward them swiftly.

"What's going on?"

"Mortimer, I don't want to ruin my dress," Veralia whined, putting on a dramatic pout. "I asked your secretary to help me lift my skirt, but she refused. Is she still holding a grudge from last time?"

Seeing Veralia's act, Mortimer didn't hesitate. He pulled her into his arms, his gaze turning to ice as he focused on Emilia.

"It's just lifting a skirt. This is your job. You've been a secretary long enough to handle something this simple. Can't you manage that?" he snapped.

Around them, whispers swirled, the crowd growing more judgmental with every passing second.

"A secretary giving Ms. Morgan attitude? She should know her place."

"Some people are born to be pampered. Some get everything handed to them. The rest of us are lucky if we even get to help hold a skirt."

The harsh words stung, and Emilia's chest tightened. She tried to bury the humiliation, focusing on controlling the emotions threatening to rise.

With a deep breath, she lowered herself, gently lifting the skirt.

Veralia, clearly enjoying the power she had, dragged Mortimer through the house, up and down the stairs as if to torture Emilia with her every step.

The skirt, heavy with pearls, grew unbearable. Emilia's arms trembled, but she didn't stop. She couldn't.

Finally, Veralia paused, looking around before waving her hand for more wine to be brought over. She beckoned to Emilia with a single, mocking finger.

"I don't want to drink tonight," Veralia purred, her tone honeyed with fake sweetness. "But since my friends are here for the feast, it would be rude to refuse. You can drink these for me."

"I'm allergic to alcohol... " Emilia began, her voice quiet but clear, ready to explain.

But Veralia wouldn't have it. She pouted even harder, her voice turning into a whiny plea.

"Mortimer, she's doing it again!" she complained, acting the victim effortlessly.

Mortimer, fully aware of Emilia's condition, hesitated. But he couldn't refuse Veralia. Not in front of everyone.

"Aren't you carrying your allergy medication?" he said, his voice colder now. "Just take it and then have the wine. You'll be fine."

The finality in Mortimer's voice was like a heavy door slamming shut. Emilia's heart dropped to her stomach.

Her face was drained of color, pale as a sheet. Wordlessly, she fumbled for the medication, swallowing a few pills with a shaky hand.

A group of people approached, their wine glasses in hand, exchanging light banter. Emilia barely registered them as she took a glass, lifting it to her lips.

One drink. Then another. Her stomach churned violently, the nausea crashing over her like a storm. Her thoughts thickened, slow, and muddled, as if her brain were sinking in molasses.

Her vision blurred, the edges of the room spiraling. The world tilted, dizzying and disorienting.

Suddenly, a sharp scream pierced through the fog.

"Mortimer, my necklace is missing!" Veralia's voice was a high-pitched shriek. "The only one who got near me was your secretary! She must've stolen it!"

Emilia's heart lurched in her chest. The accusation hit like a slap, harsh and jarring.

"It wasn't me, Mr. Jacobson," she managed to whisper, her voice barely audible over the pounding in her ears.

Mortimer's eyes flicked between Veralia, her eyes already welling with fake tears, and Emilia, swaying unsteadily. His gaze hardened, his face tightening into something unreadable.

"It could've just been misplaced," he said, his voice sharp, tense. "Let's check around first."

But Veralia wasn't having it. She shoved his hand away, her face contorted in fury. "If it wasn't her, then who else could it be? It's your necklace! I was upset because of that, and now you're defending her? If you won't search her, don't bother coming near me again!"

With those words, she stormed off, her heels clicking sharply against the floor. Mortimer moved quickly, grabbing her arm, his voice low and cold as he called for the guards.

In the blink of an eye, two bodyguards were on Emilia, pulling her to the ground with brutal force.

Her head throbbed. She tried to fight back, but it was like struggling against a wall. Her shirt tore open, the fabric ripping with a sickening sound.

Her dress was shredded, leaving her skin raw, bruised, and bloodied.

The humiliation hit her like a wave, drowning her.

She gasped, her voice cracking as she screamed, "I didn't do it! It wasn't me!"

But the more she pleaded, the harsher the guards became.

They tore at her undergarments, pulling them roughly, inches from stripping her completely.

Mortimer looked on, his face twisting in disgust. He opened his mouth, about to intervene, but just then, a waiter rushed forward, holding something gleaming in his hand.

"We found it! The necklace was on the stairs!" he called.

The room fell silent. All eyes turned to the diamond necklace in the waiter's hand, the brilliant stones shimmering under the lights.

Mortimer's expression softened, just slightly. He waved his hand, signaling the guards to release her.

He took the necklace from the waiter, his movements stiff and reluctant, before placing it around Veralia's neck.

His tone shifted, becoming more placating. "The necklace has been found. Don't be upset."

Veralia's tears faded as if on cue, replaced by a bright smile. She looked down at Emilia, sprawled on the floor, her dignity torn apart along with her clothes.

Grinning, she snuggled closer to Mortimer, her voice sweet and fake.

"It's a good thing we found it," she cooed, her voice dripping with sweetness. "Otherwise, I would've been so upset. But Mortimer, your secretary has gone through so much because of this. Should I apologize to her?"

The room shifted, every eye now fixed on Emilia. She lay there, vulnerable and exposed, her body battered, her soul shattered.

Once sympathetic glances now turned to cold, mocking stares. The whispers grew louder, cutting through her like a thousand blades.

Emilia curled into herself, clutching her knees tightly. She felt small, like a speck of dust in a vast, indifferent world. The weight of their gazes pressed down on her, suffocating.

Through the overwhelming shame, she barely heard Mortimer's cold voice. "No need to apologize. She's just a secretary. A little hardship doesn't matter."

The words struck Emilia like a dagger to the chest. They sliced through her with brutal precision. Her heart, already in tatters, felt as though it was being torn apart all over again.

Pain, raw and suffocating, surged through her. It was as if her very soul was being shredded into pieces.

Her mind buzzed. A dull hum filled her head, leaving everything around her hollow, distant, as if she were floating far away.

She hadn't noticed when the guests had quietly slipped away, but now the hall was empty, abandoned. The harsh overhead lights cast a cold, unforgiving glow. Every bruise, every wound on her body stood out starkly, the marks of her humiliation.

Gritting her teeth, she forced herself to her feet, each movement a battle. The pain threatened to bring her to her knees, but she kept going. She reached for the coat a compassionate waiter had left behind, wrapping it around her trembling shoulders.

Then, step by shaky step, she stumbled toward the door, each step feeling like it might be her last.

The rain outside hammered down in torrents, soaking her through in an instant. She walked into it, her senses numb to the chill.

Each icy drop that hit her face felt like a tear that should have been hers. But the tears were gone. There were no more left to shed.

She wandered aimlessly through the downpour, her mind a haze, not knowing where she was going. The world blurred around her.

A car pulled up, the engine purring softly, its headlights casting long shadows in the rain.

The window rolled down, and Mortimer's face appeared, sharp and cold as always.

"Get in."

Emilia didn't even glance at him. Her steps dragged, heavy as lead, as she continued walking through the rain, lost in the storm of her thoughts.

His voice came again, sharper, more insistent this time. "Get in."

She stopped. Her feet felt like they were frozen to the ground. Slowly, she raised her face, pale and hollow, her eyes distant and empty as they met his.

"I don't need your concern, Mr. Jacobson. I'm just a secretary."

Her words were icy, a cutting edge of indifference. Mortimer felt a jolt in his chest, as though her words had physically struck him.

Without a word, he threw open the car door, stepping into the rain to reach her. He grabbed her hand, his grip tight, almost desperate.

"I know I should have done better," he said, his voice softer now, filled with guilt. "But I've already lost Veralia once. I can't lose her again. I'll fix this. I'll make it right for you. Please, don't hold this against me."

But Emilia, unmoved, tore her hand from his grip.

She stepped back, her voice cold and hollow.

"Mr. Jacobson, you're joking, right? People like me—ordinary people—don't get to be upset with you or Ms. Morgan. I was a fool. I was too naive, too blind to see who I really am. From now on, I'll remember my place. I'm just a secretary. I won't bother you again. Are you satisfied now? Can I leave?"

Her words seemed to cut deeper, and Mortimer's anger flared, his patience fraying.

His face tightened with fury.

"You know that's not what I meant! I've never looked down on you. I only said those things to calm Veralia. In my heart, you're just as important as Natalie... "

She couldn't hear a single word he said after that.

The world around her blurred into a smear of color, like ink bleeding in water. Her eyelids drooped, heavy as though weighed down by lead.

Exhaustion swept over her in waves, each one draining her of what little strength she had left. Her body wavered, and before she could catch herself, the darkness took over.

She couldn't tell how much time had passed. When she finally stirred, the sterile white lights above her nearly blinded her. She was in a hospital room.

Her clothes, soaked through, had been changed. Her wounds were cleaned and neatly bandaged. On the bedside table, there was medicine and a glass of warm water.

A nurse hovered nearby, adjusting the IV. When she noticed Emilia's eyes fluttering open, she gave a gentle smile.

"You're awake? Your boyfriend stayed with you all night. He just left."

Emilia's lips cracked open, her voice dry and weak, barely audible.

"He's not my boyfriend. He never was."

From the very beginning, she and Mortimer had been nothing more than a coincidence, a mistake.

He had never acknowledged anything beyond the boundaries of the secretary-employee role.

Once, she had let herself believe in something more and dreamed of a future.

But now, all she could think about was waking herself from this nightmare.

And leaving. Leaving and never coming back.

Emilia spent several days in the hospital. Mortimer never came to see her. Instead, his assistant sent a message. It told her to rest, to take care of herself, and to return to work once she was better.

She didn't push herself. She gave her body the time it needed to heal before discharging herself.

Meanwhile, the company group chat buzzed non-stop. Everyone was talking about Mortimer and Veralia.

He had rented out all of an amusement park for a week, throwing her a birthday celebration. Fireworks had filled the sky for three days straight.

He had taken her to a family dinner and given her a bracelet meant only for his future wife.

He even bought land to build a private ski resort, the name tied directly to Veralia.

Emilia read the messages quietly. No stir in her heart. No feelings. No reactions.

Once she left the hospital, she returned to work. She was on time and focused, doing everything with precision.

Whenever something required Mortimer's attention, she passed it to his assistants or other colleagues.

After a week of silence, Mortimer called again.

She delivered the files he asked for, planning to leave right after. But just as she turned to go, he stopped her.

"I have a meeting," he said, his voice flat. "Veralia doesn't like eating alone. Stay and keep her company."

Her face froze. She opened her mouth to refuse, but Veralia spoke up, cutting her off with her usual demands.

"I want shrimp. Peel a plate for me."

Mortimer closed the door to his study, and Emilia swallowed her words. She walked to the table.

She peeled the shrimp slowly. Once she finished, Veralia had more food brought in—a large platter of walnuts and jackfruit.

"I want some fruit for dessert," Veralia said nonchalantly. "There aren't any tools. Use your hands."

Emilia glanced at the tough, spiny fruit. Her heart sank.

She knew exactly what Veralia was doing. It was meant to torment her.

But she had no choice. She obeyed.

After peeling the walnuts and struggling with the jackfruit, her hands were bleeding from the sharp spines.

But Veralia wasn't done. She ordered Emilia to go to the kitchen and bring back soup.

The soup was scalding hot, fresh from the stove. It burned her skin as she grasped the bowl. Her hands turned crimson from the heat.

She could barely hold the bowl. Her hands shook from the pain. And before she could stop herself, the bowl slipped from her grasp. The soup splashed across her, scalding her skin.

The heat surged up, making it hard to breathe. Within moments, blisters began to form on her hands.

A sharp, searing pain ripped through Emilia. She clenched her teeth, biting down hard on her lip, trying to stifle the scream rising in her throat.

The floor felt cold beneath her, the soup spilling across her clothes, scalding her skin. The heat burned, blistering her flesh, making it feel as if she was on fire.

Veralia, sitting across the table, watched with a sick satisfaction in her eyes. Her lips curled into a grin.

But as the study door creaked open, her expression flickered. The smile vanished instantly. She straightened, feigning concern, her voice sharp with fake reproach.

"Mortimer said you were a capable woman. But you can't even carry a bowl of soup? You spilled it everywhere and burned my hand!"

Mortimer's face twisted in panic as he rushed over—his footsteps heavy, his eyes wide with concern. "Where did it burn you? Let me see. Does it hurt?"

Veralia raised her hand, showing the faint red marks, her lips trembling as she squeezed out a few false tears.

"A few drops splashed on me... It could scar."

His eyes narrowed, his face hardening as he turned toward Emilia. His tone grew cold, sharp with accusation.

"How could you be so careless? Veralia has never been hurt in her life. If you were holding hot soup, you should've kept your distance—"

His words died in his throat when he finally saw Emilia's wounds. The anger in his voice faltered. He scooped Veralia into his arms, moving quickly, rushing to leave.

But before stepping out, he stopped, glancing back at Emilia, still rooted to the spot.

"Come with us to the hospital," he said, his voice heavy with finality. "You need treatment too."

Every movement ached, but Emilia forced herself to follow them outside. Her body trembled with each step, the pain almost too much to bear.

Mortimer sped through the streets. His grip on the wheel was tight, his knuckles white.

Veralia, beside him, let out soft whimpers, her gasps of pain just loud enough for Mortimer to hear. She faked it, leaning into her act, making sure Mortimer didn't see through her.

He glanced at her now and then, his worry deepening. His eyes softened with each passing second.

He didn't see the sports car speeding toward them.

The crash was sudden. A deafening bang. Metal crumpling against metal.

The impact sent Emilia flying, her body slamming into the car door. Her breath whooshed out of her, and then pain exploded in every direction.

Her insides seemed to shift, tearing her apart from the inside out. The agony was overwhelming.

Blood seeped from somewhere, warm and thick, quickly pooling around her. It spread like ink on paper, staining everything.

Her vision darkened, swallowed by a sea of red. Her body shivered violently, and through the fog, she saw Mortimer climbing out of the car. He was holding Veralia in his arms, rushing to her side.

The wail of sirens cut through the air, growing louder by the second. Two voices called out sharply, urgently.

"Sir, this lady just fainted from the shock. But the one in the back—she's lost a lot of blood. If we don't get her to the hospital now, she might not make it."