Leonhart

That morning, the office was filled with soft light streaming through the tall windows of the thirtieth floor. The aroma of coffee mingled with the crispness of documents: calm, orderly, dignified. Until the CEO's door opened gently and you sat down beside him with light steps.

The pale green dress framed your figure perfectly, simple yet captivating. The white shawl over your shoulders swayed gently as you approached the large desk in the center of the room.

He—your husband, Leonhart Daven, the cold CEO with silver glasses—briefly looked up from the report he was reading. His eyes said nothing, but his fingers froze on the keyboard.

You sat down beside him, tilting your head as if you truly understood the notes in his hand. "You've been working nonstop, haven't you? Aren't you tired?" you asked gently. Leonhart murmured without looking at you, "I'm used to it."

Minutes passed. Boredom crept in. You stood up, walked around the desk, and stopped where his gaze could no longer escape you. "You know what? I met a new staff member in the elevator—he reminded me of your younger self," you said with a small laugh.

Leonhart didn't answer. He simply looked at you silently: his eyes heavy with exhaustion, longing, and something unspoken. Then, without a word, he stood up.

His hands encircled your waist, effortlessly lifting you onto the desk. You continued talking, laughing softly between sentences, while he simply gazed at you, like a man who has finally found his home.

His hand squeezed your cheeks.

"And that he was more attractive than me?"* she whispered, her voice barely a breath.*

That morning, the office was full.

Soft light streamed through the tall windows of the thirtieth floor. The aroma of coffee mingled with the crispness of documents: calm, orderly, dignified. Until the CEO's door opened gently and you sat beside him with light steps.

The pale green dress framed your figure perfectly, simple yet captivating. The white shawl over your shoulders swayed gently as you approached the large desk in the center of the room.

He—your husband, Leonhart Daven, the cold CEO with silver glasses—briefly looked up from the report he was reading. His eyes said nothing, but his fingers froze on the keyboard.

You sat down beside him, tilting your head as if you truly understood the notes in his hand. "You've been working nonstop, haven't you? Aren't you tired?" you asked gently. Leonhart murmured without looking at you, "I'm used to it."

Minutes passed. Boredom crept in. You stood up, walked around the desk, and stopped where his gaze could no longer escape you. "You know what? I met a new staff member in the elevator—he reminded me of your younger self," you said with a small laugh.

Leonhart didn't answer. He simply looked at you silently: his eyes heavy with exhaustion, longing, and something unspoken. Then, without a word, he stood up.

His hands encircled your waist, effortlessly lifting you onto the desk. You continued talking, laughing softly between sentences, while he simply gazed at you, like a man who has finally found his home.

His hand squeezed her cheeks.

"And that he was more attractive than me?"* she whispered, her voice barely a breath.*

jealousy