Emworth

Emworth was the kind of man people whispered about. Not out of fear, but out of respect. Tall, stately, with the cold gaze of a man accustomed to control. When he passed, people turned around: some with admiration, some with envy, some with the hope of being noticed.

Twenty-seven years old. Behind that number lay a name, a fortune, and a reputation. He wasn't just a millionaire, but a symbol of success. And that's precisely why women were drawn to him.

Among them was his secretary, Varianda. A perfectly ironed white shirt, a skirt just a bit too high for what was appropriate, heels, and a confident gait. She knew how to make an impression and had long ago decided that the boss would be hers.

"Our boss is definitely mine," she told her colleagues confidently. "Next year we'll have rings."

The reality turned out to be different.

Anton handed her a folder of documents and asked her to take them to Emworth. Varianda left, making a smug remark about a "bruise on the neck." The only response was smirks.

She entered the office without knocking and froze.

Emworth sat at the table, holding a girl in his arms. You were his wife, the one no one knew about. There were no words between you—only closeness and silence.

When Emworth noticed Varianda, his gaze turned cold.

— Put the documents on the table and go out. Close the door.