Chapter 3

During my second year as Ashton's assistant, I moved into his apartment.

There was no proposal or any romantic gesture. He simply said, "You should move in. It'll be easier for you to cook and do my laundry."

I convinced myself that moving in together was a sign of commitment.

When Mom called to ask when Ashton was coming over to meet the family, I fabricated a dozen excuses for him—he was swamped, traveling, or his projects were under tight deadlines.

Mom asked, "He can't even spare a single day to meet me?"

"Mom, he's just really busy," I replied.

After hanging up, I looked over and saw Ashton curled up on the couch, playing video games.

Whenever these moments of unease crept up, I usually brushed them off quickly.

I would tell myself that it wasn't that Ashton didn't love me. He just didn't know how to show it.

In my third year, Ashton's mother, Aileen Barton, came by to inspect the apartment. She pointed at the curtains I'd bought and called them cheap and embarrassing.

I replaced them with a set she approved of. They cost me 280 dollars, and I lived on instant noodles for 20 days that month.

In my fourth year, during the company performance reviews, my metrics ranked first in the entire department.

But the outstanding employee award went to Ashton instead. After all, I had achieved those results entirely under his name.

During the fifth year, a headhunter approached me. A newly established investment bank wanted to bring me on as a partner.

I hesitated the entire night before finally bringing it up to Ashton.

He set his phone down, glanced at me, and asked, "If you leave, who's going to help me?"

And so, I stayed.

During the sixth year, Aileen forced me to sign an agreement.

The first clause stipulated that I acknowledged I was not Ashton's wife and that our relationship was simply one of voluntary cohabitation, creating no legal obligations between us.

The second clause stated that if our relationship ended, I would have no right to seek financial compensation, emotional distress damages, or a share of the Clark family's assets.

Ashton stood right beside her, completely silent.

After signing, I spent half an hour crying in the stairwell.

Then I wiped my tears, went back to the kitchen in his apartment, and made his favorite honey-glazed ribs.

By the seventh and eighth years, I had forgotten who I used to be.

I would wake up at 6:00 am every day to cook, spend the day working as his assistant and writing his reports, then wait for him to come home at night and go through his schedule with him past midnight.

I filled every waking moment with the name "Ashton Clark". By the end, I barely remembered who Sylvia Duncan was.

…

I stood, walked to the closet, and dug through the very back.

A dusty black pantsuit lay there.

It was the first professional outfit I'd bought when I started working eight years ago.

Back then, I was the top student in the finance department, and my analysis reports were pinned to the office bulletin board as templates for everyone else to follow.

I pulled the suit out and shook off the dust.

It could still fit me. It just looked a little dated.

…

When I arrived at the office, a small crowd had gathered outside the CEO's office.

Eve Grant was standing there in a white floral dress, holding a cup of coffee.

Her eyes lit up when she saw me, and she flashed a sickeningly sweet smile. "Oh, hi, Sylvia."

She deliberately swirled the cup right in front of my face. "I made this pour-over using Mr. Clark's private reserve beans. He told me he's gotten so used to my brewing that nothing else tastes right anymore."

She paused and tilted her head at me. "Oh, by the way, Sylvia, Mr. Clark said he's done with instant coffee. You don't need to buy it anymore. He doesn't want to waste money."

A few colleagues nearby quietly exchanged looks.

Some felt sympathy for me, some watched like they were enjoying a show, and some took pleasure in my misfortune.

I lowered my gaze to the lunchbox bag that was sticking halfway out of her dress pocket.

It was pink, with floral prints and a bow—the same pattern as the lunchbox in the trash can.

I slapped the clipboard with my daily to-do list pinned to it right against her chest. "Since you're so great at catering to Mr. Clark, you can handle all of his personal errands from now on."

Eve froze. Her mouth opened to speak, but the office door swung open from the inside.