Three months after I finally walked away from my wealthy benefactor. I accidentally charged a box of ultra-thin condoms to his linked card. He sent a single, sharp text: Is he better than me? I ignored it. But that very night, when I returned to my hotel room on a business trip, a tall, imposing silhouette blocked my path. The man who was supposed to be a thousand miles away. Marcus stood before me, looking windswept and lethal. In bed, he was merciless, driving me to the brink of madness. As I completely fell apart under him, he nipped at my earlobe, his voice low and dangerous. “Does he make you feel like this too?” I bit my lip, refusing to give him the satisfaction of an answer. Deep down, a foolish spark of joy flared at his jealousy. Until the storm subsided, the lust fading from his dark eyes. “Kelly, I’m getting married,” he said, cold and detached. “This is the last time.” 1 I froze. The words felt like a bucket of ice water poured directly over my head. A deep, numbing chill seeped from my scalp down to my toes. Marcus rolled off the bed. A moment later, the sharp hiss of the shower echoed from the bathroom. I lay motionless on the tangled sheets. The harsh glare of the ceiling light made my eyes burn. I couldn’t even remember how we had broken up three months ago. I only remembered the massive argument, the suffocating silence, and how I had impulsively thrown the word over in his face. He hadn’t tried to soothe me. He hadn’t even asked why. He had only looked at me with those cool, unreadable eyes and asked, “Are you sure about this?” I had nodded. Then, without another word, I packed my bags and took a long-term assignment in Chicago. I thought putting distance between us would help clear the lingering fog of heartbreak. I was wrong. For three months, I buried myself in endless work, trying to numb my own mind. Yet the moment the noise quieted down, his image would flood my thoughts, relentless and agonizing. So today, in a moment of pure, desperate madness at a convenience store, I swiped the joint credit card he had never deactivated. I bought a box of ultra-thin condoms. I wanted to see if he still cared. And he had come. He had caught a last-minute flight and driven through the night just to corner me in my hotel room. For a brief, naive moment, I believed we were going to make up. But after the passion cleared, he gave me a death sentence: he was getting married. 2 When Marcus stepped out of the bathroom, he wore nothing but a low-slung towel around his waist. The lean, powerful muscles of his back and shoulders glistened under the dim yellow lights. He walked over to the bed, looking down at my motionless, curled-up form, and let out a soft frown. “Go wash up.” I dragged myself up mechanically, my legs trembling so violently I could barely stand. Before I could fall, he stepped forward, scooped me up effortlessly in his arms, and carried me into the bathroom. It was just like the countless times before. He squeezed the body wash into his palm, rubbing his hands together until a thick lather formed. Then, he gently washed every inch of my skin. His touch was unbelievably tender, as if he were handling a piece of priceless, fragile porcelain. But my chest throbbed so hard I could barely breathe. He rinsed the soap away, shut off the water, and wrapped me in a plush towel. He didn’t say a single word through it all. I stood there, swallowed by the fabric, watching him walk toward the door. “Congratulations.” The word escaped my throat, raspy and hollow. Marcus paused. He turned his head slightly. His brow furrowed, as if trying to make sense of what he had just heard. His Adam’s apple bobbed. “What did you say?” “Congratulations on your wedding.” I forced my lips to curve into a fragile, pathetic smile. Marcus stared at me for several long seconds, his gaze dark and unreadable. “Get some sleep,” he finally said. “I’ll book another room next door.” I was used to it. He was an incredibly light sleeper and hated sharing a bed through the night. Over the past few years, no matter how exhausted I was after we made love, I would always quietly gather my things and retreat to the guest bedroom. 3 By the time I woke up the next morning, bright sunlight was already streaming through the window. I checked my phone: 9:30 AM. There were three unread texts from my colleagues at the media network. “Kelly, where are you?” “Today’s the day the executive director announces your promotion to lead producer!” My heart leaped into my throat. I threw the phone onto the bed and rushed to get ready. Marcus had kept me up until three in the morning, and the ensuing insomnia had stolen another two hours of sleep. My entire body felt as though it had been run over by a semi-truck. I practically threw myself down the stairs and ran out of the lobby, only to stop dead in my tracks. A sleek black Maybach was idling right at the hotel entrance. The window rolled down smoothly, revealing Marcus in the driver’s seat. He wore a charcoal-gray dress shirt today, the sleeves rolled up carelessly to his forearms, exposing the firm, corded muscles of his wrists. He glanced at me. “Get in. I’ll drive you.” My instinct was to refuse. But he had already reached over and popped the passenger door open. After a second of agonizing hesitation, I climbed in. As I pulled the seatbelt across my chest, I deliberately kept my eyes glued to the side. “Just drop me off near the broadcasting station.” He didn’t answer, simply shifting the car into drive. We rode in absolute silence. The only sound was the faint, steady hum of the air conditioner. I stared out the window, watching the city skyline blur past. As the familiar glass facade of the media building came into view, two traffic lights away, I spoke up. “You can pull over right ahead.” Marcus glanced at the road, his speed unchanging. “We’re not there yet.” “I don’t need to be dropped off at the front doors,” I said, biting my inner cheek. “Today is my promotion day. I don’t want people spreading rumors.” He went quiet for a moment. Then, he smoothly brought the car to a halt by the curb. I pushed the door open and forced a polite, professional tone. “Thank you, Mr. Mercer.” Marcus frowned, his eyes darkening. “I prefer it when you call me Marcus.” “You’re getting married. It’s not appropriate anymore.” He didn’t say another word. He simply checked his mirror, hit the gas, and left me in a cloud of exhaust. 4 Fortunately, I wasn’t late. The moment I walked into the station, several colleagues rushed over to congratulate me. “Congrats, Kelly!” “You have to buy us coffee once the official announcement is made!” I smiled warmly. “I’ll do you one better. Dinner is on me.” The bullpen was lively and full of chatter until an assistant tapped my shoulder, telling me the executive director wanted to see me in his office. My chest swelled with excitement as I walked down the corridor. Five years of relentless grinding in this cutthroat city. I was finally going to secure my place. But that short-lived thrill died the moment I stepped inside the director’s office. “Kelly, after a board review, we’ve decided that starting today, Seraphina will take full charge of the Late Night Finance program.” “We’d like you to assist her with the transition.” I stood frozen, my voice trembling. “I’ve built that program from the ground up. Why is it suddenly being handed over to a newcomer who literally just joined the network?” When I first took over Late Night Finance, it was the lowest-rated slot on the network. I had poured my soul into it, turning it into our flagship program. The director gave me a look of mild, patronizing pity. “It’s a decision from the top, Kelly.” Seeing that I wasn’t backing down, he decided to lay his cards on the table. “Seraphina brought a twelve-million-dollar sponsorship package with her.” “That single deal covers our advertising targets for the next decade. If you were in my shoes, who would you choose?” I leaned against the wall, my head spinning. The door clicked open behind me. A young woman dressed in an immaculate designer blazer stepped in. She was strikingly beautiful. She extended a manicured hand. “Hi, I’m Seraphina.” I recognized her instantly. She was Marcus’s childhood sweetheart, the girl who had just returned from Europe. His fiancée. All the scattered pieces in my head snapped into a cruel, perfect picture. It didn’t take a genius to figure out who was behind that twelve-million-dollar sponsorship. A bitter, quiet laugh escaped my throat. A couple of years ago, to secure a much smaller sponsorship for my show, I had practically begged Marcus for months just to get a one-million-dollar deal. I had been profoundly grateful for it. Yet for Seraphina, he had signed away twelve million without batting an eye. Twelve million versus one million. I guess I truly was only worth a fraction of her in his eyes. Or maybe, I didn’t even register on his scale at all. 5 I went straight to Marcus’s corporate headquarters. The receptionist recognized me and bypassed security, letting me straight into his private office. Marcus was sitting behind a massive mahogany desk, reviewing a stack of documents. He didn’t even bother to look up. “Something on your mind?” My throat tightened, and I struggled to hold back the tears stinging my eyes. My voice cracked. “There are dozens of slots at the network. Why did you have to let her take mine?” Only then did Marcus raise his eyes. His gaze was entirely flat, devoid of any warmth. “Because she wanted it.” I stared at him, utterly paralyzed. Because she wanted it. With a single sentence, he justified throwing millions of dollars around to clear her path. Because she wanted it, he could effortlessly erase five years of my sweat, tears, and sleepless nights. He knew better than anyone what I had sacrificed for that show. During our peak season, I had worked myself to the point of physical collapse, ending up in the ICU with severe exhaustion. Tears spilled over my cheeks. “Marcus, that’s not fair!” “Kelly,” he interrupted, his tone chillingly level. He set his pen down and leaned back in his leather chair. “If I remember correctly, there were three candidates when you interviewed for that associate position years ago.” “The other two had Ivy League degrees and prestigious journalism backgrounds.” “Do you know why a state-college graduate with zero media experience like you got hired?” While I stood there in stunned silence, he delivered the final blow. “Because I made a one-million-dollar donation to the network, on the sole condition that they hire you.” Marcus stared at me as if I were a minor investment that had run its course. “Kelly, there is no such thing as absolute fairness in this world.” “When you reach my level, then you can come talk to me about fairness.” The blood drained from my face, leaving me cold and hollow. So that was the truth. On the day I received my offer letter, I had sat in my cramped, drafty apartment and cried tears of pure joy, believing my hard work had finally paid off. But it had all been a lie. I don’t remember how I stumbled out of his office. His words felt like a physical assault, stripping away the last shreds of my dignity. I was utterly humiliated, with nowhere left to hide. 6 When I first met Marcus, I was just a struggling, desperate intern. It was at a high-stakes networking dinner. After a few rounds of drinks, the atmosphere in the private dining room grew thick and predatory. The senior producer sitting next to me let his hand slide under the table, his fingers creeping toward my thigh. My body went rigid with terror. I tried to pull away, but I didn’t dare make a scene and ruin the network’s deal. Choking back my tears, I threw a desperate, pleading look at my team leader, the man who was supposed to be mentoring me. He blinked, registered what was happening, and promptly looked away. That was when Marcus, who had barely spoken a word all night, abruptly stood up. He walked over, grabbed my wrist, and pulled me out of my seat. Looking down at my tear-streaked face, he said, “Crying in front of these wolves won’t save you, little girl.” Then, he wrapped his large, warm hand over mine, picking up a heavy glass bottle from the table. A flash of pure, dangerous intent crossed his handsome features. With a sudden, violent motion, he forced my hand down, smashing the bottle squarely over the producer’s head. The crash was deafening. The producer collapsed to the floor, groaning in pain. The room fell into a stunned, breathless silence. Marcus looked down at me, his voice steady and low. “Only this works. Understand?” I stared up at him, completely captivated by the intensity in his dark eyes. The chaotic noise of the room faded into nothing. All I could hear was the frantic, thumping beat of my own heart. So when we met again in the elevator bank weeks later, and he asked me in that cool, detached voice: “Your name is Kelly, right? Are you open to a strictly physical arrangement?” I didn’t hesitate. My life had been a bleak, colorless struggle up to that point. I had never encountered anyone so brilliant, powerful, and utterly mesmerizing. In that moment, my body answered for me. I nodded. From that day on, every encounter ended with a generous transfer to my account, alongside an endless stream of designer bags and jewelry.
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