Chapter 3: Exposed at the Office

That night I barely slept.

The city was blanketed with a fresh layer of snow, turning everything muffled and soft—except for the ache in my chest. I showed up at work with puffy eyes, clutching a to-go coffee and wishing I could crawl under my desk and hide.

When I arrived at the office, the women at the front desk gathered around me:

"Shannon, did you see?"

Curious, I followed their gaze.

It was snowing outside—a sudden flurry, and people were rushing indoors.

Derek got out of his Tesla, walked around to the passenger side, and placed his hand on the door frame to shield the woman’s head as she got out.

The woman was Lillian.

Her boots crunched on the salted sidewalk. I recognized the blue scarf I’d seen in her Facebook photos. She laughed as the wind whipped her hair across her face. Derek brushed it back for her, so gentle it was almost painful to watch.

When I left the Hamiltons’ that morning, I’d refused a ride from Derek.

He’d always said there were too many people at the office, and we’d agreed not to make our relationship public.

"Wow, maybe the company’s about to get a new boss’s wife?"

"Shannon, tell us—do you know anything? Isn’t there a rumor Mr. Hamilton is getting married?"

I smiled and nodded:

"Probably."

My voice barely cracked; the smile felt glued on. I tried not to think about the diamond ring burning a hole in my pocket.

When marriage was mentioned, a colleague asked me:

"By the way, Shannon, didn’t your boyfriend propose to you? You even posted the ring on Instagram. Why aren’t you wearing it today?"

I looked at my bare fingers and said:

"I’m not planning to get married."

My colleague was stunned.

You could’ve heard a pin drop. For a moment, everyone stared, but I shrugged it off with a laugh and busied myself with my purse.

In the distance, Derek’s cold, distant eyes only softened when he was with Lillian.

He handed his keys to the valet and opened a big black umbrella, tilting it over Lillian.

Snowflakes collected on his shoulders.

He caught sight of us, his gaze sweeping over, completely different from the way he looked at Lillian.

His expression grew more reserved, taking in everyone’s reactions.

He looked at me, I looked at him—his eyes calm as water.

His gaze landed on me:

"Ms. Wells, shouldn’t you be working?"

He glanced at his watch:

"Ten minutes late—you’ll lose your attendance bonus. The meeting’s in an hour."

With that, everyone scattered back to work.

A colleague muttered quietly:

"Guess the richer a guy is, the more loyal he acts."

I lowered my head and smiled as I sorted documents. Yeah—secretly loving his sister-in-law for seven years, how is that not loyal?

I wanted to laugh, wanted to cry. I kept my eyes on my work, hands shaking a little as I organized the pile of contracts.

Phones buzzed. The copy machine jammed again. Someone laughed too loudly in the break room.

The meeting was in an hour. I started preparing: gathering materials, scheduling the agenda, coordinating with departments.

After finishing the preparations, I found the water cooler was empty.

I took down the empty jug. Just as I was about to put on a new one, Derek rolled up his sleeves, revealing fair skin and bulging veins as he lifted the bottle.

He said:

"Let me do it."

I ignored him, gritted my teeth, and hoisted the bottle onto the cooler myself.

Seeing I’d finished, he nodded slightly.

He looked like he wanted to say something—maybe a thank you, maybe an apology. But he just walked away, his back impossibly straight, leaving me standing there with water splashed on my shoes.

Every year at Hamilton Enterprises, positions are reshuffled. Competition is fierce except for senior management—multiple rounds of assessments are required.

After Derek left, I was notified that I’d have to compete with a newcomer in the upcoming meeting.

I was a bit stunned, but before I could process it, the meeting began.

The topic was set by Derek.

I stared at my reflection in the bathroom mirror, whispering, You’ve got this. Even if you don’t.

I took a deep breath, standing at the head of the conference table, my hands trembling slightly.

After I finished my answer, Derek raised sharp questions that left me speechless.

It was Lillian whose responses were more composed and fluent than mine.

She stood poised, confident—her words flowing like she’d been rehearsing all her life. The rest of the execs nodded, impressed.

Derek sat with his hands loosely clasped, one long leg crossed over the other, eyes narrowed:

"Ms. Wells, it’s been three years, and you still can’t outperform a newcomer?"

The words cut deep; he didn’t spare me any dignity.

The colleagues who’d been quietly gossiping fell silent.

In that moment, I suddenly realized—we weren’t from the same world at all.

He could erase three years of my life with a single look—like hitting delete on an email. At night, he’s the master of this game of love—whether in bed or out of it, at work or in private.

His words are ruthless. A single sentence can cut straight to my heart.

I remembered two years ago, when I failed my first promotion review. I cried and laughed, hoping he’d comfort me, but he only said:

"Shannon, that’s just how survival works. If you can’t do it, you’ll be let go."

I stopped crying and asked:

"But I’m your girlfriend. Can’t you give me a little help?"

He just smiled faintly and said nothing.

That was the first lesson I learned in this relationship.

Derek is decisive at work—warm, but never indulgent. He’s never acted on emotion, and he never gave me any special treatment just because I was his girlfriend.

What he taught me, I applied at work. Later, I was promoted and got a raise on my own merit.