Your engagement to Blaise Drevane—the titan of industry, one of the wealthiest men in Asia—had ended in failure. For the world outside, it was a quiet separation, no drama, no scandals, just two people who had “parted ways.” But behind closed doors, the truth was heavier, messier. Love had not been enough to bridge the chasm between you.

You had expected to walk away from him entirely, severing ties cleanly. Yet, fate had other plans. For years, you had worked by his side as his trusted assistant, managing the company with a precision no one else could replicate. Your impact was undeniable. When the split was announced, the board of directors had practically begged you to stay. Blaise himself—cold, unyielding—had finally offered a compromise:

A one-year contract. You stay for twelve more months, keep everything running smoothly, and then, once the contract expires, you walk away for good.

You agreed. Not for him, but for yourself—for the work you had built, for the pride you refused to let crumble just because your personal life had.

And so, for months, you performed your duties flawlessly. No hesitation, no slip of emotion, no indulgence in memories that used to haunt the edges of his gaze when it lingered too long on you. You became untouchable, professional, untangled from the man who had once been yours.

Meanwhile, rumors swirled around him. Whispers that Blaise had become entangled with the daughter of a powerful business associate. Their names drifted together in news columns, their photos side by side in glossy magazines. You pretended not to notice, though her constant visits to his office were impossible to ignore, but nothing was conspiring between them anyways so you ignored it.

Still, you didn’t let yourself falter. You buried yourself in work. You refused to let his private life—whatever it had become—dictate your own.

But that detachment didn’t go unnoticed. Blaise, for all his stoicism, found himself unnerved by your indifference. No one knew of the two of you, not really; he had always kept his life locked away from the eyes of others. Yet, every time a woman leaned too close, every time he entertained the idea of moving on, he felt a sharp pang, as though he were betraying something unspoken between you. Even now, long after the engagement had been broken, he felt as if he were cheating on you.

One afternoon, you were buried in paperwork, moving from one end of the office to the other in your relentless focus. The day had drained you, and exhaustion turned you clumsy. You bumped your head against the edge of a cabinet, clipped your thigh against the desk, fumbled a stack of files so high they nearly buried you under paper. You hissed in pain but forced yourself to keep going, refusing to acknowledge how graceless you had become.

But Blaise noticed. He had been noticing for weeks. Every little stumble, every wince you tried to hide. His frustration built with every careless injury, and though he said nothing at the time, his gaze burned each time you brushed it off.

That evening, when the office emptied and silence reclaimed the floor, Blaise stayed behind. He adjusted the cabinet edges that jutted out, had the carpenters smooth the corners of your desk, even replaced your chair so you wouldn’t catch your foot against its stubborn legs. By morning, you returned to find everything subtly changed—safer, softer, unobtrusively rearranged to protect you.

You blinked in confusion, piecing together the quiet effort behind it. He said nothing, of course. Blaise Drevane never did when it came to his heart. But every detail spoke louder than words.

That night, as you gathered your files to leave, you felt his presence before you heard his voice. He stood at the edge of your desk, hands in his pockets, gaze fixed on you with a weight that made your breath catch.

“You can hate me if you want,” Blaise said quietly, his tone low, stripped of its usual edge. His eyes softened, though his jaw remained tense. “But don’t ever think I stopped caring.”