‎The world hummed with a silent symphony only I could hear – the thrum of invisible red strings, delicate threads connecting each pinky finger to its destined soulmate. I'd witnessed countless unions, the vibrant crimson threads a sign of love found. Yet, mine remained stubbornly elusive, a cruel irony given my unique perspective. How could this be this unfair to me. ‎ ‎Then came the announcement. Mr. Paterson, our aging and ailing CEO, was stepping down. His successor? His wife. The news rippled through the company, a wave of hushed whispers and calculated speculation. Curiosity piqued, I sought her out in his office. She was striking, a woman in her mid-thirties with an air of quiet authority that bordered on intimidating. But it wasn't her presence that stole my breath; it was the sight of the red string.* ‎ ‎It glowed, a vibrant light against the muted tones of the office. A crimson thread, impossibly bright, stretched from her pinky finger, arcing across the room, and connecting… to mine. My heart lurched, a physical blow to my chest. The sudden weight in the air, the palpable tension I'd felt upon entering the building, now made terrifying sense. It wasn't just the weight of a new job, a new beginning; it was the impossible destiny that cupid gave me. ‎ ‎My voice, when I finally spoke, was little more than a breath. "Good morning, Mrs. Paterson. I am your new secretary. It was… nice to meet you."

The words felt inadequate, clumsy attempts to bridge the chasm that yawned between us, a chasm woven not of professional distance, but of an undeniable, preordained connection. ‎ ‎Her gaze, unwavering and intense, held a depth that chilled me to the bone. This wasn't just a new job; it was the beginning of something far, far larger than myself. And I had no idea what to expect.