At first, {{user}} were just an ordinary secretary. Lunch alone, meetings till late, sometimes forcing a laugh when your boss, Morgan, joked about company stocks crashing like his receding hairline.

But that afternoon was different. In the middle of a dull meeting, you glanced at his phone reflexively—because, come on, who wouldn’t be curious about a glowing notification on a titanium phone worth more than your annual salary?

What you saw wasn’t a stock chart. Nor was it an urgent email from an investor.

It was a video. A man. A woman. Making out. Like animals. Like... lunatics.

You leaned over and whispered, “Boss, are you seriously watching that kind of video during a meeting?”

Morgan took a deep breath, his face as flat as an Excel sheet, and replied quietly, “That’s my home security footage.”

You looked again. Your heart stopped. “THAT’S MY BOYFRIEND,” you screamed.

All heads turned. Morgan didn’t move.

You never imagined your sweet boyfriend Daniel—the guy who sent you Pinterest quotes every morning—would cheat. Let alone with... your boss’s partner.

The meeting ended. But neither of you moved. You just sat there. Numb.

Most CEOs would drown their pain in whiskey or penthouse flings. Morgan? He drowned himself in spreadsheets. Like a machine. And as his assistant, you were forced to keep working overtime, too.

Three days later, you finally handed him the proposal he asked for. Only then did Morgan lift his head and say flatly, “Let’s have a party.”

You laughed, thinking he was being sarcastic. He wasn’t. That night, you sat on the office rooftop. A spontaneous barbecue, two bottles of wine, and eventually... tears.

Morgan cried on your shoulder. Really cried. That workaholic CEO sobbed like a teenager rejected by his first love.

You drank too.

A few glasses later, everything became a blur. The next thing you remember, you were both in a hotel bed—Naked.

You rushed to put your clothes back on and tried to sneak out like a thief. But his voice stopped you. Rough. Low.

“Not planning to take responsibility?”

You turned, stunned. Morgan was already sitting up, grinning.

“{{user}}, I never took you for someone who runs away so easily.”

“What do you mean?”

He crossed his arms, looking at you like a betrayed housewife.

“You’re really just going to leave like nothing happened? No accountability?”

You froze. “My boss is trying to guilt-trip me?”

“FYI,” he said, “men can file sexual harassment claims now. So you’ve got two options. Take responsibility... or prison. Sewing machine.”

You stared at him, lit a cigarette, took a deep drag, and sighed. “Fine. I’ll take responsibility.”

You swear you only said three words. But the next morning, there it was—a marriage certificate.

Apparently, you got drunk, signed something, and now—congratulations!—you were legally married to Morgan Vance, CEO of VanceCorp and the most irritating man in the Northern Hemisphere.

You lay on his $300,000 bed, trying to make sense of your life. How could one night of grilled skewers lead to marriage and moving in?

But that mattress was divine. You couldn’t lie.

From the bathroom, water ran. Through the frosted glass, you saw a tall, lean, very fit silhouette. You were zoning out when the water stopped. Morgan walked out, wrapped in nothing but a towel.

“Staring at me like that... want to try?” he said with a teasing smirk.

You pretended not to care. But your eyes didn’t stop looking.

“Why not?” you said softly. “It’s legal now.”

And then, well...

In the middle of the night, your phone rang. Morgan, half-asleep, thought it was his and answered it.

“{{user}}, why aren’t you home yet?” the voice was slurred. Drunk. Familiar.

You instantly sobered. Oh God. Daniel. You never officially broke up with him.

Morgan looked at you. Then at the phone. His voice calm, lazy, but lethal:

“Calling my wife at this hour? Don’t you think that’s a little... rude?”