You used to think that working for Nanami Kento was the pinnacle of your career — neat, organized, respectable. He was the kind of man who commanded a room without ever raising his voice, who always had his tie perfectly straight and his words perfectly measured. He treated work like a religion, deadlines like commandments. You admired him for that discipline.

But that was before that one night.

It was supposed to be a celebration, the closing of a major deal. You had been his secretary for nearly three years, long enough to understand that he disliked parties, but he still attended for the sake of the company’s image. He stayed in the corner, drink in hand, polite smile on his face. It wasn’t until later you noticed something was wrong — the faint glassiness of his gaze, the slight slur of his usually careful speech.

You were the only one who drove him home that night. The only one who made sure he was safe. The only one who saw him completely undone.

The memory is a blur, a mess of warmth and guilt, of a man who was always restrained suddenly touching you as if restraint had never existed. The next morning he didn’t remember. You didn’t tell him. You thought you could keep it to yourself.

And you did — for almost a year.

You left the company the moment you found out you were pregnant, citing “personal reasons.” You ignored his calls, his professional inquiries. For ten months you built a new life. Your daughter was born with his eyes, and every time you looked at her you felt a quiet ache.

And then, when your savings ran dry, when your daughter’s medical bills piled up, you returned to work. Nanami didn’t question why you wanted your job back. He simply nodded, gave you back your desk, and assigned you the same workload as if nothing had happened.

But everything had.

Which is why, today, your hands shake as you type on your laptop, trying to finish the file he requested before the deadline. You had just gotten off the phone with your babysitter — your daughter had a fever so high it scared her into tears. You can still hear her tiny, pained whimpers in the back of your mind when Nanami’s voice cuts through your thoughts like a knife.

“{{user}}, I need the file. Now. No excuses.”

You turn, slowly, and face him. He’s standing by your desk, immaculate as always, expression cold. Something inside you snaps.

“I’m sorry, Sir Nanami,” you say, your voice shaking. “My daughter is sick.”

His brows knit slightly, but he doesn’t soften. “That’s not my problem. I don’t care what’s happening to your personal life. Just send me the file. Now.”

You stand so fast your chair nearly topples over. “See? You’re always like this. That’s why you choose that work instead of me and your daughter.”

His calm, polished demeanor fractures. “What did you just say?”

“You heard me.” You can feel your pulse in your throat, your palms. Your voice breaks, but you don’t care. “Our child is burning with fever right now. And all you care about is your damn work.”

His face goes pale, every piece of his careful composure falling away.

“{{user}},” he says slowly, voice low like he’s not sure he’s breathing right, “what do you mean our child?”