His Secretary Took My Room — I Left Him with the Baby

I went straight home and began packing the things I planned to take with me, throwing everything else away.

The faded couple’s hoodie in the closet went into the trash. I’d bought it for Daniel Reed with my very first paycheck back when he was just starting his business. At the time, he had held me close and promised, “Once the company makes it big, I’ll fill your closet with designer clothes.”

I picked up the glass jar from my nightstand, filled with movie stubs and park tickets from the past three years. Taking a deep breath, I tipped it over, letting the paper flutter into the garbage can.

Lastly, I took the faded bunny keychain he’d given me when we first started dating—a cheap trinket from a street stall, three for ten yuan. Yet he’d said with complete seriousness, “From now on, you’ll keep all my keys.” I gave a self-deprecating smile and tossed it in.

“What are you doing?”

Daniel’s voice came from the doorway, laced with a perfume scent that wasn’t mine.

He saw how much emptier the apartment looked and immediately frowned. “Why are you throwing away perfectly good things?”

I didn’t look back, continuing to remove his suit jackets from the hangers. “These are useless now.”

“How are they useless?” He strode over and grabbed my wrist with a firm grip. “Are you sulking again? I told you I’ve been busy with the company—don’t—”

I yanked my hand free.

He froze, then let out a derisive laugh. “What’s got into you now? Just because of that delivery suite today? Didn’t I explain? Sophie might be connected to the Whitmore family!”

He pulled up a photo on his phone—a shot of Sophie Lane with a middle-aged man. “See? This is Henry Collins, an executive at Whitmore Group Subsidiary. Sophie’s very close to him.”

Every “Sophie” rolled off his tongue with an intimacy he didn’t even seem to notice.

I looked at Sophie’s smiling face in the photo and almost laughed. Henry Collins had toasted my father at his birthday banquet five years ago.

Daniel rubbed his hands together, his tone eager. “As long as we keep Sophie happy and she puts in a good word for us with the Whitmores, the company could secure their investment. I might even take over the Whitmore Group one day. I know I can’t give you the title of Mrs. Reed then, but I promise I’ll make time for you.”

I looked up at him, my throat tight. “Daniel, do you have any idea who’s helped your company get to where it is today?”

He paused, then softened his voice, taking my hand. “Claire, just bear with it a little longer. Once I’m in with the Whitmores, I’ll buy you whatever you want—better than anything that corner-shop dad of yours could give you.”

My fingers went cold.

A corner-shop dad? That was the story I’d made up so he wouldn’t feel pressured. In reality, my father was at the Whitmore Group headquarters right now, reviewing Daniel’s project proposal—the one whose every data point I had stayed up late to verify.

“Are you hungry?” He went into the kitchen and returned with a delicate cake box. “I passed by the dessert shop—Sophie says their mango mille crêpe is the best. You should try it.”

The sight of the bright yellow mango slices instantly made my stomach churn with a familiar nausea. I was severely allergic to mango—once in college I’d nearly gone into anaphylactic shock after eating some. I had told him this more than ten times.

“I’m not eating that. It’s too rich,” I said, stepping back.

“Come on, you haven’t had much appetite lately.” He scooped up a bite and held it to my lips, his tone the coaxing sort you’d use with a child. “Sophie says sweets make people happy.”

The syrupy scent of mango hit my nose, and I jerked my head away. The cake smeared against my cheek, making him pause.

Before he could speak, his phone rang. Sophie’s saccharine voice floated out: “Daniel, thank you for the necklace you gave me. I love it.”

The image attached was of the necklace I’d admired in a store just last week—one he had dragged me away from, saying, “It’s impractical. We’ll buy a better one when we have money.”

Daniel hung up, coughing awkwardly. “It was for a client. Don’t overthink it.”

Seeing my mood sour, he added in a guilty tone, “The company’s having some cash flow issues. I mentioned it to Sophie, and she said she’d talk to her family about investing.”

I lifted my head sharply. Just yesterday, I had anonymously transferred five million into Daniel’s company account—my years of saved dowry—using an overseas account so he wouldn’t feel pressured.

I gave a cold, mocking smile, then pulled out the divorce agreement I’d prepared and slipped it among the hospital bills. “The hospital needs payment. Sign here.”

Eager to go see Sophie, Daniel didn’t even look before signing his name.