Chapter 8
976words
Instead of returning to his office, Garrett went to the small conference room Sylvia was using for her handover. Despite the boxes and files scattered about, her desk remained meticulously organized.
His attention was drawn to an old wooden box with a lock in the corner of her desk.
It held Sylvia's personal items—something he'd seen countless times but never cared to investigate.
As if compelled by some unseen force, he tried opening it. Locked. He spotted a paperclip in her pen holder.
He grabbed it and, guided by half-remembered techniques and an inexplicable urge, awkwardly straightened it and worked it into the lock.
With a soft click, the lock yielded.
Garrett's heart raced inexplicably. He took a deep breath and slowly pulled open the drawer.
Inside were no jewelry or cosmetics—only stacks of thick notebooks organized with color-coded labels. Exactly seven of them, neatly arranged by year.
He picked up the top notebook, which bore Sylvia's neat handwriting: [Work Journal - Year 1].
He opened it.
Inside, everything was recorded in meticulous detail:
"9:00 AM, Mr. Grayson arrived, bad mood, needs black coffee, no sugar."
"10:30 AM, remind Mr. Grayson about golf with Chairman Zhang, prepare clubs and gift."
"2:00 PM, Mr. Grayson angry with marketing proposal, reason: outdated data. Note: create dynamic database."
"7:00 PM, overtime, Mr. Grayson's stomach hurting, ordered yam and pork rib porridge, complained too bland. Note: more ginger next time."
"11:30 PM, drove Mr. Grayson home, fell asleep in car. Note: keep blanket in car."
Page after page documented his every detail—preferences, habits, schedule, mood swings. She'd even recorded the reasons for each temper tantrum and how to better handle them next time.
Garrett's hands began to tremble. He quickly flipped to entries from recent years.
The content grew increasingly complex, covering major projects, her writing style becoming more clinical and professional. Yet details about him still dominated the pages:
"Mr. Grayson's birthday, ordered from Jing Xuan, but he had last-minute dinner meeting. Cake in refrigerator."
"Wedding anniversary, he forgot. Bought gift, didn't give it."
"Mother's heart surgery, took three days off. Critical project phase, didn't tell Mr. Grayson."
"Stomach pain persisting, scheduled doctor appointment, postponed due to Mr. Grayson's overseas trip."
"Another anniversary, he gave platinum necklace, expensive. I'm allergic to platinum."
Notes about herself were scarce, mostly containing phrases like "endure it," "maybe later," "let it go."
The final notebook was from the current year. The entries stopped abruptly three months ago—the day she submitted her resignation.
The final entry read:
"Submitted resignation. He signed without reading. Thinks I'm being dramatic. 30-day countdown begins. This time, living for myself."
The handwriting remained neat but carried unmistakable resolve.
Garrett slammed the journal shut as if burned. He staggered backward, collapsing against the wall, struggling to breathe.
These cold, clinical words cut into his heart like dull knives. Seven years—over twenty-five hundred days and nights—and he'd never truly seen her. Not once.
He'd enjoyed her care, relied on her expertise, and taken her dedication entirely for granted. He'd forgotten she was a woman of flesh and blood—someone who felt pain, harbored hopes, experienced disappointment.
This was no work journal.
This was damning evidence of how he, Garrett Grayson, had systematically drained the life from a woman who had loved him deeply for seven years! This was Sylvia Sterling's epitaph of despair!
Crushing guilt and heartache broke him completely. He slid down the wall to the floor, hands buried in his hair, growling like a wounded animal.
He remembered her timidly asking if they'd ever make their relationship public. His response? "Why bother? That's just hassle. Isn't this arrangement working fine?"
He recalled her occasional signs of exhaustion or hurt, which he'd always dismissed: "I'm busy. Handle these trivial matters yourself."
He remembered the meals she'd cooked, the tea she'd brewed, the surprises she'd planned—all accepted as his due, rarely earning even a simple "thank you."
He'd always believed that providing financial comfort and the title "Mrs. Grayson" constituted love. Yet he'd never given what she truly needed: respect, recognition, and genuine affection.
That phrase—"allergic to platinum"—pierced him like a poisoned barb. His gift had literally caused her physical pain! And he'd never even noticed!
Garrett Grayson, you complete and utter bastard!
He lurched to his feet, bolted from the room, and raced to the elevator. In the parking garage, he started his car and sped toward the "home" he rarely visited during daylight hours.
He had to go back! He needed to find evidence that their relationship wasn't just these cold records! Proof she had loved him! Proof they'd shared genuine moments together!
He burst into the apartment, ransacking every room. In the walk-in closet, his clothes dominated while hers occupied a tiny fraction—all practical work attire. The vanity held no luxurious cosmetics, just basic skincare items. In the study, his books filled the shelves while her corner contained only professional references.
Like a madman, he finally discovered a velvet box buried in her bedside drawer. With trembling hands, he opened it—inside lay the platinum necklace he'd given for their anniversary, price tag still attached.
Beyond this, he could find virtually no trace of Sylvia that carried any emotional warmth.
She had reduced herself to a silent, invisible presence even in their supposed "home."
Garrett collapsed onto the cold floor, staring at the chaos he'd created and the untouched necklace in his hand, finally breaking completely.
What he'd lost wasn't just a secretary.
He'd lost his wife—possibly the only woman who had ever loved him with her entire being.
And now it seemed… he was truly about to lose her forever.
Outside, rain had begun falling again unnoticed, tapping against the window like a mournful requiem played just for him.
