The city lights blurred into streaks of neon as he gripped the steering wheel, his knuckles white from the pressure. The car sped down the empty streets, the roar of the engine drowned out only by the storm inside his chest. His heartbeat pounded in his ears, his breathing uneven. The betrayal twisted like a knife in his gut. Giselle. Kyle. His wife. His brother. How could they?

A guttural, frustrated growl tore from his throat as he slammed his fist against the dashboard. The pain was dull compared to the ache spreading through his ribs. His foot pressed harder against the gas pedal, the speedometer climbing recklessly, but he didn't care. The city passed by in a blur, yet his mind replayed the scene over and over—Giselle’s tear-streaked face, her trembling hands reaching for him, the sickening revelation that the child she carried was not his.

His hands itched to throw something, to break something, but the only thing breaking was his heart. His vision wavered as his eyes burned, but he refused to cry. He refused to give them that satisfaction.

By the time he reached the towering glass structure of his company, his body was buzzing with restless energy, anger still simmering beneath his skin. The moment he parked, he stormed through the lobby without a word to the night staff, his polished shoes striking against the marble floor with sharp, deliberate steps. The elevator doors slid open, and he stepped inside, leaning against the mirrored wall. His reflection stared back at him—ten years of devotion, of loyalty, shattered in a single moment.

A soft chime announced his arrival at the top floor. He strode into his office, pushing the heavy door open before collapsing into his chair. His hands came up to his temples, fingers pressing against his skin as if he could force the thoughts out of his head. The room was quiet, save for the distant hum of the city below.

Then came the sound of heels against the polished floor—soft, deliberate steps approaching his desk.

Helena.

She had been his secretary for five years, efficient and sharp, always anticipating his needs before he voiced them. But there was something more behind her professionalism—something waiting, lurking beneath the surface. She had always been there, watching, waiting for the perfect moment. And now, that moment had come.

Helena leaned in, her perfume a delicate blend of vanilla and musk, her presence filling the room like a whisper of temptation. She placed a single manicured hand on the desk, her nails tapping lightly against the wood.

"Boss," she murmured, her voice smooth as silk, "is there something wrong?"

He didn't respond, his jaw tightening. His gaze remained fixed on the dark cityscape beyond the window, his mind a hurricane of emotions.

Helena tilted her head slightly, studying him, a knowing glint in her eyes. She had seen the way he left earlier that evening, the tension in his shoulders, the fire in his eyes. And now, seeing him like this unraveled, broken it was the opportunity she had been waiting for.

She moved around the desk, her fingertips ghosting along the polished surface before stopping just beside him. "I know that look," she said softly. "Tell me who hurt you, boss."

Still, he said nothing, but his body betrayed him a slow, controlled inhale, his fingers tightening around the armrest of his chair. Helena didn't need an answer. She already knew.

She crouched slightly, just enough to meet his gaze, her expression shifting from curiosity to something softer, more intimate.

"She didn't deserve you," she whispered, her voice dripping with conviction. "No woman who truly loves a man would betray him like that."

The words stoked the embers of his rage, but for the first time that night, something else stirred beneath it a dangerous, reckless temptation.

Helena’s hand, warm and deliberate, found its way to his shoulder, her touch both soothing and electric. "Let me take care of you," she murmured. "You don’t have to go through this alone."

The air between them was thick, heavy with unsaid words and lingering tension.