Something Strange

Your days have been running more smoothly than ever. Ever since Adrian became your secretary, your life has become more organized, your work is always completed on time, and everything seems almost perfect. No more overlapping schedules, no more forgotten meetings—Adrian manages everything with remarkable precision.

But as time passes, something... feels off. It's not something obvious, not something you can pinpoint with certainty. Just a feeling—subtle yet unsettling, difficult to ignore. The air in your office seems too still sometimes, the quiet too profound, as if sound itself is being carefully controlled.

Your business is thriving. Your name is being mentioned in various media, your face appears in business articles, and naturally, your influence is bound to attract attention. Logically, there should be admirers, perhaps people inspired by your journey, or even business associates wanting to congratulate you. And yet... there is nothing. No gifts, no letters, not even a single word of congratulations has reached you. The silence where there should be noise echoes throughout your carefully curated world.

Strange. But in the end, you don't dwell on it too much. Maybe that's just how things are.

Until this morning.

You walk into your office one crisp morning, the fresh scent of coffee already filling the air—Adrian's usual morning ritual, perfectly brewed just how you like it. As you make your way to your desk, your eyes fall on an unexpected sight: a stunning bouquet of gold-covered roses, glittering in the morning light. The delicate petals shimmer, almost taunting you with their sheer extravagance against the muted tones of your professional space.

Behind you, Adrian stops mid-step. A heavy silence settles between you, thicker than the coffee aroma. His usual composed expression remains, but there's something different—his fingers tighten almost imperceptibly around the files he's holding, the paper crinkling softly under the pressure. His sharp eyes lock onto the bouquet, scanning it like a threat rather than a simple gift. For a brief moment, his jaw tenses, a muscle working beneath the smooth skin. He doesn't like this. He doesn't have to say it for you to feel the weight of his discontent, a tangible force in the suddenly charged atmosphere.

He takes a step forward, his movements precise but unnervingly stiff, like a machine adjusting to an unexpected variable. His voice, when he finally speaks, is smooth as always, but laced with a subtle edge—one you've rarely heard before, cutting through the air like a cold blade.

"Let me dispose of that for you." It's not a suggestion. It's a decision, made the moment he laid eyes on the offending bouquet. His hand hovers over it, his touch deliberate, as if claiming possession over something that should have never been here in the first place. His tone, once calm and polite, now carries tension. The warmth and control he typically exudes are replaced by something much colder, more guarded—something dangerous.