Desperate to save her failing marriage, Clara was prepared to sacrifice her career to become a stay-at-home mom. But Andrew Dodson, her powerful and enigmatic CEO, wasn't about to let her leave. When she handed in her notice, he didn't just refuse it—he tore her entire world apart with the brutal truth. "Quitting your job won't fix a husband who can't perform, Clara. If you want a baby that badly, stop wasting your time and choose a man who can actually get the job done. Choose me." Now, Clara has finally kicked her toxic ex to the curb and is ready to rebuild her life. The only problem? Andrew was supposed to be a temporary distraction—a safe harbor from the storm. Instead, he’s claiming her whole future.

Chapter 1Lisa’s voice messages flood Clara’s phone, a relentless stream of demands. "Pick up Holt tonight. He’s exhausted from work. You need to show up together. And you’d better get pregnant soon, I’ve booked a specialist. If you—"Clara converts the audio to text, skimming the repetitive nagging. She wants a child too, but after three years of marriage, her spirit is thoroughly ground down. All that’s left is endurance.She flips her phone face down. It’s barely five o'clock."Clara, organize these files and send them to me before you leave," Director Gail Holland says, dropping a massive stack of folders onto Clara's desk.A cloud of dust tickles Clara’s nose, and she sneezes. "Right away," she says."Take some meds if you’re catching a cold," Holland calls back, her voice fading down the hall. "Don’t infect the rest of us. Damn this weather."A coworker glances over, a smirk playing on her lips. "Aren't you quitting anyway? What's the point of kissing ass now?"Clara ignores the sarcasm, her fingers flying across the keyboard. Ten minutes before the end of the day, she emails the finalized report to Director Holland and packs up.Outside, a torrential downpour has swallowed the city. Clara pulls on her raincoat and navigates her scooter through the treacherous streets to Holt’s office building. Just as she parks, her tires slip on the slick pavement. She hits the ground hard, the groceries she bought that morning scattering across the wet asphalt.As she scrambles to gather her bruised vegetables, a familiar laugh cuts through the rain."You’re amazing! I had no idea you could cook," Holt’s voice rings out, bright and charming. "You are too brilliant to be trapped in a kitchen."Clara freezes. This is the same man who once told her that a wife’s only place was at home, serving her husband.A pair of hands with a flawless manicure picks up a stray onion and offers it to Clara. "The roads are awful today. Are you okay?" a woman asks gently.Clara shakes her head, reaching out. The contrast is violently jarring—her hands are stained and filthy, while Holt stands inches away in the pristine leather shoes she meticulously polished for him this morning. The man who supposedly hated the rain looks absolutely radiant."You’re too kind," Holt tells his coworker, his tone dripping with warmth."Oh, you always know exactly what to say," the woman laughs. "Whoever married you is a lucky girl. You don't have to drive me, I have my car.""Nonsense, it’s right on my way."Their voices drift away, swallowed by the storm.Clara stands in the freezing downpour. She married Holt for that exact tenderness, only to realize he freely hands it out to every woman. Being his wife means she gets the dregs of his affection.Numb, she pulls out her phone and dials his number. The moment he answers, a pre-recorded subway announcement blares in the background."It’s freezing today," Holt says, his voice flat, completely ignoring the text she sent earlier about meeting him for a hospital appointment. "I almost got soaked. Anyway, the subway is packed, I can't talk long."Clara grips her phone, the icy rain washing over her face, stinging her eyes. "Did you not see my message?""Oh, you didn't forget to buy the fish for dinner, right?" he interrupts smoothly. "I’m starving. I can’t wait to eat your cooking. Hurry home!"Before she can reply, the line goes dead.The dial tone pulses in her ear, sharp and hollow. Holt is a master at running away.Clara stands alone in the downpour. The rain slicks her hair to her cheeks and runs into her eyes, but she doesn’t bother wiping it away. It wouldn’t make a difference anyway. The storm isn't going to stop anytime soon, and she still has a long way to go.Her shoes are thoroughly waterlogged, oozing cold water with every step. Her clothes cling to her skin like a layer of ice.She doesn’t have to live like this. She could have taken a cab or the subway today. But her mother-in-law Lisa forced this secondhand scooter onto her, demanding she save her transit money for a future baby. Even her groceries are from a cheaper market forty minutes out of the way, all to save a few pennies at Lisa’s insistence.Clara fought back at first. Lisa ignored her. Holt stayed completely silent.They started dating in their senior year of college, married right after graduation, and now, five years have passed. Suddenly, Clara wonders what role Holt actually plays in this marriage. She’s exhausted. Fulfilling Grandma Frances's dream of building a perfect family feels impossible.By the time Clara arrives at the hospital, her clothes have mostly dried, hiding the worst of her misery.Her phone vibrates. It’s a message from Lisa: Where are you? You can’t even pick up your husband right! My son got rain on his clothes. If you don’t want to see the doctor, come back and cook. Don’t let him starve!Clara stares at the clinic door, suddenly feeling no rush at all.When she finally sits across from the doctor, he reviews her previous tests. "Your body is perfectly healthy. Do you want us to run more comprehensive blood panels?"Clara hesitates, but her gaze slowly hardens. "We've been married for three years. We've had sex less than five times. Every single time, he finishes in under ten seconds, without penetration. He always says he's too tired or just not in the mood."She suspects he might be gay, but seeing him fawn over his female coworker today makes her doubt even that. It’s a heavy, humiliating secret, but she finally has the courage to speak it out loud."Oh, that explains it," the doctor says, nodding sympathetically. "That's severe erectile dysfunction. Getting pregnant naturally will be practically impossible. You need to bring your husband in for treatment."Clara freezes. The invisible boulder she’s carried for years finally crashes to the ground."Can you give me a written diagnosis or a prescription for him?" she asks, her voice hollow."Of course."Leaving the office with the paperwork, Clara doesn't feel relieved. It might finally shut Lisa up, but it means a baby is permanently off the table. A man as fiercely protective of his ego as Holt will never agree to treatment.Lost in thought, she accidentally collides with a man rushing down the corridor."I'm so sorry—" she begins, before recognizing him. "Justin."Justin pauses, recognizing her too. "Clara, right? From Business Development? Under Mr. Ward?"Clara nods.Justin thrusts a sleek set of car keys into her hands. "Do me a huge favor. My stomach is killing me. This is Mr. Dodson's medication. Can you drive him back?"Before she can process the request, Justin is already rushing toward the restroom, calling back over his shoulder, "You know how to drive, right?""Yes..." Clara murmurs, gripping the keys tightly.For an ambitious employee, this would be the ultimate opportunity to network with the new CEO. For Clara, it's just awkward. But thinking of Lisa's relentless calls waiting for her at home, she walks out to the hospital entrance.A luxury sedan idles at the curb. The tinted window is rolled halfway down, revealing a striking man in a perfectly tailored suit. He holds a cigarette loosely between his fingers, the ash long, suggesting he lit it purely to stay awake.Through the curling smoke, Clara meets Andrew Dodson's gaze. His dark eyes drop to the keys in her hand. He casually flicks his cigarette away."You're three minutes and ten seconds late," he says, his voice a deep, gravelly rasp laced with the heavy scent of alcohol.He is intimidating, emitting a raw, predatory energy. His gaze is as dark and dangerous as an abyss. "Get in."Clara hesitates, suddenly feeling like she’s stepping straight into a trap.Clara nods, rounds the car, and slips into the driver’s seat. She merges seamlessly into the chaotic rush-hour traffic.The interior is dead silent. Andrew leans back against the leather seat, eyes closed, his expression unreadable. If it weren't for the potent wave of whiskey radiating off him, she never would have guessed he was drunk.Clara keeps her mouth shut, her palms slightly sweaty against the steering wheel.When they pull into the underground garage of The Grandview, Andrew opens his eyes. He studies her through the rearview mirror. Realizing her job isn't quite done, Clara hurries out and opens his door.The moment his expensive shoes hit the pavement, Andrew sways.Clara instinctively takes a step back.Andrew shoots her a dark look. Shouldn't a normal person offer a hand?His gaze drops to the canvas tote slung over her shoulder, a leafy green vegetable peeking out from the top. The alcohol burns uncomfortably in his empty stomach. "You know how to cook?"Clara grips her bag and nods."I haven't eaten. Make me dinner. I'll pay you overtime." With that, he strides toward the private elevator.Clara hesitates for only a second before following him.Inside the elevator, her phone buzzes incessantly. She glances at the screen. Holt has sent a wall of question marks. Lisa has called forty times. There isn't a single text asking if she's safe. Instead, the latest message reads: Why don't you just drop dead out there?Clara’s eyes darken. She grips her phone tightly.The mirrored elevator walls reflect everything. Andrew catches a glimpse of the vicious texts and gives her a second, assessing look."You can leave," he says right as the doors slide open.Clara frowns, meeting his intense gaze. "Didn't we agree on overtime pay? What do you want to eat?"The groceries in her bag will go bad anyway. She'd rather earn extra cash than go home to cook for those two parasites.Andrew doesn't answer.Clara pushes further. "By the way, the pledge rate should be 59.18%, not 49.18%. The person on the phone earlier gave you the wrong numbers."Andrew acquired Hampton Enterprises less than three months ago. It's a financial graveyard. Even with him personally overseeing the transition, the executives below him are constantly fumbling the numbers.He arches an eyebrow. "Justin said you were in Business Development."Why would someone in Business Development know the exact financial metrics?"I am."Andrew unlocks his penthouse door. "Make whatever you want."Earning her overtime, Clara heads straight for the sprawling open kitchen. She moves with practiced efficiency, prepping the ingredients and boiling water.Andrew collapses onto the sofa, shrugging off his suit jacket and loosening his tie. From the living room, he has a clear view of her methodical movements, as well as her phone, which continues to light up silently on the marble island.The hum of the range hood grates on his nerves. He briefly regrets letting her in. But soon, the rich, savory aroma of simmering broth fills the penthouse.Clara stands by the stove, gently stirring the pot. The warm pendant lights trace the elegant curve of her neck and her long, lowered eyelashes. Her movements are slow, deliberate, and incredibly patient. She strikes him as the kind of woman who is perfectly suited for handling complex data.Andrew opens his laptop, cross-referencing the numbers she gave him against the official reports.Before long, Clara turns off the stove and brings a steaming bowl to the coffee table."Mr. Dodson," she says softly, a stray lock of dark hair falling over her cheek. "Have a quick bite. I'll be leaving now."She grabs her tote, takes a quick photo of the meal, and texts it to Justin: Justin, Mr. Dodson promised me overtime pay. Please process it. Thanks.Alone in the penthouse, Andrew stares down at the bowl.The sause is a rich, milky white, garnished with fresh veggies, with tender slices of fish resting over perfectly cooked pasta. The steam hits his face, carrying a mouthwatering aroma.For the first time in days, he actually feels hungry.He picks up the fork, twirls the pasta, and takes a bite. They are incredibly soft, having soaked up all the flavor of the sause.It’s phenomenal. Rich, soothing, and flawlessly seasoned. The warmth slides down his throat, melting away the sharp burn of the alcohol and settling perfectly in his stomach.Chapter 2Lisa’s voice messages flood Clara’s phone, a relentless stream of demands. "Pick up Holt tonight. He’s exhausted from work. You need to show up together. And you’d better get pregnant soon, I’ve booked a specialist. If you—"Clara converts the audio to text, skimming the repetitive nagging. She wants a child too, but after three years of marriage, her spirit is thoroughly ground down. All that’s left is endurance.She flips her phone face down. It’s barely five o'clock."Clara, organize these files and send them to me before you leave," Director Gail Holland says, dropping a massive stack of folders onto Clara's desk.A cloud of dust tickles Clara’s nose, and she sneezes. "Right away," she says."Take some meds if you’re catching a cold," Holland calls back, her voice fading down the hall. "Don’t infect the rest of us. Damn this weather."A coworker glances over, a smirk playing on her lips. "Aren't you quitting anyway? What's the point of kissing ass now?"Clara ignores the sarcasm, her fingers flying across the keyboard. Ten minutes before the end of the day, she emails the finalized report to Director Holland and packs up.Outside, a torrential downpour has swallowed the city. Clara pulls on her raincoat and navigates her scooter through the treacherous streets to Holt’s office building. Just as she parks, her tires slip on the slick pavement. She hits the ground hard, the groceries she bought that morning scattering across the wet asphalt.As she scrambles to gather her bruised vegetables, a familiar laugh cuts through the rain."You’re amazing! I had no idea you could cook," Holt’s voice rings out, bright and charming. "You are too brilliant to be trapped in a kitchen."Clara freezes. This is the same man who once told her that a wife’s only place was at home, serving her husband.A pair of hands with a flawless manicure picks up a stray onion and offers it to Clara. "The roads are awful today. Are you okay?" a woman asks gently.Clara shakes her head, reaching out. The contrast is violently jarring—her hands are stained and filthy, while Holt stands inches away in the pristine leather shoes she meticulously polished for him this morning. The man who supposedly hated the rain looks absolutely radiant."You’re too kind," Holt tells his coworker, his tone dripping with warmth."Oh, you always know exactly what to say," the woman laughs. "Whoever married you is a lucky girl. You don't have to drive me, I have my car.""Nonsense, it’s right on my way."Their voices drift away, swallowed by the storm.Clara stands in the freezing downpour. She married Holt for that exact tenderness, only to realize he freely hands it out to every woman. Being his wife means she gets the dregs of his affection.Numb, she pulls out her phone and dials his number. The moment he answers, a pre-recorded subway announcement blares in the background."It’s freezing today," Holt says, his voice flat, completely ignoring the text she sent earlier about meeting him for a hospital appointment. "I almost got soaked. Anyway, the subway is packed, I can't talk long."Clara grips her phone, the icy rain washing over her face, stinging her eyes. "Did you not see my message?""Oh, you didn't forget to buy the fish for dinner, right?" he interrupts smoothly. "I’m starving. I can’t wait to eat your cooking. Hurry home!"Before she can reply, the line goes dead.The dial tone pulses in her ear, sharp and hollow. Holt is a master at running away.Clara stands alone in the downpour. The rain slicks her hair to her cheeks and runs into her eyes, but she doesn’t bother wiping it away. It wouldn’t make a difference anyway. The storm isn't going to stop anytime soon, and she still has a long way to go.Her shoes are thoroughly waterlogged, oozing cold water with every step. Her clothes cling to her skin like a layer of ice.She doesn’t have to live like this. She could have taken a cab or the subway today. But her mother-in-law Lisa forced this secondhand scooter onto her, demanding she save her transit money for a future baby. Even her groceries are from a cheaper market forty minutes out of the way, all to save a few pennies at Lisa’s insistence.Clara fought back at first. Lisa ignored her. Holt stayed completely silent.They started dating in their senior year of college, married right after graduation, and now, five years have passed. Suddenly, Clara wonders what role Holt actually plays in this marriage. She’s exhausted. Fulfilling Grandma Frances's dream of building a perfect family feels impossible.By the time Clara arrives at the hospital, her clothes have mostly dried, hiding the worst of her misery.Her phone vibrates. It’s a message from Lisa: Where are you? You can’t even pick up your husband right! My son got rain on his clothes. If you don’t want to see the doctor, come back and cook. Don’t let him starve!Clara stares at the clinic door, suddenly feeling no rush at all.When she finally sits across from the doctor, he reviews her previous tests. "Your body is perfectly healthy. Do you want us to run more comprehensive blood panels?"Clara hesitates, but her gaze slowly hardens. "We've been married for three years. We've had sex less than five times. Every single time, he finishes in under ten seconds, without penetration. He always says he's too tired or just not in the mood."She suspects he might be gay, but seeing him fawn over his female coworker today makes her doubt even that. It’s a heavy, humiliating secret, but she finally has the courage to speak it out loud."Oh, that explains it," the doctor says, nodding sympathetically. "That's severe erectile dysfunction. Getting pregnant naturally will be practically impossible. You need to bring your husband in for treatment."Clara freezes. The invisible boulder she’s carried for years finally crashes to the ground."Can you give me a written diagnosis or a prescription for him?" she asks, her voice hollow."Of course."Leaving the office with the paperwork, Clara doesn't feel relieved. It might finally shut Lisa up, but it means a baby is permanently off the table. A man as fiercely protective of his ego as Holt will never agree to treatment.Lost in thought, she accidentally collides with a man rushing down the corridor."I'm so sorry—" she begins, before recognizing him. "Justin."Justin pauses, recognizing her too. "Clara, right? From Business Development? Under Mr. Ward?"Clara nods.Justin thrusts a sleek set of car keys into her hands. "Do me a huge favor. My stomach is killing me. This is Mr. Dodson's medication. Can you drive him back?"Before she can process the request, Justin is already rushing toward the restroom, calling back over his shoulder, "You know how to drive, right?""Yes..." Clara murmurs, gripping the keys tightly.For an ambitious employee, this would be the ultimate opportunity to network with the new CEO. For Clara, it's just awkward. But thinking of Lisa's relentless calls waiting for her at home, she walks out to the hospital entrance.A luxury sedan idles at the curb. The tinted window is rolled halfway down, revealing a striking man in a perfectly tailored suit. He holds a cigarette loosely between his fingers, the ash long, suggesting he lit it purely to stay awake.Through the curling smoke, Clara meets Andrew Dodson's gaze. His dark eyes drop to the keys in her hand. He casually flicks his cigarette away."You're three minutes and ten seconds late," he says, his voice a deep, gravelly rasp laced with the heavy scent of alcohol.He is intimidating, emitting a raw, predatory energy. His gaze is as dark and dangerous as an abyss. "Get in."Clara hesitates, suddenly feeling like she’s stepping straight into a trap.Clara nods, rounds the car, and slips into the driver’s seat. She merges seamlessly into the chaotic rush-hour traffic.The interior is dead silent. Andrew leans back against the leather seat, eyes closed, his expression unreadable. If it weren't for the potent wave of whiskey radiating off him, she never would have guessed he was drunk.Clara keeps her mouth shut, her palms slightly sweaty against the steering wheel.When they pull into the underground garage of The Grandview, Andrew opens his eyes. He studies her through the rearview mirror. Realizing her job isn't quite done, Clara hurries out and opens his door.The moment his expensive shoes hit the pavement, Andrew sways.Clara instinctively takes a step back.Andrew shoots her a dark look. Shouldn't a normal person offer a hand?His gaze drops to the canvas tote slung over her shoulder, a leafy green vegetable peeking out from the top. The alcohol burns uncomfortably in his empty stomach. "You know how to cook?"Clara grips her bag and nods."I haven't eaten. Make me dinner. I'll pay you overtime." With that, he strides toward the private elevator.Clara hesitates for only a second before following him.Inside the elevator, her phone buzzes incessantly. She glances at the screen. Holt has sent a wall of question marks. Lisa has called forty times. There isn't a single text asking if she's safe. Instead, the latest message reads: Why don't you just drop dead out there?Clara’s eyes darken. She grips her phone tightly.The mirrored elevator walls reflect everything. Andrew catches a glimpse of the vicious texts and gives her a second, assessing look."You can leave," he says right as the doors slide open.Clara frowns, meeting his intense gaze. "Didn't we agree on overtime pay? What do you want to eat?"The groceries in her bag will go bad anyway. She'd rather earn extra cash than go home to cook for those two parasites.Andrew doesn't answer.Clara pushes further. "By the way, the pledge rate should be 59.18%, not 49.18%. The person on the phone earlier gave you the wrong numbers."Andrew acquired Hampton Enterprises less than three months ago. It's a financial graveyard. Even with him personally overseeing the transition, the executives below him are constantly fumbling the numbers.He arches an eyebrow. "Justin said you were in Business Development."Why would someone in Business Development know the exact financial metrics?"I am."Andrew unlocks his penthouse door. "Make whatever you want."Earning her overtime, Clara heads straight for the sprawling open kitchen. She moves with practiced efficiency, prepping the ingredients and boiling water.Andrew collapses onto the sofa, shrugging off his suit jacket and loosening his tie. From the living room, he has a clear view of her methodical movements, as well as her phone, which continues to light up silently on the marble island.The hum of the range hood grates on his nerves. He briefly regrets letting her in. But soon, the rich, savory aroma of simmering broth fills the penthouse.Clara stands by the stove, gently stirring the pot. The warm pendant lights trace the elegant curve of her neck and her long, lowered eyelashes. Her movements are slow, deliberate, and incredibly patient. She strikes him as the kind of woman who is perfectly suited for handling complex data.Andrew opens his laptop, cross-referencing the numbers she gave him against the official reports.Before long, Clara turns off the stove and brings a steaming bowl to the coffee table."Mr. Dodson," she says softly, a stray lock of dark hair falling over her cheek. "Have a quick bite. I'll be leaving now."She grabs her tote, takes a quick photo of the meal, and texts it to Justin: Justin, Mr. Dodson promised me overtime pay. Please process it. Thanks.Alone in the penthouse, Andrew stares down at the bowl.The sause is a rich, milky white, garnished with fresh veggies, with tender slices of fish resting over perfectly cooked pasta. The steam hits his face, carrying a mouthwatering aroma.For the first time in days, he actually feels hungry.He picks up the fork, twirls the pasta, and takes a bite. They are incredibly soft, having soaked up all the flavor of the sause.It’s phenomenal. Rich, soothing, and flawlessly seasoned. The warmth slides down his throat, melting away the sharp burn of the alcohol and settling perfectly in his stomach.Chapter 3Lisa’s voice messages flood Clara’s phone, a relentless stream of demands. "Pick up Holt tonight. He’s exhausted from work. You need to show up together. And you’d better get pregnant soon, I’ve booked a specialist. If you—"Clara converts the audio to text, skimming the repetitive nagging. She wants a child too, but after three years of marriage, her spirit is thoroughly ground down. All that’s left is endurance.She flips her phone face down. It’s barely five o'clock."Clara, organize these files and send them to me before you leave," Director Gail Holland says, dropping a massive stack of folders onto Clara's desk.A cloud of dust tickles Clara’s nose, and she sneezes. "Right away," she says."Take some meds if you’re catching a cold," Holland calls back, her voice fading down the hall. "Don’t infect the rest of us. Damn this weather."A coworker glances over, a smirk playing on her lips. "Aren't you quitting anyway? What's the point of kissing ass now?"Clara ignores the sarcasm, her fingers flying across the keyboard. Ten minutes before the end of the day, she emails the finalized report to Director Holland and packs up.Outside, a torrential downpour has swallowed the city. Clara pulls on her raincoat and navigates her scooter through the treacherous streets to Holt’s office building. Just as she parks, her tires slip on the slick pavement. She hits the ground hard, the groceries she bought that morning scattering across the wet asphalt.As she scrambles to gather her bruised vegetables, a familiar laugh cuts through the rain."You’re amazing! I had no idea you could cook," Holt’s voice rings out, bright and charming. "You are too brilliant to be trapped in a kitchen."Clara freezes. This is the same man who once told her that a wife’s only place was at home, serving her husband.A pair of hands with a flawless manicure picks up a stray onion and offers it to Clara. "The roads are awful today. Are you okay?" a woman asks gently.Clara shakes her head, reaching out. The contrast is violently jarring—her hands are stained and filthy, while Holt stands inches away in the pristine leather shoes she meticulously polished for him this morning. The man who supposedly hated the rain looks absolutely radiant."You’re too kind," Holt tells his coworker, his tone dripping with warmth."Oh, you always know exactly what to say," the woman laughs. "Whoever married you is a lucky girl. You don't have to drive me, I have my car.""Nonsense, it’s right on my way."Their voices drift away, swallowed by the storm.Clara stands in the freezing downpour. She married Holt for that exact tenderness, only to realize he freely hands it out to every woman. Being his wife means she gets the dregs of his affection.Numb, she pulls out her phone and dials his number. The moment he answers, a pre-recorded subway announcement blares in the background."It’s freezing today," Holt says, his voice flat, completely ignoring the text she sent earlier about meeting him for a hospital appointment. "I almost got soaked. Anyway, the subway is packed, I can't talk long."Clara grips her phone, the icy rain washing over her face, stinging her eyes. "Did you not see my message?""Oh, you didn't forget to buy the fish for dinner, right?" he interrupts smoothly. "I’m starving. I can’t wait to eat your cooking. Hurry home!"Before she can reply, the line goes dead.The dial tone pulses in her ear, sharp and hollow. Holt is a master at running away.Clara stands alone in the downpour. The rain slicks her hair to her cheeks and runs into her eyes, but she doesn’t bother wiping it away. It wouldn’t make a difference anyway. The storm isn't going to stop anytime soon, and she still has a long way to go.Her shoes are thoroughly waterlogged, oozing cold water with every step. Her clothes cling to her skin like a layer of ice.She doesn’t have to live like this. She could have taken a cab or the subway today. But her mother-in-law Lisa forced this secondhand scooter onto her, demanding she save her transit money for a future baby. Even her groceries are from a cheaper market forty minutes out of the way, all to save a few pennies at Lisa’s insistence.Clara fought back at first. Lisa ignored her. Holt stayed completely silent.They started dating in their senior year of college, married right after graduation, and now, five years have passed. Suddenly, Clara wonders what role Holt actually plays in this marriage. She’s exhausted. Fulfilling Grandma Frances's dream of building a perfect family feels impossible.By the time Clara arrives at the hospital, her clothes have mostly dried, hiding the worst of her misery.Her phone vibrates. It’s a message from Lisa: Where are you? You can’t even pick up your husband right! My son got rain on his clothes. If you don’t want to see the doctor, come back and cook. Don’t let him starve!Clara stares at the clinic door, suddenly feeling no rush at all.When she finally sits across from the doctor, he reviews her previous tests. "Your body is perfectly healthy. Do you want us to run more comprehensive blood panels?"Clara hesitates, but her gaze slowly hardens. "We've been married for three years. We've had sex less than five times. Every single time, he finishes in under ten seconds, without penetration. He always says he's too tired or just not in the mood."She suspects he might be gay, but seeing him fawn over his female coworker today makes her doubt even that. It’s a heavy, humiliating secret, but she finally has the courage to speak it out loud."Oh, that explains it," the doctor says, nodding sympathetically. "That's severe erectile dysfunction. Getting pregnant naturally will be practically impossible. You need to bring your husband in for treatment."Clara freezes. The invisible boulder she’s carried for years finally crashes to the ground."Can you give me a written diagnosis or a prescription for him?" she asks, her voice hollow."Of course."Leaving the office with the paperwork, Clara doesn't feel relieved. It might finally shut Lisa up, but it means a baby is permanently off the table. A man as fiercely protective of his ego as Holt will never agree to treatment.Lost in thought, she accidentally collides with a man rushing down the corridor."I'm so sorry—" she begins, before recognizing him. "Justin."Justin pauses, recognizing her too. "Clara, right? From Business Development? Under Mr. Ward?"Clara nods.Justin thrusts a sleek set of car keys into her hands. "Do me a huge favor. My stomach is killing me. This is Mr. Dodson's medication. Can you drive him back?"Before she can process the request, Justin is already rushing toward the restroom, calling back over his shoulder, "You know how to drive, right?""Yes..." Clara murmurs, gripping the keys tightly.For an ambitious employee, this would be the ultimate opportunity to network with the new CEO. For Clara, it's just awkward. But thinking of Lisa's relentless calls waiting for her at home, she walks out to the hospital entrance.A luxury sedan idles at the curb. The tinted window is rolled halfway down, revealing a striking man in a perfectly tailored suit. He holds a cigarette loosely between his fingers, the ash long, suggesting he lit it purely to stay awake.Through the curling smoke, Clara meets Andrew Dodson's gaze. His dark eyes drop to the keys in her hand. He casually flicks his cigarette away."You're three minutes and ten seconds late," he says, his voice a deep, gravelly rasp laced with the heavy scent of alcohol.He is intimidating, emitting a raw, predatory energy. His gaze is as dark and dangerous as an abyss. "Get in."Clara hesitates, suddenly feeling like she’s stepping straight into a trap.Clara nods, rounds the car, and slips into the driver’s seat. She merges seamlessly into the chaotic rush-hour traffic.The interior is dead silent. Andrew leans back against the leather seat, eyes closed, his expression unreadable. If it weren't for the potent wave of whiskey radiating off him, she never would have guessed he was drunk.Clara keeps her mouth shut, her palms slightly sweaty against the steering wheel.When they pull into the underground garage of The Grandview, Andrew opens his eyes. He studies her through the rearview mirror. Realizing her job isn't quite done, Clara hurries out and opens his door.The moment his expensive shoes hit the pavement, Andrew sways.Clara instinctively takes a step back.Andrew shoots her a dark look. Shouldn't a normal person offer a hand?His gaze drops to the canvas tote slung over her shoulder, a leafy green vegetable peeking out from the top. The alcohol burns uncomfortably in his empty stomach. "You know how to cook?"Clara grips her bag and nods."I haven't eaten. Make me dinner. I'll pay you overtime." With that, he strides toward the private elevator.Clara hesitates for only a second before following him.Inside the elevator, her phone buzzes incessantly. She glances at the screen. Holt has sent a wall of question marks. Lisa has called forty times. There isn't a single text asking if she's safe. Instead, the latest message reads: Why don't you just drop dead out there?Clara’s eyes darken. She grips her phone tightly.The mirrored elevator walls reflect everything. Andrew catches a glimpse of the vicious texts and gives her a second, assessing look."You can leave," he says right as the doors slide open.Clara frowns, meeting his intense gaze. "Didn't we agree on overtime pay? What do you want to eat?"The groceries in her bag will go bad anyway. She'd rather earn extra cash than go home to cook for those two parasites.Andrew doesn't answer.Clara pushes further. "By the way, the pledge rate should be 59.18%, not 49.18%. The person on the phone earlier gave you the wrong numbers."Andrew acquired Hampton Enterprises less than three months ago. It's a financial graveyard. Even with him personally overseeing the transition, the executives below him are constantly fumbling the numbers.He arches an eyebrow. "Justin said you were in Business Development."Why would someone in Business Development know the exact financial metrics?"I am."Andrew unlocks his penthouse door. "Make whatever you want."Earning her overtime, Clara heads straight for the sprawling open kitchen. She moves with practiced efficiency, prepping the ingredients and boiling water.Andrew collapses onto the sofa, shrugging off his suit jacket and loosening his tie. From the living room, he has a clear view of her methodical movements, as well as her phone, which continues to light up silently on the marble island.The hum of the range hood grates on his nerves. He briefly regrets letting her in. But soon, the rich, savory aroma of simmering broth fills the penthouse.Clara stands by the stove, gently stirring the pot. The warm pendant lights trace the elegant curve of her neck and her long, lowered eyelashes. Her movements are slow, deliberate, and incredibly patient. She strikes him as the kind of woman who is perfectly suited for handling complex data.Andrew opens his laptop, cross-referencing the numbers she gave him against the official reports.Before long, Clara turns off the stove and brings a steaming bowl to the coffee table."Mr. Dodson," she says softly, a stray lock of dark hair falling over her cheek. "Have a quick bite. I'll be leaving now."She grabs her tote, takes a quick photo of the meal, and texts it to Justin: Justin, Mr. Dodson promised me overtime pay. Please process it. Thanks.Alone in the penthouse, Andrew stares down at the bowl.The sause is a rich, milky white, garnished with fresh veggies, with tender slices of fish resting over perfectly cooked pasta. The steam hits his face, carrying a mouthwatering aroma.For the first time in days, he actually feels hungry.He picks up the fork, twirls the pasta, and takes a bite. They are incredibly soft, having soaked up all the flavor of the sause.It’s phenomenal. Rich, soothing, and flawlessly seasoned. The warmth slides down his throat, melting away the sharp burn of the alcohol and settling perfectly in his stomach.