Chapter 1. The Boiling Water.

Just as the workday was wrapping up, the sky opened into a torrential downpour. My coworker, Giang Mien, had forgotten her umbrella. She slunk over to me with a sheepish grin. “Share with me? Otherwise, I’m going to have to swim home.”

“Sure,” I said. It wasn’t the first time I’d rescued a coworker from a rainstorm.

As I fumbled with my umbrella, Giang Mien let out a low whistle. “Man, it really pays to be a secretary, doesn’t it? Up close with the boss, endless opportunities.”

She lowered her voice, dripping with insinuation. “Secretary To has only been here three weeks, and she’s already sharing an umbrella with Director Tran. Give it three months, and we’ll probably have to start calling her ‘Mrs. Tran.'”

I looked up. Scanning through the sheets of rain, my gaze landed on a black umbrella up ahead. Two figures walked side by side beneath it: Tran Vong Tan, taking long strides in the lead, and To Du, practically scurrying to keep up. Rushing too fast, her foot slipped, and she stumbled forward.

Cue the classic romance novel trope: his arm shot out, catching her squarely by the waist.

I snapped my eyes away and gave my umbrella a light shake, sending ripples through the puddles at my feet. “You coming, or are you waiting until you need a kayak?”

Giang Mien nudged my arm, her voice full of dramatic awe. “That’s Director Tran! Young, drop-dead gorgeous, brilliant, and completely scandal-free. Everyone in the company practically worships him.” She eyed me suspiciously. “Does he really do nothing for you? Seeing someone else in his passenger seat is enough to break my heart into a million pieces.”

Her over-the-top dramatics made me laugh. I pulled out my car keys and clicked them, illuminating my Audi parked at the curb. Reaching out, I lightly tapped her chin. “Since you can’t get into Director Tran’s passenger seat… want to try mine?”

It took me a while to drive Giang Mien home. By the time I unlocked my own front door, I found Tran Vong Tan setting the final dish onto the dining table. He was dressed in loungewear, an apron tied around his waist. Under the warm yellow glow of the lights, his usual ruthless corporate demeanor was completely gone, replaced by a gentle, domestic warmth.

He walked over, naturally taking my handbag to hang it up, before bending down to set my slippers right by my feet. His fingertips brushed against the strap of my high heels. Warm. So warm.

I stiffened, taking a half-step back. “I can do it myself.”

He paused for a fraction of a second, then smoothly shifted the topic. “I made the steamed ribs with pumpkin you like. Go wash your hands and let’s eat.”

I walked into the bathroom without a word. Water ran through my fingers while my mind drifted aimlessly.

In our three years together, physical intimacy was second nature. Taking off my shoes was a minor gesture, yet for some reason, I had flinched away. I knew why, even if I didn’t want to admit it. It was because of To Du—and because of myself.

For the past three years, I’d been like a frog in boiling water, slowly cooked without even realizing it. I’d forgotten that our entire dynamic had sprung from a single drunk night, and that his gentleness was likely nothing more than basic politeness.

I’d been fooling myself, mistaking mutual convenience for love. To Du’s arrival was the slap in the face I needed to wake up. At least I still had time to cut my losses and walk away.

I had no appetite at dinner, leaving my bowl half-full before heading upstairs. Coming out of the bathroom after my shower, I found Tran Vong Tan waiting outside the door. His brows were furrowed, concern evident in his eyes.

Not knowing how to act around him, I tried to brush past. But as I moved, he caught my wrist in a tight grip.

“What’s wrong with you today—”

“You want to do it?” I cut him off, my voice icy.

He froze. Refusing to give him time to process, I stood on tiptoe and initiated the kiss. But he seized control almost instantly. Cupping the back of my neck, he dragged me into a deep, desperate kiss that quickly turned fierce. He couldn’t even wait until we reached the bedroom.

He shoved me against the bathroom wall. Steam still hung in the air, the cold tiles contrasting sharply against my thin nightgown. He became my only source of warmth, and I clung to him out of sheer instinct. I bit my lip, holding back every sound. I refused to lose—at least, not this pathetically.

Sweat slicked his hair, and he gently brushed it aside, leaning down to kiss the tears from my face. “Don’t hold back… call my name, please?”

There it was again. That voice. Soft and dripping like honey.

Right before the sob burst from my throat, I bit down hard into his shoulder, refusing to let go even when the metallic taste of blood filled my mouth. A low groan escaped him, followed by a helpless laugh against my ear. “You really are the death of me.”

Eventually, my body gave out entirely, and he carried me back to the bedroom. In a hazy fog of exhaustion, I felt him reach for my hand. I stirred weakly, my voice raspy. “What is it?”

He hesitated, then pulled the duvet over us and wrapped his arms around me. “Nothing. Go to sleep.”