Isabella walked into Blackwood Global at exactly 7:00 AM, her head high, her expression perfectly composed.
No one could know. No one could suspect. She was just the secretary, same as always.
Even if everything had changed.
She settled at her desk outside Liam's office, booted up her computer, and began her usual routine—checking his calendar, organizing his emails, preparing for the day ahead. Normal. Professional. Exactly like every other morning for the past two years.
Except her left hand felt naked without a ring she'd never received.
Except she could still feel Liam's grip on her wrist, his cold warning echoing in her mind.
Except she was married to the man whose office door stood fifteen feet away, and she couldn't tell a single soul.
"Morning, Isabella," Jennifer from accounting called as she passed. "You look tired. Late night?"
Isabella's stomach clenched. Did she know? Could she tell?
"Just didn't sleep well," Isabella replied with a smile that felt like it might crack her face. "New mattress."
Not technically a lie.
"The worst!" Jennifer laughed and continued on.
Isabella exhaled slowly. This was going to be harder than she thought.
At 7:30 AM, the elevator chimed, and Liam stepped out.
Isabella's breath caught. She couldn't help it—some stupid, hopeful part of her thought maybe, just maybe, he'd look at her differently now. Maybe he'd give her some small sign, some acknowledgment that yesterday had happened.
But Liam walked past her desk without a single glance, his expression carved from stone.
"Coffee. Black. And the quarterly reports on my desk in ten minutes," he said coldly, disappearing into his office.
The door closed.
Isabella sat frozen, her heart sinking.
Nothing had changed. Nothing at all.
She made his coffee—black, no sugar, exactly how he liked it—and gathered the reports with shaking hands. Ten minutes exactly, she knocked on his door.
"Enter."
Liam sat behind his massive desk, already deep in paperwork. Isabella placed the coffee and reports in front of him.
"Thank you, Ms. Hart," he said without looking up. "Close the door on your way out."
Dismissed. Like furniture.
Isabella returned to her desk and threw herself into work, desperate for distraction.
At 10:00 AM, everything fell apart.
"HART!"
Liam's voice boomed across the entire floor, loud enough that every head turned. Isabella's heart stopped.
She rushed into his office. "Yes, Mr. Black?"
Liam stood behind his desk, holding a report, his face thunderous. "Explain this."
He threw the document on the desk between them, and Isabella's stomach dropped. It was the quarterly analysis she'd compiled yesterday—before the wedding, when her mind was spinning, when she could barely focus.
"I... what's wrong with it?" she asked carefully.
"What's wrong?" Liam's voice was ice and fury. "The numbers in Section Four don't match the financial statements. The projections are off by three percent. And there are two—TWO—typographical errors in the executive summary."
Isabella's face burned. "Mr. Black, I can fix—"
"I don't want you to fix it. I want you to explain how my secretary of two years submits work that looks like it was done by an incompetent intern!" His voice rose. "Do you have any idea how this makes me look when I present flawed data to the board?"
"I'm sorry, I—"
"I don't want apologies. I want competence!" Liam slammed his hand on the desk, and Isabella flinched. "This is unacceptable. Redo the entire report. I want it perfect on my desk by noon, or we'll be having a very different conversation about your future here."
The threat hung in the air. Your future here. He'd fire her. Publicly. End everything.
"Yes, Mr. Black," Isabella whispered, her voice barely audible.
"GET OUT!"
Isabella grabbed the report with trembling hands and fled.
The entire floor was silent. Every executive, every employee, every person had heard Liam Black destroy his secretary. Isabella could feel their eyes on her—some pitying, some satisfied, some simply watching the show.
She made it to her desk, her cheeks burning with humiliation, her eyes stinging with tears she refused to shed.
Not here. Not now. She wouldn't give them the satisfaction.
"Rough morning?"
Isabella looked up to find Liam's uncle, Marcus Black Sr., standing by her desk with a smile that didn't reach his eyes. He was older than Liam, with graying hair and a perpetual expression of smugness.
He'd never liked Isabella. Had always thought she had too much influence over Liam.
"Just a mistake in a report," Isabella said, forcing professionalism into her voice. "Nothing I can't fix."
"Hmm." Marcus's eyes glittered. "Liam seems particularly harsh today. Wonder what's got him so worked up?" He leaned closer. "You haven't done anything to upset him, have you, Ms. Hart?"
The question felt loaded. Dangerous.
"Of course not, sir. Just an error on my part."
"Well, we all make mistakes." Marcus straightened, his smile sharpening. "Though in Liam's office, mistakes tend to be... career-ending. You might want to be more careful."
He walked away, and Isabella heard him chuckling with another executive near the elevators.
"Didn't I tell you? Black's getting rid of her. Finally realized she's not as perfect as everyone thinks."
"About time. She's been too comfortable for too long."
"Give it a month. She'll be gone, and we can get someone who knows her place."
Their voices faded, but the words burned into Isabella's brain.
She looked at the report in her hands—the mistakes glaring at her now, obvious and humiliating. She'd been so distracted by the contract, by the wedding, by the devastation of marrying a man who didn't love her, that she'd failed at the one thing she was actually good at.
Her job.
Isabella pulled up the files and started working, her fingers flying across the keyboard, desperate to fix everything before noon. Before Liam made good on his threat.
Before she lost the only thing she had left—her competence.
At 11:45 AM, Isabella was putting the final touches on the corrected report when the elevator chimed.
She looked up and her heart sank.
Margaret Black stepped out, elegant and cold in a cream Chanel suit. And beside her, perfectly polished and smiling like a cat with cream, was Chloe Montgomery.
"Ms. Hart," Margaret said, her tone dripping with false politeness. "Is my son available?"
"He's in a conference call, Mrs. Black," Isabella replied, checking the calendar. "He should be finished in about ten minutes."
"We'll wait." Margaret settled into one of the leather chairs in the waiting area, and Chloe followed, her eyes never leaving Isabella.
"Still here, I see," Chloe said sweetly. "I heard Liam was quite displeased with you this morning. The whole building heard, actually."
Isabella's jaw tightened. "It was a minor error that's been corrected."
"Minor?" Chloe laughed. "Darling, when Liam Black yells at someone that loudly, it's never minor. It's the beginning of the end."
Margaret said nothing, but her eyes assessed Isabella with cold calculation. Like she was measuring Isabella for a coffin.
Isabella returned to her computer, trying to ignore them, trying to focus on the final review of the report.
"I'm parched," Chloe announced loudly. "Ms. Hart, be a dear and get me some water?"
It wasn't a request. It was a command, designed to remind Isabella of her place.
"Of course," Isabella said through gritted teeth.
She stood, leaving her desk to head to the break room. Behind her, she heard Chloe and Margaret whispering, their voices carrying just enough to be heard.
"...can't imagine why Liam keeps her..."
"...certainly nothing special to look at..."
"...probably just convenient until he finds someone better..."
Isabella's hands clenched into fists, but she kept walking.
She filled a glass with water—taking her time, breathing deeply, trying to maintain her composure—and returned to her desk.
Chloe stood there, examining Isabella's workspace with theatrical interest.
"Here's your water," Isabella said, setting the glass down carefully.
"Oh, thank you!" Chloe reached for it, but her hand "slipped."
The glass tipped, sending water cascading across Isabella's desk—directly onto her keyboard, her corrected report, her notes.
"Oh my God!" Chloe gasped, her hand flying to her mouth. "I'm so clumsy! I'm so sorry!"
She wasn't sorry. Her eyes gleamed with satisfaction.
Isabella stood frozen as water spread across her desk, ruining everything. The report she'd spent hours fixing. Her keyboard sparking and dying. Papers dissolving into wet mush.
"Ms. Hart, I'm so sorry," Chloe repeated, louder this time, drawing attention. "What a terrible accident!"
Margaret watched with barely concealed amusement.
Isabella's hands shook as she grabbed tissues, trying desperately to save the report, but it was too late. The ink was running, the pages destroyed.
She'd have to start over. Completely over.
And it was already 11:47 AM.
"Everything alright out here?"
Isabella's blood turned to ice.
Liam stood in his office doorway, his conference call clearly finished, his expression unreadable as he took in the scene—the water, the destroyed desk, Chloe's false concern, his mother's cold satisfaction.
"Mr. Black!" Chloe rushed toward him. "I'm so sorry, I accidentally knocked over water and it ruined poor Ms. Hart's work. I feel terrible!"
Liam's eyes moved from Chloe to the ruined desk to Isabella, who stood there dripping, humiliated, her morning's work destroyed.
Say something, Isabella begged silently. Defend me. Acknowledge that this wasn't an accident. Do something.
But Liam's expression remained cold, distant, completely neutral.
"Ms. Hart," he said flatly. "Clean up this mess and print a new copy of the report. I need it on my desk in fifteen minutes."
"But Mr. Black—" Isabella started.
"Fifteen minutes, Ms. Hart. Or don't bother coming back from lunch."
The threat was clear. The dismissal was absolute.
Liam turned to his mother and Chloe. "Mother. Chloe. Shall we go to lunch?"
"Of course, darling," Margaret said, standing gracefully.
Chloe linked her arm through Liam's, smiling up at him with possessive sweetness. "I've been looking forward to this all week."
They walked toward the elevator—Liam, his mother, and Chloe—like the perfect family unit.
And Isabella stood alone at her destroyed desk, water dripping onto the floor, her work ruined, her pride shattered.
Liam didn't look back. Didn't pause. Didn't acknowledge her at all.
He just left.
With them.
While his wife—his secret wife—stood there drowning in humiliation.
The elevator doors closed.
And Isabella finally let one tear fall.