In the towered heart of Harrington Group's headquarters—forty-nine floors above the rush of the city—Adrian Vale Harrington sat in his private office with the same stillness as a blade sheathed too tightly.
The office was a cathedral of glass and steel, its view stretching over skyscrapers that bowed beneath him like an empire kneeling before its sovereign. Yet the magnificence of it all, the sheer immensity of power concentrated in his signature, meant nothing to him. Not tonight. Not when his mind remained split between numbers on the screen and the ghostlike figure haunting the east wing of his estate.
He worked.
He always worked.
Documents signed, calls answered, negotiations sliced cleanly into submission, entire markets swayed by the tilt of his decisions. His influence could flatten or uplift economies in the span of a meeting.
Externally, he was perfection.
Internally, he was frayed wire.
A soft knock interrupted the hum of the office.
"Enter."
The door opened almost silently—another sign of how every inch of the corporation had adapted to his hypersensitivity. His chief of internal household security stepped inside, posture rigid, voice measured.
"Chairman. The afternoon report from the estate."
Adrian lifted his gaze.
Nothing flickered across his expression. Nothing at all.
"Proceed."
The man bowed his head slightly. "Mrs. Harrington left the mansion at 10:14 a.m. with her assigned escort team. She visited multiple boutiques in the Cheongdam district, met her acquaintances, and returned at 6:02 p.m."
A beat of silence settled.
His pen hovered above the document he was signing.
"Any disturbances?" he asked.
"None."Another beat."However…"
Adrian looked up.
"She appeared overwhelmed upon leaving the third boutique. Her breathing pattern changed. Heart rate elevated. She requested a short break inside the car before continuing."
Adrian went still.
His mind, sharpened like a weapon, cut immediately through the verbal padding.
A panic moment.Small, manageable—But a warning.
"And her behavior once she returned home?" he asked.
The guard hesitated only a millisecond before answering.
"She remained calm. Did not resist the escort back into the east wing. She requested tea, then stayed in her room writing until 9 p.m. Household staff confirms she seemed reflective. Not distressed."
Adrian's jaw tightened imperceptibly.
"Very well," he said.
But the guard didn't leave.
Instead—carefully, as if approaching a wounded animal—he added:
"The therapy notes were also delivered, sir."
Adrian exhaled almost inaudibly. "Leave them."
The man placed a sealed folder on his desk.
Then bowed and stepped out.
Silence again.
The kind of silence that reminded him too much of the cellar where he'd been held captive months ago. The kind of silence that sharpened every sound—the ventilation's hum, the distant ringing of another executive's phone, even his own heartbeat, too steady, too controlled.
He stared at the folder for a long time before finally opening it.
SERAPHINA HARRINGTON — DAILY MENTAL HEALTH STATUSDate: [Today]
He skimmed it at first.
Then slower.Then slower still, his eyes tracking every word like a hunter following hidden footprints.
"Increased anxiety during public appearance.""Visible dissociation lasting approximately five minutes.""Self-perception shows fluctuating instability.""Response to marriage conditions: shame, resignation, fear of abandonment.""Attachment pattern: conflicted—vacillates between avoidance and dependency.""Risk level: moderate. Self-harm intent: currently low but not negligible."
He closed the file.
Set it down.
Pressed his fingertips briefly to his temples.
He told himself he was numb to these updates by now.
He told himself nothing could shake him anymore.
He told himself he had already prepared for every scenario—relapse, panic attacks, episodes—prepared because he had seen the way she had clung to desperation that night. Prepared because the sight of her on the cold marble floor had carved a memory he would never forgive himself for.
But as he sat there listening to the tick of the minimalist clock on his wall, something twisted in his chest.
Not softness.
Not affection.
It was something harsher.
Sharper.
A self-directed blade.
Because part of him was relieved she had gone out.
And part of him hated himself for that relief.
Because the only reason he allowed her to live outside the east wing with guards around her—
Was fear.
Not fear of her leaving.
Not fear of losing her.
Fear of finding her corpse in his home.Fear of another death with his name attached.Fear of repeating the same helplessness he felt when his parents—No.
He shut that thought down brutally.
He did not allow himself to remember.
Not here.Not now.Not where anyone might see even a flicker of humanity in him.
He forced himself back into composure, straightening in his seat.
He reached for the next document waiting for his signature. An acquisition contract worth six billion. Worldwide reporters waited for his approval. The financial world trembled with anticipation.
He read it.
He signed it flawlessly.
But the thought lingered anyway, slipping through the cracks of his discipline:
If he had arrived a moment later that night…If she had succeeded…If he had found her too late—
He would have carried that guilt forever.
His fingers tightened around his pen until his knuckles paled.
He had taken the weight of a corporation onto his shoulders without flinching.
He had taken the world's wealth and power with a steady hand.
He had shouldered the deaths of his parents and turned their empire into a weapon of precision.
He could withstand everything.
Everything except another body.
Another funeral.
Another silent room.
Another guilt-ridden night he couldn't escape.
So he accepted her presence.
He gave her a restricted card so she wouldn't have to ask and humiliate herself.
He allowed her guarded freedom, even if it twisted his stomach with unease.
He read every report.
He adjusted her schedule.
He monitored her without her knowledge.
Not out of care.
Not out of affection.
But because he refused—absolutely refused—to let someone else die under his watch.
Another death…another life lost because of him…
He wouldn't survive it.
He might continue to breathe.
But he would not survive it.
He leaned back in his chair, looking out over the empire he controlled.
Thousands of people.Hundreds of subsidiaries.Entire nations that rose and fell according to his decisions.
And somewhere within that wealth—
His wife was trying to hold herself together.
A wife he didn't want.A marriage neither would gain from.A contract forged out of crisis.A cage she entered willingly.A promise he upheld out of obligation and dread rather than affection.
He closed his eyes for one brief moment.
Just one.
Then—
He reopened them.
Cold.Focused.Chairman again.
He pressed the intercom.
"Send another team to verify her evening status," he ordered. "Discreetly. No disturbance."
"Yes, Chairman."
"And revise her access permissions," he added after a long pause. "Allow her to request outings without escort approval delays. But keep the guards close."
"Yes, sir."
The office went quiet again.
Adrian returned to work.
But his hand—usually perfectly still—trembled once before steadying completely.
As though reminded:
He could command the world.
But he could not command death.And he could not stomach risking it again.
Not even for a woman he did not love.
Not even for a wife he never wanted.
Because her death—any death—would be one burden too heavy for Adrian Harrington to add to the ruins already living inside him.