Confessions of the Boss's Right Hand

While I fretted, Ethan and Nathan climbed into the return golf cart. I rushed to hop on and rest my aching feet, but Ethan stopped me. "Claire, you don't need to take the cart."

Huh?

I stared at him questioningly.

"I think your energy is too plentiful. Instead of wasting it on things that aren't yours to worry about, walk. Clear your head."

He smiled and signaled the caddie to drive off.

I watched their cart speed away.

Goddamn my ancestors!

After an hour of trudging, exhausted and staggering, I finally left the course. Ethan's car was long gone. He'd abandoned me out in this godforsaken golf range.

All the hope I'd pinned on making money from Ethan flipped into curses.

Serve him right if he never finds true love!

To hell with his ten million!

This fickle, petty, spiteful, stingy man—I'm done serving him!

Let him love whoever he wants.

I opened my rideshare app with a belly full of bile and discovered—of course—there were no taxis in this area. People who can afford golf never take cabs.

I slumped by the roadside, tearless and miserable. Night was closing in.

I remembered that long, long ago, I had been left behind like that too.

From that moment on I swore I, Claire Bennett, would become a woman with means.

If I’m not a princess, I don’t need a prince to come rescue me.

There are plenty of buses.

After walking forever, I finally saw the nearest bus stop.

And Ethan Grant’s car—was parked on the curb. Was he waiting for me?

I stared dumbly as the rear passenger window rolled down and Ethan’s expressionless face appeared.

“Get in.”

He said it.

Give a smack and then a sugar cube—only someone training a dog would use that tactic.

My pride screamed to refuse, but my body meekly climbed into the car.

I was so, so damn tired.

When I opened my eyes again, it was completely dark.

The car had stopped in a courtyard. The driver had disappeared, and Ethan sat in the driver’s seat with the window half-open, smoking. Eason Chan’s “Under Mount Fuji” played softly from the car speakers.

“Once I wandered the snowy road, why did tears fall for good things—who can claim Mount Fuji in love…”

I couldn’t see his face; I only saw the faint red glow of the cigarette tip, blinking in the night.

This was an unfamiliar Ethan—lonely Ethan.

There was a heavy, indistinguishable sadness clinging to him, blending with the darkness, and I couldn’t help blurting, “Um, where are we?”

He stubbed out his cigarette. “Ten million is too much.”

Huh?

I didn’t react for a moment.

Ethan turned his head. “I can’t give you ten million. If it goes south, I’d lose a lot.

But while you’re my girlfriend, I’ll pay you thirty thousand a month as salary. Think about it.”

“Do I have to sleep with you?” I heard myself ask.

So I signed an employment contract with Ethan Grant, officially transferring from his female secretary to temporary girlfriend.

I resigned. The whole company buzzed.

Claire Bennett the bootlicker actually handed in her resignation?!

Why would she…? Soon rumors spread: the cleaning lady from the CEO’s office overheard me and Ethan having a huge fight.

I told Ethan, “Yes, I love you, and I can’t keep cleaning up the mess with you and your women anymore.”

“Do you think because I’m poorer, humbler, less beautiful, I don’t have feelings?

You’re wrong, Ethan Grant!”

“Loving you isn’t shameful. At least on a soul level, we’re equal.

Goodbye!!”

Then I slammed the door and ran right into the cleaning lady, so close she could see me holding back tears.

So the entire company learned: I’d been rejected in love by Ethan and stormed out, resigning in anger.

What they didn’t know was that the cleaning lady only heard a script I’d written ahead of time.

There was supposed to be one more line from Ethan—he would look ashamed after my passionate performance and say, “I didn’t know you loved me—”

Then I’d say, “Now you know. That’s enough for me.”

I’d stomp off, crafting a complicated Cinderella who’s both humble and proud.

But Ethan said, “Being purely humble fits your character better.”

So he cut his own line.

Throughout my whole performance he acted like a detached audience member—arms crossed, frowning, nitpicking my acting.

I was livid. I told him, “To make everyone believe I’m your true love, my solo performance isn’t enough. You have to participate. At least learn to gaze at me with passion.”

He lifted the contract. “I pay you thirty thousand a month to serve me, not to train you.”

Fine. Money talks.

Putting Ethan’s lack of cooperation aside, my first round of publicity was flawless.

I cemented in everyone’s minds the tragic, pitiable Cinderella who loved Ethan Grant with all her heart.

People had mixed opinions.

Some sneered, “A toad wants swan meat—take a look in the mirror before coveting the CEO.”

Others played Monday-morning quarterback: “I always suspected Claire had ulterior motives. She kneels and flatters the boss, envies his girlfriends—what a top-tier competitor.”

Either way, they concluded: “Claire has acted wrongly and finally gets her comeuppance.”

Honestly, I expected my reputation to be bad as Ethan’s sycophant, but not this bad. It surprised me.

But WHO CARES? I smiled wickedly in my head. Want to watch my downfall?

I’ll blind all of you with my success.

A few days later a tabloid story hit Weibo trending: “Ethan Grant parks late at night in an old neighborhood; suspected new girlfriend spotted.”

Because the “new girlfriend” was his former secretary—you guessed it—me.

That whole piece was my handiwork.

Under my direction, Ethan reluctantly showed up at my shabby apartment complex.

Following classic romance-novel tropes, he leaned against his gleaming Rolls and smoked for an hour under my building, looking like someone standing vigil for love.

Even if it was staged, watching Ethan stand there from dawn till dusk just to see me made me laugh from my balcony.

Ethan Grant, you’ve got your comeuppance.

I intended to make him stand longer, but after exactly an hour I received a WeChat: “Get down here.”

The angrier he got, the terser he became; an hour had clearly tested his patience.

I hurried downstairs and rolled up next to him, barely opening my mouth with my rehearsed lines when he impatiently pulled me into his arms.

That wasn’t in the script.

I was stunned.

His embrace was different from his usual self—warm. I thought I could hear his heartbeat.

Then he gave an instruction: “Upstairs.”

Upstairs?

Also not in the script. The original plan: he’d drive me home, we’d return to his place, he’d sleep on the bed, I’d sleep on the rug.

But now he wanted to go to my apartment?

Still dazed, he released me and led me upstairs.

When I came to my senses, we were standing in my living room.

Max didn’t act shy at all. He sniffed Ethan’s shoes and even licked him—leaving me mouth-agape.

Ethan sneered, “A cat reflects its owner.”

I hurried to shoo Max away. Ethan strode past me straight to my bedroom.

“It’s small, but it’ll do. I’ll stay tonight.”

Then he sat on my bed as if it were his own.

I reminded him, “Sleeping together isn’t in the contract—”

He glanced at me. “You sleep on the couch.”

I argued, “I think it’d be better if we went to your place. My place is cramped—too humiliating for you.”

He took it in stride. “A little humiliation makes me look more devoted. Add that to your press release: Ethan Grant humbly accepts poor lodgings for love.”

I had to admire his genius. I rewrote the script overnight. Once I added that angle, Ethan looked even more devoted.

Overnight my name rang across the country.

I even posted anonymously in a famous gossip group, revealing the narrative of my long-endured devotion to Ethan.

I said I’d idolized him in college, then fought tooth and nail to become his personal secretary after graduating. I endured his womanizing and finally left in despair.

But of course, my departure made Ethan realize I was the one. He heroically pursued me, and my Cinderella finally saw the sun after rain.

I know the trick of a good lie is mixing truth and falsehood. If someone wanted to fact-check, they’d find everything except the emotional bits was true.

And for the sentimental part, I wisely borrowed the crowd-pleasing core of the “Zhang Baochuan waits in the cold for eighteen years and finally wins her prince” tale—so people would be primed to believe our love.

In no time I’d become a second Lin Fengjiao—every man’s ideal wife.

Naturally, my humble, bootlicking image angered feminists, and they rained abuse calling me a relic of feudalism and a doormat-wife symbol. If only they knew this was a job.

No matter—the more controversy, the better. It proved my story was believable.

I showed Ethan the engagement analytics. Proud as punch, I said, “See? Your thirty thousand a month is money well spent.”

Ethan had no words. “It’s the first time I’ve seen someone get humiliated and be this proud about it.”

I thought, if you paid me three hundred thousand a month, I could be accused of being the reincarnation of Daji and I’d still smile.

Ethan told me that Genevieve Hale was returning to the country soon.

He used to pick her up every time she came back. Despite his icy exterior, he was actually a sycophant too.

He’s so busy—yet he always made time to fetch an ex who already had a new boyfriend. There’s a saying: sycophants end up with nothing.

I told Ethan firmly, “Don’t pick her up this time. Come with me on vacation.”

So when Genevieve and her boyfriend landed in our city, Ethan and I were already in the Maldives.

Company-funded travel is the best thing ever.

Thanks to Ethan, I stayed at the luxurious Fleuris Fuji Island Resort with a private white-sand beach to myself.

Palm trees, turquoise water, silver sand—it felt heavenly.

By day I dived, fished, and sailed with Ethan; by night we dined by the starlit pool, watching underwater lights wink like constellations.

All of it made me think: having money is the best thing ever.

I swear I’d never been this happy in my life.

Of course, I hadn't forgotten the real purpose of this trip—I brought a paparazzo with me, to make sure every joyful, side-by-side moment with Ethan Grant would be captured perfectly.

Post it online as soon as we land, and those snobby old coworkers will green with envy!

But mostly, I wanted to drive Genevieve Hale—the true love, the white moonlight—insane with jealousy.

Overall, the trip had been a huge success, if you overlooked one little accident.

The accident being: I kissed Ethan.

Honestly, it wasn't entirely my fault. The setting was just too beautiful.

Imagine this: you and a man, barefoot, sitting side by side on a glass floor, drinking wine—beneath you stretches a sapphire sea with countless little fish weaving through it, above you an endless starfield and the Milky Way flowing across the sky.

And the man beside you? A total knockout.

Tell me, which woman could resist kissing that kind of beauty in a scene like that?

I certainly couldn't.

At first I only meant a quick peck to satisfy myself—and I even had the excuse ready, since I had a paparazzo and needed to stage some romance.

"Who says lovers don't kiss?" I was going to say.

But the moment my lips met his, and before I could pull away, Ethan had wrapped his arm around my neck and deepened the kiss.

Not surprised—he's a veteran in practice. Under his expert technique I promptly went light-headed and lost track of time.

At the last second I scraped together what little reason I had left and reminded him, "Paparazzo. Paparazzo."

He looked at me like I was an idiot.

I knew I'd acted impulsively.

…Ethan, however, furrowed his handsome brow and asked, "Is this your first time?"

That line ruined the mood for me.

For me, it wasn't what I'd expected. It felt awkward.

For him, it made him cautious and impossibly gentle.

Later he sealed my mouth with another kiss, and then I fell asleep.

When I woke again, the sky was bright.

Ethan was asleep—curled against me—in my arms.

In my dream state I must have mistaken him for Max, because I had wrapped my whole body around him.

So when I opened my eyes, Ethan's head was pressed against my—chest.

The scene was so obscene I almost screamed and kicked him off.

He blinked awake, groggy, and found me awkwardly clutching the duvet over my bare chest.

He looked at me with obvious disdain. "Claire Bennett, putting on innocent now? Isn't it a little late for that?"

Fair enough. I realized I must've looked ridiculous, so I tried to act composed and released the blanket.

I had underestimated the slippery luxury of a hotel duvet. The moment I let go, the whole thing slid down my body and pooled under the bed.

Once again I had a very honest reunion with Ethan.

We stared at each other for a beat.

To show I was unfazed, I opened my mouth first: "Well, want to go again?"

Ethan, bored, finally decided to ignore me. He rose, dressed with casual elegance while I watched, and said, "I'll transfer the money to your phone."

Money?

What money?

By the time I realized what he meant, I was jumping out of bed with indignation.

But Ethan was already gone.

The insult was unbearable.

Unacceptable!

I angrily opened my phone, planning to send the transfer first so I could prepay for his services.

Just as I was wondering how much to send, WeChat pinged: a transfer had come in.

I opened it and gaped at the string of zeros after the 1.

My anger dissolved almost instantly.

To be insulted with money actually felt pretty great.

I hoped Ethan would humiliate me like that more often.

Ten times, and I could retire.

For the next few days I tried to keep seducing him.

I even downloaded a stack of classic guides and studied them.

But no matter how I wriggled and flirted, Ethan acted like I wasn't there.

The day before our return flight, after another shower, wearing his white shirt, hair still damp, bare legs, and after pacing back and forth in front of him half a dozen times—

Ethan finally spoke: "Don't bother. I won't sleep with you again."

Huh?

"Sleeping with you once is too expensive. I'm afraid I'll go bankrupt," he added.

"Actually," I wanted to say, "I could give you a discount…" but I stopped myself—too undignified to voice it.

Anyway, the trip wasn't wasted. By the time we flew home, the public was fully convinced I was Ethan's true love.

I struck while the iron was hot and asked him to take me home to meet his parents.

He looked at me like I was insane. "You're embarrassing yourself. My parents will never accept you."

I blinked at him. "I don't expect your parents to accept me—I don't actually want to marry you. I just want to show Genevieve that you're serious about me, that I'm different from those flashy slags. Isn't that enough?"

Ethan, annoyed at being contradicted, sulked: "Fine. If you don't mind being looked down on, suit yourself."

Ha. He underestimated our working-class tolerance. A few barbed words were one thing—no one's slapping me.

I braced for a verbal beating. Instead, Ethan's mother was shockingly civil.

She nodded once at our introduction, then carried on conversing almost exclusively with Ethan, treating me as if I weren't in the room.

I admired it: a true lady. No drama, just dignified indifference.

Little did she know she was facing the wrong target. I'm a corporate drone—what do we fear most? Attention from the boss. What makes us happiest? Being ignored.

Ignore me all you want; I was content sipping the Longjing tea the housekeeper presented—authentic, from the Hu Gong Temple at the foot of Lion Peak, the real deal. I probably won't drink such tea again in this life.

Maybe my calm impressed Ethan's mother, because when we were leaving she suddenly invited me to her ladies' circle.

"They're family friends. Since you're Ethan's girlfriend, you should meet them," she said offhandedly.

My head nearly exploded. Did that mean she accepted me as a prospective daughter-in-law?

Why me?

Ethan was nonchalant: "If Mom asks, just go."

"You should go too," his mother cut in. "Jenny will come with you—she's back in town and you haven't met her."

So my first face-off with my "rival," Genevieve, just got moved up.

I'd planned to milk Ethan's card and buy myself a whole new wardrobe, but his mother outpaced me. The next day she sent a whole styling team.

The hottest stylist team in the city—the same team that dresses the top actress, Daisy Reed.

Seeing the crew, I worried: if they're dressing me, what will Daisy do?

No time to think. They wrapped me head to toe in a transformation.

After they finished, I barely recognized myself. I had been groomed into the city's top aristocratic circle, and now I trailed behind Ethan while his mother introduced me to a group of women whose names I couldn't remember but whose husbands' names made me sit up straight.

The hostesses fussed over me, praising Ethan's taste and insisting how fortunate I was.

Of course, that's how these women operate—praising me is really a compliment to the Grant family. For a nobody like me to be standing behind Mrs. Grant? That's the real blessing.

Mrs. Grant stayed composed until Genevieve and her mother entered.

Genevieve greeted Mrs. Grant and then turned with a smile to me. "So this is Ethan's new girlfriend?"

I'd rehearsed a hundred possible showdowns, but facing Genevieve in person left me flustered.

She's so poised. Not in a flashy way—her beauty isn't dramatic, but her presence is otherworldly.

Standing next to her, I felt like swamp grass leaning against a jade tree.

If I were truly Ethan's girlfriend, seeing such an ethereal ex would have crushed me. Lucky for me, I'm only his stand-in, so I felt none of that.

As soon as I remembered my mission—make Genevieve jealous—I straightened up and smiled at her: "I'm not the new girlfriend. I'm the current girlfriend."

Then I turned to Ethan and winked playfully: "And the only girlfriend he'll ever have."

Genevieve blinked—she hadn't expected me to flaunt our relationship. Her slip calling me "new girlfriend" betrayed that she cared.

Good. I intended to make her care more. Seeing someone who once worshipped him now become his only woman had to sting.

Honestly, Genevieve is already engaged. In theory, any new girlfriend of her ex shouldn't matter to her, and yet she can't stand other women being the source of his happiness.

There are women like her who cannot accept not being the center of someone's world. Being every man's only white moonlight is their measure of worth, even if it means sacrificing other women's happiness.

They don't care. To them, lesser women exist as mere backdrops to their spotlight.

Though the world’s truth is cruel, thinking about it in detail still makes my blood boil!

As one of the gloomy-girl squad, I couldn’t help wanting to rile her up a little—to watch her eat crow.

And apparently I wasn’t the only one who wanted that. After I finished speaking, Mrs. Grant suddenly took my hand warmly.

She looked at me with what could only be called a tender, indulgent gaze. “Good girl. Ethan used to be reckless—he must’ve made you suffer. Don’t worry. From now on I’ll handle everything. If he ever hurts you again, tell me. I’ll snap his leg myself.”

What?

Then she turned to Mrs. Hale and Genevieve Hale. “Oh, you girls don’t know—when Claire first became Ethan’s secretary, I took a liking to her. I thought, wouldn’t it be nice if she could be my daughter-in-law? I didn’t expect Ethan to actually bring her into the family. Of course I’m keeping an eye on things.”

I watched Genevieve go pale and suddenly understood why Mrs. Grant had been so unexpectedly affectionate toward me.

Turns out she wanted to defend her bootlicking son through me.

With the matriarch on my side, I had no more qualms. For the rest of the banquet I leaned fully into being spoiled and arrogant.

For example, when we took our seats, Ethan was about to sit first but when I cleared my throat he hurried to pull out my chair for me.

At dinner, I noticed he’d only taken one bite of the abalone and casually took it for myself.

That was a premium abalone flown in from Japan—nearly twenty thousand bucks each—absolute sacrilege to eat one bite and toss it aside.

My over-the-top performance might have stirred something in Genevieve, but it earned Mrs. Grant’s approval.

The next day she called me to the Grants’ and gifted me a string of pearls.

Not a super expensive necklace, but I happily showed it off to Ethan. “Mrs. Grant is too kind. I only did her a little favor, and she gave me this.”

Ethan looked at me, puzzled. “You think that’s her payment to you?”

I asked back, “Isn’t it?”

His face abruptly darkened. “Fine, if you say so.”

He walked away as if angry, leaving me alone in that huge living room, slamming the door hard.

Randomly getting angry—what a lunatic!

I ignored him and admired my understated yet classy pearls under the lamp, already plotting how to squeeze another reward out of Mrs. Grant.

One job, two payoffs—how sweet is that?!

Being seen with Mrs. Grant at a ladies’ get-together became an acceptance ritual for joining the Grants. That made me even hotter property—an obvious master of the fox spirit, a new-age marriage prospect.

Some lifestyle accounts even started analyzing how to attract high-quality wealthy men like me.

Then Ethan got a call: Genevieve had invited him to the opening of her exhibition.

Usually she only sent Ethan an invite. I knew she was hooked.

I had to be ready.

I uncharacteristically ditched the glamour I wore to Mrs. Grant’s gatherings, put on light makeup, and dressed casually.

When Ethan came to pick me up he paused. “Are you sure you want to meet Genevieve like that?”

I preened. “I thought it through. In looks and bearing I’ll never beat Miss Hale—dressing up would only make me seem like I’m trying too hard. I’ll play the role of true love. What is true love? The world loves beauty, but you love the noble soul beneath my plain face.”

Ethan smiled.

He’s always serious and stern; when he smiled it was like a spring breeze that made me go weak—then I snapped myself back to reality: wake up, he’s the boss.

Rule number one for company drones: never date the boss. It affects payroll.

So I froze whatever feelings might be growing, and professionally reminded Ethan to be tactful around Genevieve and take good care of me.

“We just need to make Miss Hale a little jealous. That should seal the deal. This is it—don’t blow it.”

Ethan ignored my pep talk and turned to look out the window.

I closed my eyes to nap and save energy for the battle ahead.

But I slept through until I woke with my head leaning on Ethan’s shoulder. He was asleep too.

Knowing he’s super picky about cleanliness, I immediately moved to get up and smooth where I’d been lying so he wouldn’t be annoyed when he woke.

As I bent, Ethan opened his eyes.

My posture must’ve looked like I was trying to steal a kiss.

I bounced upright like a spring. “I wasn’t trying to kiss you!”

There was a trace of amusement in his eyes. “Do you know the idiom ‘the more you try to hide it, the more exposed it becomes’?”

Huh?

Before I could answer, Ethan had already stepped out of the car.

I hurried to open the door and catch up.

He strode with long, purposeful steps. I jogged to keep up and handed him my coat. “Holding your girlfriend’s coat is part of the job description.”

He oddly didn’t refuse. Once inside the gallery I realized his compliance had been a ploy.

The gallery was freezing and I was wearing a sleeveless dress. I sneezed several times, gesturing for him to put the coat on me.

He pretended not to notice.

Only when we met Genevieve and her fiancé did he suddenly drape the coat over me with surprising tenderness. “It’s cold in here. Don’t catch a chill.”

I watched the perfect smile on Miss Hale’s face wobble and thought, He’s such a black-hearted boss. If I catch a cold I’ll be filing for workers’ comp.

Then I realized I’d underestimated Ethan.

He acted. He was a far better actor than I’d ever be.

Throughout the opening he was tender and solicitous toward me, right where Genevieve and her fiancé could see.

He didn’t even hesitate to help me with small things—when my shoe lace came undone he bent down to tie it.

When he leaned over, my whole back stiffened. Terrifying.

This was Ethan Grant—always imperious, always remote. When I’d first become his secretary my predecessor left me hundreds of tips: preferred room temp twenty-five, humidity fifty-six percent, water must be ice cold… I’d scoffed, thinking he acted like a giant baby.

But my predecessor had been serious: as Ethan’s secretary, your duty is to make sure he’s comfortable in every tiny way. “Mr. Grant pays you to do this.”

Everybody around him existed to cater to his comfort. He was rich enough that the world revolved around him—the quintessential spoiled heir.

Except for Miss Hale, everything in his life had been effortlessly attainable.

And now this effortlessly-get-what-he-wants man was bending to tie my shoelace for Genevieve.

For the first time, I felt a pang of jealousy toward Genevieve.

She seemed oblivious and watched me with a complicated expression that I guessed hid her own simmering jealousy.

Ugh—what a mess.

I had to remind myself: don’t get sucked into female rivalry. Making money comes first. Come on, Claire Bennett!

The trip’s unexpected perk: I discovered Miss Hale’s fiancé, Su Ze—whose name I learned later—was actually pretty interesting.

I realized it at the buffet lunch when we both reached for the same plate of Alaskan king crab.

In that setting social maneuvering mattered more than the food; big-ticket dishes like that usually go untouched for the networking. We both paused, surprised.

I’d come to lunch confident because it looked like Genevieve wanted to chat with Ethan again. After that public display of affection, giving them a little privacy might let Ethan show concern for Genevieve and help calm her. If she believed she had zero chance, our display would have backfired.

So when Genevieve drifted closer to Ethan I slipped away, telling Ethan to keep going.

I looked at the guy in front of me—he had no clue he was about to be green with jealousy—and he was happily tearing into crab, joking that our shared proletarian spirit had brought us together amid the perfume and silk of the hall.

He was hilarious—born funny, like humor was in his bones. Everything he said made you laugh. A stark contrast to Ethan’s stiff, joyless manner.

No wonder Genevieve crossed class lines for a guy like him. Being with him would be far more fun than being with Ethan.

I’d been chuckling for maybe fifteen minutes when a voice cut in: “What are you two laughing about? You look so cheerful.”

I turned and saw Ethan and Genevieve already at our table. It was Genevieve who spoke.

I glanced at Ethan, thinking, How come you two met so quickly?

Ethan’s expression was stormy and he looked at me like a pet owner who’d just found a runaway dog. It was inexplicable.

I answered politely, “Just chatting. Mr. Su is hilarious.”

Such a casual remark and both Ethan and Genevieve changed faces. Genevieve looked embarrassed. Ethan—like a cat with its tail trodden—grabbed my hand hard. “We should be going.”

Before Genevieve could react, he practically dragged me out of the dining room. His grip hurt until we were finally outside and I could free my hand.

Ethan Grant looked downright angry. "I pay your salary, not to have you flirting with other people."

Then he tossed me and walked off.

Huh?

I was sure Ethan was green with jealousy over James—so jealous he couldn't hold his tongue.

For pity's sake, I wasn't going to make a fuss.

I caught up, looped my arm through his, trying to give him a graceful out.

After all, we still had to play the loving-couple part.

He shrugged my arm off. "Go reflect on your words and actions. Come find me when you've thought it through."

This time I didn't follow.

Rule two of being a corporate drone: whatever the boss says goes. Never argue with the boss.

He told me to reflect, so fine—I would reflect.

He probably wouldn't wait to go home with me now, so—was I going back to finish my king crab?

"That's just how Ethan is. Sometimes he's stubborn like a child."

I turned and realized Genevieve Hale had somehow slipped up behind me.

I patted my chest. "Oh my—Miss Hale, why do you always like sneaking up on people? You scared me half to death."

Stubborn like a child?

Wasn't she just trying to assert her presence in front of my "current" girlfriend by reminding everyone she was the "ex"?

If I played along she'd launch into one of those subtle humblebrags about how she knew Ethan better than anyone and how only she truly got him.

I wasn't falling for it.

As expected, Genevieve looked thrown by my unexpected reply and didn't know how to continue.

That gave me the opening to humblebrag back. "Since Miss Hale is here, I can apologize on Ethan's behalf. Please don't mind his earlier clumsiness—he meant no offense to Mr. James. He's just…plain old jealous."

Watching Genevieve's face light up with something between surprise and annoyance, I finally felt better about being snubbed by Ethan earlier.

Hmph. Dare make me unhappy and I'll go rattle your lover's cage.

But before I could bask in my own smugness, Genevieve suddenly asked, "Helen, did you ever go to Gracefield Academy?"

Gracefield Academy was an elite private school—definitely not somewhere a kid like me would have attended.

I shook my head, wondering why she'd bring that up. Showing off private-school superiority much?

She smiled. "You remind me of a classmate I had. She was also surnamed Liu and used to like Ethan. For a while I actually thought you were the same person."

Because Ethan told me to reflect, I was afraid he might think I wasn't taking it seriously, so that night I went home early planning to go to his place the next day and tell him I'd really reflected.

That night, I had a nightmare.

I was a kid again and a crowd was calling me ugly, accusing me of wanting what wasn't mine.

I woke up and tried to recall the faces of those kids who bullied me—planning, in my half-asleep rage, that once I had enough money I'd hunt them down one by one.

Then I realized I was hungry.

I made myself a bowl of noodles: scallions sizzling, water boiling, drop in noodles, add two fried eggs on top.

Carrying the steaming bowl to the living room, I flicked on the light and nearly dropped the noodles—someone was sitting on my couch.

I shrieked. "W-when did you get here?!"

Ethan sat perfectly upright on my sofa with a look of infinite melancholy. That was beside the point. The point was—what was he doing in my house?

He didn't answer my question. He stared at my noodles and asked a deep philosophical thing: "Am I really that boring?"

Huh?

Wasn't he the one who told me to reflect?

I couldn't call my boss boring, of course. I praised him instead. "We're the boring ones. You're—serious, dignified. Those are the traits of a successful man."

He smiled without really smiling. "Want to know why Genevieve broke up with me?"

I shook my head immediately. Rule three of being a corporate drone: the fewer boss secrets you know, the better.

But Ethan kept talking. "She thought I was boring. So she dumped me and went to James."

Oh. No wonder he was so worked up earlier.

Cold sweat. I frantically tried to figure out how to take back all the flattering things I'd said about James.

And then I found myself blurting, "I'll share my noodles with you."

Ethan looked at me like I was ridiculous.

Right—noodles were weak sauce. So I added, "Or—um—maybe we could…you know."

To seal the deal, I tacked on, "It's on me. No charge."

He looked at me like I was an idiot.

I laughed awkwardly. "Never mind."

I set the bowl on the table, ready to eat. Honestly, I was a little lonely that night and craving a warm body to soothe my soul. If a warm body wasn't available, hot noodles would do.

Before I could sit, I was wrapped in a warm embrace—and a kiss carrying Ethan's scent landed on me.

The second time was even better than the first. I finally understood what ancient poets meant by certain sensual metaphors. They were not wrong.

That night we were like two tireless fish, circling and circling in the water until we could go no more and collapsed utterly spent.

The next morning I woke up feeling as if a steamroller had passed over every limb—everywhere ached and it took effort to get out of bed.

Ethan was gone—probably off to work. He's always diligent like that.

I grabbed my phone to order delivery—and saw a transfer in WeChat.

He'd sent me money again.

Even as a corporate drone, I had pride. This time I didn't accept it quietly. I messaged: If you're treating me, I'm accepting.

He replied quickly: Take it. I feel better when our relationship stays a simple transaction.

That made me see red.

Who did he think he was offending? As if I couldn't be transactional when I wanted to be.

I didn't accept his transfer. Instead I sent him one cent.

Message: Consider it on me!

About fifteen minutes later he accepted. Transaction completed, neat and tidy.

Given last night's…ahem…I thought maybe I could buy a few more rounds.

Before I could find a chance to "purchase" round two, a paparazzo I hired to dig on James sent a bombshell.

Our mutual proletarian champion James turned out to be a player. Photos showed him embracing and passionately kissing a young woman. The pap said James actually had a teaching post at an arts college, and the girl was his student.

Of course he had lucked into Genevieve's attention—the dirt-poor guy striking gold—but then he cheated. And with a student? Scumbag.

My brief soft spot for him evaporated.

Normally I'd slam those photos into Genevieve's hands immediately and make her dump him—but if she broke up with James and reconciled with Ethan, I'd be out of a job.

I'd only been collecting paychecks there for two months. I hesitated. I needed to hit my goal of a million. So I decided to wait two months. Being cheated on for a day or for two months—what's the difference, right?

That choice was selfish and a little corrupt. I felt guilty whenever I faced Ethan after that.

So when I prepared his birthday present, I held back—trying to save him some money.

He glanced at the expense reports I'd handed him. "I thought you'd take advantage of this."

Oops—my greed had shown. I smiled sheepishly. "You're joking. I'm very professional."

He watched me with interest. "Fine. Since you're so professional, I'll give you a reward. What do you want for your birthday?"

Now I was startled. I pointed at the bills he had just signed. "Everything I want is in here. I've already booked the restaurant—I'd be honored if you could attend…"

"I'm not talking about that." He cut me off. "I'm asking what the real Claire Bennett wants for her birthday."

What Claire really wanted was money. I stared at Ethan with starry eyes—and then said something childish I'd wanted since I was little: "I want to ride a Ferris wheel at night."

He looked at me incredulously. "Are you sure that's what you want?"

On my birthday evening, Ethan chartered an entire amusement park for us.

Like some scene straight out of a drama, he led me beneath the Ferris wheel, clapped his hands, and the whole wheel lit up.

The lights spelled out: Happy Birthday, Claire Bennett.

I knew, of course, that it was money that lit the magic. But I was deeply moved all the same—more moved than if he'd given me a hundred thousand.

I remembered someone promising years ago to light the Ferris wheel for me and then breaking that promise. When I was a kid I spent my allowance on a tiny Ferris-wheel night lamp so I could turn on a string of lights and feel my old wish come true.

I didn't know when Ethan had noticed my little Ferris-wheel lamp—or what made him want to make my childhood wish real—but I was grateful.

I fought back tears and said sincerely, "Thank you."

Ethan seemed surprised by how emotional I was. "Shall we go up together?"

But fate couldn't stand my happiness. Before we even boarded, his phone rang—it was Genevieve.

I couldn't hear their conversation, but after he hung up his expression turned grave. "Sorry. You'll have to ride alone. Genevieve's had an incident. I need to go."

I hurriedly nodded. "Go. Go—please."

Ethan Grant left in a hurry, and I rode the Ferris wheel alone.

The night sky was washed clean, a full moon hanging right above us.

It was the fifteenth.

But there I was, all by myself on that Ferris wheel—though I’d dreamed a thousand times of this exact scene.

In my imagination I glided through the air, the full moon at my back.

It should have been as romantic and beautiful as ET flying a bike across the moon.

Instead, riding alone as the Ferris wheel creaked around the sky, I was terrified.

One thought kept looping in my head: what if it breaks down and stops halfway?

And then I pictured tomorrow’s trending headline: “Ethan Grant Caught Meeting an Ex; Claire Bennett Hangs Upside Down on Ferris Wheel.” At that point I had zero interest in enjoying the ride.

Besides, the Ferris wheel wasn’t comfortable. The night wind was freezing and it made me feel foolish.

So thanks to Ethan, I’d gloriously caught a cold on my birthday.

I wondered if that counted as a work injury.

By the time I sneezed my way home, Ethan was already waiting.

On the table in front of him were the paparazzi photos from that day, and his face wore the kind of expression that silently demanded I explain myself.

“You took these photos. Why didn’t you give them to me?”

My brain short-circuited for half a second. I stammered for an excuse. “I was afraid—”

“You were afraid if you gave them to me I’d stop employing you,” he cut across me.

So blunt. I felt oddly embarrassed.

I gave an awkward little smile, searching for a way to patch myself up.

Ethan didn’t give me the chance to speak: “You’re overthinking. Jenny already knows what kind of man Su Ze is; she just won’t break up with him.”

“Huh?”

Ethan managed a smile that was more painful than crying. “I lost to a man like that. Is that funny to you?”

I nodded, then shook my head. “Miss Hale misjudged him; that’s what's ridiculous, not you. Don’t worry—nothing is impossible if you’re willing to climb. If you keep at it, she’ll come back to you.”

“How do you know?”

“Because you hired me. I won’t let your money go to waste.”

That much professional pride I still had.

I swore it with all the theatrical confidence I could muster. “Look, tonight Miss Hale already opened up to you. She exposed her deepest wound. That means she’s leaning back toward you. Trust me—if you listen to me, she’ll be yours in no time.”

Ethan stared at me for a long moment. There was an emotion in his eyes I couldn’t read, passing like a shadow.

I wondered, at such a dark moment in his life, did he want to kiss me? That would be so cruel.

He’d been grieving over Jenny just a second ago.

Luckily, he didn’t kiss me. He smiled instead, looking utterly exhausted. “With an employee like you, what could I possibly worry about?”

The next day, the top trending story was Ethan Grant driving Jenny Hale home late at night.

One photo showed him opening the car door for her, their eyes meeting.

To me it looked like a perfectly normal glance.

But the internet insisted it was brimming with undying devotion.

And, of course, concluded that “Claire Bennett is a joke.”

I couldn’t disappoint the gossipers—so I booked a flight to Hainan almost immediately.

I arranged the trip partly for myself, partly as a plan to make Ethan stand me up so Jenny would realize he wasn’t someone she could summon at will anymore. If she wanted him, she’d have to take him seriously.

Before I left I patted Ethan on the shoulder. He actually followed me to Hainan right away.

I knew this would probably be the last time I appeared as Ethan’s girlfriend.

So I planned some things that any woman who actually wanted to be a girlfriend would do: walking hand in hand down old streets, eating our way through stalls.

I even convinced Ethan—always so fastidious—to sit at a grimy roadside stand and share skewers with me.

He objected but sat down.

To be fair, Ethan, as a boss, had some redeeming qualities. For example, he once said he liked ice water. One time I forgot to add ice and pretended warm water was healthier; he accepted it without complaint. He used to pull all-nighters; I told him staying up was bad for his health, and he started not working past midnight. Now, even though he was grossed out by street food, when I begged him to try it once, he reluctantly complied.

As a privileged man, he could be easy to please sometimes.

Thinking of those small kindnesses, I felt a little reluctant.

After I left him for good, I knew I’d probably think of him on lonely nights. Thank him for giving me the perfect boyfriend dream—my whole life I probably wouldn’t meet anyone as handsome again. Maybe I wouldn’t have another boyfriend at all.

That night we got drunk.

Afterward, Jenny called Ethan. I pressed the phone off for him. “Trust me—don’t pick up tonight. By the time you go back, she’ll be yours.”

I used the moment to ask Ethan for more money. “I helped you achieve in two months what you couldn’t in years. You gave me 600,000—don’t you have any conscience? You should give me ten million.”

“What would you do with so much?”

“Buy a villa, retire, take it easy, eat my way through life, spend the rest of my days counting money with Max.”

I counted off reasons on my fingers.

“Fine.”

What?

The next morning I woke to find Max—no, Ethan—was already gone. Probably off to see Jenny.

I wasn’t sure whether his promise of ten million had ever been real or if I’d imagined it.

I opened my phone to check for a transfer and found I’d trended again.

This time someone leaked that my real name was Liu Mutong, that at twelve I’d started junior high and secretly loved Ethan, been rejected, and then—worse—changed my name and had plastic surgery to infiltrate his world. It made me sound like a stalker.

But the description matched me.

I knew this was Jenny’s counterattack.

It was time for a clean break.

Epilogue—Claire Bennett

My name used to be Liu Mutong.

I’d liked Ethan Grant for a very, very long time.

So long that I could count exactly: fourteen years, seven months, and twenty-one days.

Yes—the September first fourteen years, seven months, and twenty-one days ago—that’s when I knew I loved him.

We were both twelve then.

We both went to the prestigious Lysander Academy—first year of middle school.

On the first day I carried a new thermos full of boiling water. My mother told me to add cool water at school to let it cool, or else it would burn me.

I planned to do that. After PE class, as I was about to pour the hot water out to cool it, a super handsome boy walked into our classroom.

Our eyes met. I panicked.

And I drank from my cup.

I sprayed it all over.

It was mortifying.

He’d already sat down but stood up again, handing me a bottle of water. “Drink some cold water first. Remember to mix hot water into warm water before you drink it.”

I huffed and tried to cool my mouth, cheeks burning as I gulped the water.

That day I learned his name—Ethan Grant.

Later I told myself that maybe, in his eyes, I looked like a little dog burned by hot water.

Ethan was cheerful and easygoing, with many friends. I didn’t dare try to be his friend. I only dared to secretly pine.

I even wrote him a love letter but didn’t have the courage to give it. I was an ugly duckling who loved a swan—loving him wasn’t the problem, but letting the swan know? That was my mistake.

I wanted at least to be a proper secret admirer—so I wrote the letter.

Somehow it ended up in Ethan’s desk. His friend Henry read it aloud to the entire grade. I became the school laughingstock.

I was unattractive, mediocre at school, from a family that wasn’t wealthy. How dare I like the top heir Ethan Grant? It was unforgivable.

Girls who perhaps also liked Ethan but didn’t dare say it made me a target. It started as teasing and escalated into bullying. I don’t know if Ethan knew I was being bullied because of him. I dreamed he might say a word in my defense—anything.

On my thirteenth birthday I found a note from Ethan. He asked me to meet him that night at the amusement park on the outskirts. He said he’d take me on the night Ferris wheel and light it up with my name.

I went, heart soaring.

I waited until the moon was high and Ethan never came.

I knew I’d been stood up.

I didn’t know if Ethan himself had stood me up or one of the people around him. I wanted to believe it wasn’t Ethan.

I walked home alone, step by step. I didn’t go back to that school. I told my mother that everyone there was too rich and our comfortable family couldn’t keep up; I asked to transfer. At the same time my father’s business failed, so my mother quickly helped me switch schools.

Later I changed schools, changed my name, had surgery, and eventually made it into college.

But I could not forget Ethan Grant.

After I became “pretty,” a few people did chase me, but none of them were Ethan.

When I graduated and started job hunting, I first saw Ethan’s job posting—seeking a secretary. Okay, it wasn’t fate; it was that I’d been watching him all along.

I knew his father was powerful and that Ethan himself had become powerful too. But the Ethan in the news was nothing like the boy in my memory.

In every gossip column, he’d already become the rumored boyfriend of every young starlet—basically the dream man of millions of girls.

I kind of wanted to know what was wrong with him.

So when I heard he was hiring a secretary, I begged my sister who handled HR at his company, made it into the final interview, and ultimately slipped into Ethan Grant’s orbit.

Honestly, on my first day I half-hoped he'd recognize me. He didn’t.

I think in his memory there was no Claire Bennett—or rather, no Liu Mutong type of person at all.

That was fine. It made my undercover work much easier.

Hearing about it is one thing, but actually watching Ethan go through one shallow romance after another—it hurt.

In my memory he’d been so bright and warm.

Now he looked hollow. Empty eyes, an empty heart.

I didn’t know what had happened to him, but for me, that wasn’t entirely bad.

If the perfect Ethan of the past only made me sigh, then this hollow shell—this heartless Ethan—might finally be someone I could have.

I tried to fill his void.

I worked harder than ever. After gaining his trust, I started to reshape him, little by little, in my own way.

He liked drinking ice water, so I made him fall for warm water again; he had terrible insomnia and worked through the nights, so I helped him reclaim his sleep; he numbed himself with flings, so I kept reminding him—those other women only loved his money.

I treated his ex-girlfriends harshly, always reducing them to crude, transactional labels.

Slowly, my reputation spread.

I told myself it didn’t matter.

Even if the whole world hated me, as long as one day Ethan liked me, that would be enough.

I knew I’d become a villain—no different from the girls who bullied me before.

But fate has its balance. Karma won’t let villains win forever.

I didn’t win his love, and I didn’t fill his void.

Because I discovered the hole in his heart belonged to Genevieve Hale.

Genevieve had been one of our classmates—a former school belle, now a top-tier white-collar beauty even other actresses envied.

I felt utterly defeated.

Still, I wanted at least one of us to be happy.

If Ethan could be happy, that would be enough.

I thought and thought, and finally hit on an idea: maybe a fake relationship could trigger him to chase the proud Genevieve.

After going back and forth, I realized I had to be the fall guy in that staged romance.

First, no one could throw themselves into the role more than I would; second, no one would be easier to discard; third, I wanted to get closer to Ethan—even a fake romance would soothe me.

So I told him: pay me, and I’d help him win Genevieve back.

It hurt, but I convinced myself that if it worked, it would be a win-win-win.

Ethan would regain love, I’d get money and the experience of “pretend love.”

Poor people don’t need love; experience is enough.

Yet when the plan actually started working, I cried.

At first I thought I was about to lose Ethan for real.

Then I reminded myself I’d never truly owned him in the first place—how could I lose him?

That made me cry harder.

As I cried, I remembered a girl’s words when she once cried to me: “I want him himself.”

Who wouldn’t want Ethan himself?

But we couldn’t afford him.

The only good news was that I’d become a little rich.

20. Ethan Grant, extra

I’d known for a long time Claire Bennett was really Liu Mutong. I run thorough background checks on everyone who works close to me.

The reason I kept her wasn’t just professional. Her past, in some ways, mirrored things from my own childhood when I did nothing.

When we were young she liked me and even wrote me a love letter.

Honestly, it was the first love letter I’d ever received—and before I read it, Fang Haichuan made it public.

I didn’t stop him because I saw Genevieve ordering Fang to read it aloud.

We were just in middle school.

I liked Jenny. She liked chaos, so I let her be her messy, wild self.

I thought, letting her roar, watching her smile—that was love to me.

Young me never stopped to wonder what it felt like to be the girl being teased.

I’d practically forgotten someone like Liu Mutong even existed.

Until she showed up as Claire Bennett to apply to be my secretary.

Claire’s timid eyes instantly reminded me of that small girl who’d fled, bewildered, from Jenny’s pranks.

By then Jenny had already left me. For reasons I couldn’t explain, I wanted to know what Claire wanted.

At first she didn’t overstep—just quietly worked beside me, more responsible than any of my previous secretaries.

For a long time I suspected she’d applied simply for the paycheck.

But then I noticed details—small signs that she still liked me.

She secretly made my water warm. I’d been ready to snap about it until I heard her recommending warm water for health to coworkers. Even I couldn’t publicly refuse that kindness. From then on, she only ever gave me warm water.

She kept telling me never to work past midnight—sleeping after midnight is bad for heart, liver, spleen, lungs. Little things like that—things my former secretaries never did. They were paid to do a job and carried out orders like holy writ. Only she seemed to genuinely care.

She made me feel less alone, so I kept her around and enjoyed watching her antics.

But my heart was still for Genevieve. The most I’d allow Claire was not to expose her.

What really revealed her, though, was when I got drunk over Genevieve’s engagement.

She offered to be my fake girlfriend—to help me win Genevieve back.

I was stunned.

She brazenly argued that playing the field with ten starlets would be a drain on my energy and image, and money was money; concentrating on one woman would at least spare her the acting.

Then she said hiring her would only cost ten million, and she guaranteed she’d win Genevieve back.

I had to admit—Claire was clever and understood me. Her plan appealed to me: public funds used for her romance, she’d get paid, and she’d help me get Genevieve. If I weren’t the one involved, I’d applaud.

But I couldn’t actually hand her ten million. If I did, she wouldn’t be my secretary anymore. I’m a businessman—I didn’t want to lose my favorite employee so quickly.

Still, I wanted Genevieve. I’d never lost so miserably before.

So I offered Claire three hundred thousand a month as a trial.

Because of that monthly three hundred thousand, Claire committed herself to playing our love. She played it so convincingly that she gave me my first time.

Afterward, caught in a messy tangle of emotions, I wired her a million.

I told myself I wouldn’t mix money and employment with anything else.

But in the following days she lingered around me, even picked up books like X Pupu and the Golden Lotus—seeming to hint at more. Maybe she wanted to be with me again. Or maybe she wanted to earn a few million more through me.

Both thoughts made me sick.

If she truly loved me, I’d been cruel. I couldn’t accept that side of myself.

Yet if she was just professional or greedy, I found that even worse.

After that, my feelings toward her grew complicated—an emotion that frightened me.

I felt the same about Genevieve.

Was it love? I didn’t know.

I only knew both names—Claire Bennett and Genevieve Hale—kept appearing in my thoughts, tangled together until I couldn’t tell which came to mind more.

What worried me more was my mother.

After she took Claire to that party, Mom gave Claire the pearl necklace my grandmother had left me as part of my dowry.

When I asked how she could be so generous, Mom said she hadn’t seen someone not wasteful in a long time and thought it deserved reward.

I told Mom she might regret giving away something so significant. Mom replied that not giving it would cause regret—and told me to stop liking Genevieve because liking her would only bring regret.

Mom’s words turned true sooner than I expected.

That day, under Claire’s arrangement, I “chased” her to Hainan.

After a day of ordinary sightseeing and food, just as Claire predicted, Genevieve called me.

Claire, eyes red, pressed the phone away and told me I absolutely couldn’t take the call that night—if I didn’t, by the time I returned tomorrow Genevieve would be my girlfriend. Her eyes glistened with tears as she said it.

In that moment I was sure—Claire really did love me.

Yet Claire acted like a fool, scolding me: “You only give me 600,000. Don’t you feel bad? You should give me ten million.”

I asked what she wanted the money for. She said she wanted to lie flat—do nothing.

Maybe those words pushed something in me—we spent a near-crazed night together.

I reached the airport at six in the morning.

For some reason, even knowing Genevieve awaited me, I felt no excitement—only emptiness.

I knew this feeling well; my heart had been empty for Genevieve before.

But at that moment I was certain: I no longer loved Genevieve.

Perhaps I stopped loving her the day she dumped me for a ridiculous man.

My obsession with her had only been about winning. Claire had made me win.

In that instant many images of Claire flashed through my head.

I called Genevieve and told her I now liked Claire Bennett.

Genevieve was furious.

She told me that Claire Bennett was actually the same boy—Liu Mutong—who used to write me love letters when we were kids. Back then he was an ugly little thing; now he's obsessed with plastic surgery.

So Genevieve Hale gets jealous, too.

I laughed. "Didn't your double eyelids get worked on, too?"

Honestly, I didn't care whether Claire was a plastic-surgery junkie.

On the drive back to find her, I kept my head clear.

I wanted to confront her face-to-face, to rip off the act and tell her to stop pretending. She obviously liked me so much, but she kept pretending she only liked money.

I'd even worked out that I didn't really care whether Claire loved me or loved my money.

When I showed up in front of her and told her I liked her, she was crying.

She froze for a long moment, and finally asked in a trembling voice, "You won't take the money back, will you?"

I laughed out loud.

Perfect. She loves money, and I happen to have more than enough to make sure she'll always love me.

We're truly a match made in heaven.

(The End)
□ Wenquan Temple Superman