Chapter 2 · The CEO's Runaway Canary

Five years.

I'd been with Charles for five years.

By day, I was his sharp, no-nonsense chief secretary, taking the shots, handling the politics, and shielding him from every kind of trouble in the business world.

By night, I was the canary he kept in Peyton Residence 108, always there to give him the perfect emotional support and physical comfort.

He paid me about 3.3 million dollars a year, handed me a black card, and spoiled me with endless luxury goods.

He laid down the rules: no feelings, no questions about his whereabouts, and no asking for a title.

I stuck to those rules better than anyone.

Because I knew all too well, men like Charles didn't have a heart.

He only cared about himself, and the power and empire he ruled over.

I used to think, as long as the money kept coming, there was nothing wrong with keeping this arrangement going for life.

But now, it feels like my time as his canary is about to be over.

Melissa was no pushover.

In Metropolis high society, she was famous for being untamable, sharp-eyed, and unwilling to put up with the slightest nonsense.

Once she became Mrs. Peyton, my days as his "all-purpose secretary" were numbered, and it didn't take a genius to figure out just how ugly things would get for me.

Since he wanted things to end cleanly, I figured I'd just bow out before he even had to say a word.

Better to make myself scarce before he ever asked.

That night, at eleven o'clock.

Charles had been pulled away by a few big shots for a meeting, so he probably wouldn't be coming back to Peyton Residence 108 tonight.

I pushed open the door to the penthouse.

The cool white motion-sensor lights flicked on one after another.

The 2,100-square-foot closet was overflowing with this season's designer clothes, and the drawers were stuffed with limited-edition jewelry and watches.

I dragged out a twenty-inch black suitcase.

I dug into the very bottom corner of the closet.

I pulled out two plain cotton tracksuits.

I grabbed the old laptop I'd bought with my own salary.

I also grabbed a few old, yellowed textbooks.

And tossed in a battered thermos I'd been using for years.

That was all I was taking with me.

As for all those Hermès, Patek Philippe, and Cartier luxury goods,

I didn't bother to touch a single one.

Those were just playthings Charles gave to his canary, not something that ever belonged to Sophia.

I sat down at the desk and fired up my laptop.

I logged into my online banking.

About twenty-nine million dollars, sitting right there in my account.

All legit, earned over five years of endless overtime, bleeding ulcers, and taking bullets for him, both in business and behind the scenes.

I shut the laptop with a satisfied smile.

With nearly twenty-nine million dollars, I could retire anywhere in the world and live out my days as a top-tier rich lady, no more work, just pure luxury and freedom.

At two in the morning, I drafted a flawless resignation letter and sent it to Charles's work email.

Then I opened his personal WhatsApp.

The last message in the chat was from earlier that afternoon: [Don't wait up for me, just eat dinner on your own.]

My fingers flew across the keyboard.

I typed: [Mr. Peyton, thank you for looking out for me these past five years. I really appreciate it.]

I continued: [Heard you're getting engaged. To avoid any drama, I've already resigned and wrapped up everything on my end.]

I added: [The keys and all the valuables are in the safe by the door. The code's your birthday.]

I finished with: [Hope you and Ms. Shaw have a happy marriage and lots of kids.]

I hit send.

Not even a flicker of doubt.

Staring at that green chat bubble on the screen, a wave of relief washed over me, like I could finally breathe again.

It felt like I'd been stuck in quicksand for five years, and now I'd finally surfaced and gulped down my first breath of freedom.

I didn't block him.

That would've just made me look childish, like I still gave a damn.

The classiest way to leave is to disappear so completely, it's like you never existed at all, no drama, no ripples.

I pulled the SIM card out of my phone and tossed it right into the toilet.

I pressed the flush button.

Watched that tiny chip disappear in the swirling water.

Goodbye, Charles.

Chapter 2

Five years.

I'd been with Charles for five years.

By day, I was his sharp, no-nonsense chief secretary, taking the shots, handling the politics, and shielding him from every kind of trouble in the business world.

By night, I was the canary he kept in Peyton Residence 108, always there to give him the perfect emotional support and physical comfort.

He paid me about 3.3 million dollars a year, handed me a black card, and spoiled me with endless luxury goods.

He laid down the rules: no feelings, no questions about his whereabouts, and no asking for a title.

I stuck to those rules better than anyone.

Because I knew all too well, men like Charles didn't have a heart.

He only cared about himself, and the power and empire he ruled over.

I used to think, as long as the money kept coming, there was nothing wrong with keeping this arrangement going for life.

But now, it feels like my time as his canary is about to be over.

Melissa was no pushover.

In Metropolis high society, she was famous for being untamable, sharp-eyed, and unwilling to put up with the slightest nonsense.

Once she became Mrs. Peyton, my days as his "all-purpose secretary" were numbered, and it didn't take a genius to figure out just how ugly things would get for me.

Since he wanted things to end cleanly, I figured I'd just bow out before he even had to say a word.

Better to make myself scarce before he ever asked.

That night, at eleven o'clock.

Charles had been pulled away by a few big shots for a meeting, so he probably wouldn't be coming back to Peyton Residence 108 tonight.

I pushed open the door to the penthouse.

The cool white motion-sensor lights flicked on one after another.

The 2,100-square-foot closet was overflowing with this season's designer clothes, and the drawers were stuffed with limited-edition jewelry and watches.

I dragged out a twenty-inch black suitcase.

I dug into the very bottom corner of the closet.

I pulled out two plain cotton tracksuits.

I grabbed the old laptop I'd bought with my own salary.

I also grabbed a few old, yellowed textbooks.

And tossed in a battered thermos I'd been using for years.

That was all I was taking with me.

As for all those Hermès, Patek Philippe, and Cartier luxury goods,

I didn't bother to touch a single one.

Those were just playthings Charles gave to his canary, not something that ever belonged to Sophia.

I sat down at the desk and fired up my laptop.

I logged into my online banking.

About twenty-nine million dollars, sitting right there in my account.

All legit, earned over five years of endless overtime, bleeding ulcers, and taking bullets for him, both in business and behind the scenes.

I shut the laptop with a satisfied smile.

With nearly twenty-nine million dollars, I could retire anywhere in the world and live out my days as a top-tier rich lady, no more work, just pure luxury and freedom.

At two in the morning, I drafted a flawless resignation letter and sent it to Charles's work email.

Then I opened his personal WhatsApp.

The last message in the chat was from earlier that afternoon: [Don't wait up for me, just eat dinner on your own.]

My fingers flew across the keyboard.

I typed: [Mr. Peyton, thank you for looking out for me these past five years. I really appreciate it.]

I continued: [Heard you're getting engaged. To avoid any drama, I've already resigned and wrapped up everything on my end.]

I added: [The keys and all the valuables are in the safe by the door. The code's your birthday.]

I finished with: [Hope you and Ms. Shaw have a happy marriage and lots of kids.]

I hit send.

Not even a flicker of doubt.

Staring at that green chat bubble on the screen, a wave of relief washed over me, like I could finally breathe again.

It felt like I'd been stuck in quicksand for five years, and now I'd finally surfaced and gulped down my first breath of freedom.

I didn't block him.

That would've just made me look childish, like I still gave a damn.

The classiest way to leave is to disappear so completely, it's like you never existed at all, no drama, no ripples.

I pulled the SIM card out of my phone and tossed it right into the toilet.

I pressed the flush button.

Watched that tiny chip disappear in the swirling water.

Goodbye, Charles.