Chapter 4

Over the next few days, I poured every ounce of my energy into that report.

During the day, I handled my daily tasks. At night, after dinner, I sat in front of my computer sorting through data.

Q1 administrative expenses, logistical requests from various departments, procurement contract ledgers...

Some data could be pulled directly from the system, while others required cross-referencing with finance and HR.

Aiden walked to the study door twice to check on me. He didn't say anything, turning back to the living room.

A few minutes later, a glass of warm milk or a small plate of sliced fruit would appear on my desk.

He didn't ask what was keeping me busy.

But he knew I was unhappy.

By Thursday night, I finally finished the draft.

Forty-eight pages, complete with charts, data, and thorough analysis.

As I filled in the final color on the pie chart, I glanced at the clock—1:14 AM.

The living room lights were still on.

I walked out of the study and saw Aiden asleep on the sofa. His tablet had slipped to his side, and the TV was on mute.

A bowl of warm chicken soup sat on the coffee table, covered with a small plate to keep the heat in.

I knelt down and gently touched his cheek.

He woke up almost instantly, grabbing my hand, his voice thick with sleep.

"All done?"

"Yeah."

"What time is it?"

"Past one."

He frowned, sitting up, and pushed the soup toward me.

"Eat first."

I picked up the spoon and took a sip. The chicken soup was perfect, the broth rich and comforting.

"It's delicious," I said.

He rubbed his eyes, looking at the dark circles under my eyes, and suddenly asked, "Chloe, is someone at work bullying you?"

The spoon froze in my hand.

"No—"

"For the past week, you've been working late every night. You're talking less, and you're barely smiling."

His gaze was direct, not sharp with accusation, but steady and serious. "You don't have to tell me, but please don't carry this all on your own."

I looked down at the soup, the steam blurring my vision.

"It's just... some trouble at work."

"Victoria?"

"Yeah."

He didn't pry further. He simply reached out, pulled me to sit beside him, and wrapped a blanket around me.

"Do you want to handle it yourself, or do you want me to step in?"

"Myself," I answered almost instinctively.

He was quiet for a few seconds, then nodded.

"Okay."

That night, he held me on the sofa for a long time.

The TV screen flickered silently, but neither of us watched.

Leaning against his chest, I suddenly thought of Victoria's words.

"Doormat," "simp," "free maid," "out of your mind."

If she could see this right now—the "mediocre" boyfriend she talked about, waiting up for me in the living room at 1:00 AM, having made me a bowl of hot soup...

What would she think?

She'd probably still say, "What century are we living in? It's just a bowl of soup."