Sylvia Sterling stood before the heavy walnut door of the CEO's office, drawing in a deep breath.

Seven years. Over twenty-five hundred days and nights. She'd pushed this door open countless times—arranging his schedule, delivering his coffee, reporting updates, and defusing crises.

Behind this door lay the place where she'd poured her entire heart and youth—and the graveyard of her marriage.

Today would be the last time. Ever.

Her fingertips felt ice-cold as she gently pushed the door open.

The room maintained its constant 23 degrees, filled with the crisp cedar fragrance she'd selected for him—much like the man himself: meticulous, controlled, with an aloofness that kept everyone at arm's length.

Garrett Grayson sat behind his massive desk, eyes locked on the candlestick charts filling his screen. Morning light poured through the floor-to-ceiling windows, casting his chiseled profile in a pale golden glow.

He didn't even look up, merely extending his hand by habit.

Usually at this moment, Sylvia would place the documents she'd carefully screened and prioritized into his waiting palm.

Today, she did the same. Except the document on top was titled "Resignation Letter."

Without shifting his gaze from the screen, his slender fingers picked up the custom fountain pen and flipped smoothly to the last page, signing his bold, flourishing name—Garrett Grayson.

After signing, he pushed the document forward with practiced ease, waiting for her to take it away.

Sylvia didn't move.

Garrett finally sensed something amiss, his brows furrowing slightly as his gaze shifted from the screen to the document.

When the bold words "Resignation Letter" registered, he froze momentarily. His eyes lifted to Sylvia standing before his desk. She wore that familiar Chanel cream suit he'd seen a hundred times, her posture perfect, makeup flawless, wearing the same composed, professional expression she'd maintained for seven years—betraying not a hint of emotion.

A wave of absurdity washed over Garrett. He leaned back in his leather chair, drumming his fingertips on the application, his lips curving into a sardonic smile.

"Sterling, what's this? Some kind of performance art?" His tone remained casual, laced with his trademark condescension. "Because I forgot that… anniversary yesterday?"

He couldn't even say "wedding anniversary" without pausing to recall the words.

Sylvia's heart felt the prick of a needle—a tiny sting followed by profound numbness.

Of course he'd forgotten. And naturally assumed her actions were just a ploy for attention and compensation.

"Mr. Grayson, this is my resignation letter," Sylvia's voice remained perfectly steady, as if merely commenting on pleasant weather. "Per labor law and our contract, I'll serve a 30-day notice period. During this time, I'll fully assist the new secretary in learning all duties to ensure a seamless transition."

The smile vanished from Garrett's face as he studied her intently. He searched for any trace of spite, hurt feelings, or calculated manipulation in her eyes but found nothing.

Those almond eyes—once so expressive—now resembled a still, silent lake.

This unnatural calmness sent a ripple of discomfort through him, quickly replaced by irritation.

He hated anything beyond his control—even when it involved his chief secretary of seven years, practically his right hand.

"A 30-day handover period?" he repeated with a dismissive laugh. "Sylvia, let's not be dramatic. I know I've been busy lately and neglected you, but there's no need for these attention-seeking tactics. Take three days off to cool down."

His tone was commanding—the way one might dismiss a petulant child.

Sylvia pursed her lips slightly. Typical Garrett. In his world, her every emotion and action could only exist in relation to him. She apparently even needed his "gracious permission" to resign.

"Mr. Grayson, I'm not seeking your approval," Sylvia met his gaze, her tone polite yet unyielding. "I'm simply fulfilling my obligation to inform you. In 30 days, regardless of the handover status, I will be leaving. This is protocol, and my way of respecting this position."

Garrett's last hint of a smile vanished. He rose to his full height, his imposing figure radiating pressure.

He moved toward Sylvia, standing close enough to catch that faint, comforting white tea scent that clung to her. That fragrance had been with him for seven years—so familiar he'd stopped noticing it entirely.

"Sylvia," he lowered his voice, warning evident in his tone, "enough games. You're Mrs. Grayson, chief secretary of this corporation—not some flighty young girl who can just walk away on a whim. Even tantrums have their limits."

The words "Mrs. Grayson" clamped around her like a rusty manacle, momentarily stealing her breath. That title—their seven years of secret marriage—had become her invisible prison.

She inhaled deeply, stepping back to restore the professional distance between them.

"Mr. Grayson, in this office, I am simply your secretary, Sylvia Sterling. My resignation has nothing to do with whose wife I am—it concerns only myself." She paused, then added with crystal clarity, "The 30-day countdown begins tomorrow. Today I'll prepare a list of core responsibilities. Unless you have other instructions, I'll be going now."

Without waiting for his response, she gave a slight nod, turned on her three-inch heels, and walked steadily out of his office.

The door closed softly behind her, shutting out the man she'd loved for seven years—the man who had drained every ounce of her spirit during those same seven years.

Garrett stared at the closed door, his expression darkening. He returned to his seat and yanked at his tie in frustration.

Sylvia's reaction had completely deviated from his expected script.

He'd expected tears, drama, or at least some visible hurt—after which he'd offer material compensation or brief tenderness, and everything would return to normal as it had countless times before.

But she was unnervingly calm—so composed that she seemed genuinely resolved.

Impossible. Garrett immediately dismissed the thought. Sylvia couldn't leave him, just as he couldn't function without her expertise. Over seven years, he'd shaped her into the perfect component for his machine; everything about her was calibrated to his needs. Where could she possibly go? What could she possibly do without him?

This had to be a strategic retreat—a ploy to force his hand. Was she using resignation to make him publicly acknowledge her as "Mrs. Grayson"? Or did she want something more?

Garrett let out a derisive snort and jabbed the intercom button. "Assistant Li, come in."

He'd play along with her little game. He was curious to see how long she could maintain this "act" during these 30 days.

He tossed the signed resignation letter into his bottom drawer like a piece of worthless trash.

He was certain that within days, Sylvia would find some excuse to back down and return obediently to her position as his ever-capable "Secretary Sterling."

All he needed to do was wait.

Seven Years of Secret Marriage: CEO, Your Secretary Quits — Chapitre 8

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