The subway let out a long screech in the dark tunnel, like a weary steel beast disgorging its bellyful of human sardines from one hive to another.

I was caught in the crowd, unable to move.

The air was a viscous cocktail of cheap perfume, overnight fatigue and the steam from breakfast buns, suffocatingly clinging to my skin.

My name is Jessica Johnson, but for the past five years, I've been more accustomed to another identity—Francis Foster's "person."

The purpose of my trip was to deliver an urgent document he had left on the bedside table in the morning.

Two girls beside me were huddling together, sharing a mobile phone screen, their excited whispers piercing through the numbness of the commute.

"Look, look! Foster Family Group and the Shen Family are going to form a marriage alliance? Is it true?"

"It's all over the financial news! Look at this photo from last night's charity gala. Francis Foster personally intercepted a drink for Sophia Stewart. That gesture... wow, total boyfriend material!"

My gaze was involuntarily drawn to it. The photo occupied most of the screen, glaring brightly in the dim train compartment.

In the photo, Foster turned sideways to shield Stewart behind him, extending his arm to block an offered glass of champagne. His face, as if carved from cold jade, rarely showed anything other than his usual distant indifference that kept people at bay.

Behind him stood Sophia Stewart, the woman known as "Shanghai's Premier Socialite," looking up at him with eyes full of admiration and dependence.

A talented man and a beautiful woman, a match made in heaven.

The scrolling comment section below was filled with such flattering remarks.

My fingertips unconsciously tightened, slightly deforming the edge of the manila envelope I was holding.

In my mind, a chaotic and distant scene suddenly flashed.

Five years ago, in a similarly decadent setting. My gambling-addicted brother had pushed me to the edge, and in a high-end club, I was being force-fed alcohol by a sleazy client who gripped my neck. Cold champagne was poured over my head, the sticky liquid seeping into my collar, the humiliation nearly drowning me.

It was then that Francis Foster walked in.

He appeared like a deity descended to earth, effortlessly dispersing those malevolent beings, using a snow-white handkerchief to wipe the alcohol stains from my face, his movements incredibly gentle.

Then, he gripped my chin, forcing me to look up, those eyes deep as a cold pond, carrying a hint of playful scrutiny.

"Come with me," his voice was deep and magnetic, like an all-encompassing velvet net, "I'll pay off your debt."

He paused, the corners of his mouth curling into a faint smile, and added the second half: "Let's just call it a joke, shall we?"

That joke left my life with only one name: Francis Foster.

"Ding——"

The subway arrival alert pulled me from the whirlpool of memories. I took a deep breath, squeezed off the train, and merged into the flood of people heading toward the skyscraper.

The Foster Group building soared into the clouds, its glass curtain wall reflecting cold light in the morning sun. The receptionist saw me and immediately stood up, smiling respectfully: "Miss Ji, good morning."

She didn't inquire, didn't block my way, and directly pressed the button for the exclusive elevator to the top floor.

This unimpeded privilege was the only fleeting comfort I could grasp in this relationship. It gave me the illusion that perhaps I was special.

As the elevator rose smoothly, the mirror reflected my somewhat pale face. I straightened my slightly disheveled clothes and forced a proper smile.

He's just too busy, I told myself. The news is all just rumors, and he never explains himself.

The elevator doors slid open silently. The top floor was as quiet as a mausoleum, a world apart from the clamor below.

I walked up to the heavy ebony door, knocked gently, and without waiting for a response, pushed it open.

The scene inside the office, however, pierced my heart once again.

Francis Foster was sitting on the sofa, but he wasn't alone.

Next to him sat an elegant woman, the very Sophia Stewart from the news photos. She wore a perfectly tailored Chanel suit and held a snow-white Bichon Frise named "Buddy" in her arms.

Hearing the door open, Francis looked up, and seeing me, his brows furrowed in displeasure.

"My assistant, Jessica Johnson," he introduced me to Sophia, his tone as flat as if he were describing an object.

My heart suddenly sank, not because he mentioned my name, but because of the word "assistant"—a cold and contemptuous title that precisely summarized all my emotions and five years of youth.

It was like a scorching branding iron, burning painfully into my heart.

Upon hearing this, Sophia Stewart finally let her beautiful eyes truly rest on me, with a look of sudden realization and a barely perceptible trace of disdain.

She raised her chin and spoke in a languid yet commanding tone: "Oh, Miss Johnson. Please make me a cup of coffee, I'm not used to drinking tea."

Francis Foster remained silent, which was as good as consent.

I lowered my eyes, walked into the pantry, my fingers trembling slightly as I prepared the coffee.

When I returned with the coffee and carefully placed it on the table in front of Sophia Stewart, tragedy struck.

"Woof!"

The "Buddy" in her arms lunged at me without warning, its sharp barking exploding in the quiet office.

I've been afraid of dogs since birth, and this sudden attack made me instinctively panic and back away, bumping into the coffee table behind me.

"CRASH——!"

A crisp sound, and the crystal vase on the coffee table fell to the ground, shattering to pieces. Cold water mixed with delicate rose petals splashed all over me.

I collapsed awkwardly onto the cold, wet floor, with glass shards right beside my knees.

I looked up, desperately glancing at Francis Foster, hoping to see a hint of concern in his eyes.

。

However, I only saw his furrowed brows and heard a bone-chillingly cold rebuke.

"How can you be so clumsy."

Beside him, Sophia Stewart elegantly hugged her startled pet dog, the corner of her mouth curling into an almost imperceptible, victorious smile.

His canary has flown away — Chapter 3

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