✧･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ:*
[ 𝐒𝐄𝐐𝐔𝐄𝐋 1 ]
Because this is where love fades and hate resides and intensifies, broken hearts produce the most tragic stories.
Their treachery is told through their bleeding hearts: their unrequited love was never reciprocated. The...
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The silence of the penthouse, once a fortress of my control, was now a hollow, ringing space, echoing the chaotic energy Ada had left behind. She'd stormed out and stormed back in within the span of three minutes, demanding a "revised compensation package." Her defiance, the sheer, blazing nerve of her, should have been irritating. Instead, it was... compelling—a fascinating anomaly in my perfectly ordered universe.
I had just put on my coat for the investor meeting when I saw it. It lay on the dark mahogany surface of the bedside table in the master bedroom—my room, which was now her room. It was not a typical book. It was a simple, leather-bound journal, scarred and worn, held closed by a thin, frayed ribbon. It was small enough to hide, anonymous sufficient to discard, yet it radiated the kind of importance that suggested it held secrets far heavier than any financial ledger.
A flicker of guilt—a sensation so foreign it felt like a brief, physical illness—passed through me. This was private. Intensely personal.
But my mind, the cold, calculating machine that had built the Agarwal Empire, immediately supplied the counterargument. She was my strategic partner, the key to dismantling the Sharma Empire, the most vulnerable, volatile, and valuable asset I currently possessed. I needed to understand the mechanics of her rage, the source of her panic, the core programming that made her simultaneously break down in fear and stand up to me with a fire in her eyes. The slap this morning wasn't an act of disrespect; it was a desperate, uncalculated lash-out. I needed the blueprint of her trauma to control the chaos.
I walked over, picked up the diary, and the weight of it in my hand was surprisingly heavy. It felt like holding a stone that had endured centuries of erosion. I sat on the edge of the bed, my suit perfectly tailored, my mind ruthlessly detached. I opened the cover.
The handwriting was neat, flowing, yet occasionally interrupted by jagged, angry strokes that tore at the paper. The ink sometimes looked blurred, suggesting it had been smeared by a liquid—likely tears.
