I came home from a business trip to find my personal slippers still damp.
I asked Mary Henson if we'd had visitors.
She froze for a split second, then laughed. "How could we? You know I'm hopeless at socializing."
"I just like staying in on weekends, nice and quiet."
"Isn't that what you always said you loved about me? How well-behaved I am?"
I gave a noncommittal smile and waited until she left to go shopping. Then I searched the apartment, room by room.
Someone had used the razor in the bathroom. A set of pajamas in the walk-in closet had been worn.
But the worst part? The box of Durex in the nightstand was completely empty.
Two days. Twelve condoms.
Impressive stamina.
I swallowed my rage and pulled out my phone:
"Contact the building manager. Get me all surveillance footage from the past two days."
"And make sure no one else finds out."
——
The next day at the office, the footage was already waiting in my inbox.
I clicked it open and dragged the progress bar.
Crystal clear. Timestamped to the second.
Starting three days ago, a man had been coming and going from my home. Frequently.
The final clip was recorded one hour before I'd arrived:
The elevator doors slid open. He stepped out with his arm around Mary's waist. They stopped just outside our front door—and kissed. Long, slow, desperate. The kind of kiss that made it hard to tell where one person ended and the other began.
Mary's hand slipped inside his coat. I'd never seen her like that. So eager. So hungry.
I recognized him instantly.
Dean Gilbert. Mary's new assistant.
I'd seen his résumé. Twenty-five years old, back from some overseas program.
Six-foot-one, with the kind of face that opened doors.
The video froze on the frame where he dipped his head to kiss the curve of her neck.
I closed the window and leaned back in my chair.
That's when the knock came. Two raps. Not too soft, not too loud.
"Come in."
The door swung open.
And there he was.
Dean Gilbert, in a tailored light-gray suit that showed off his height and long legs. Every hair in place. His eyes carried the sharp confidence of youth—edged with something lazier. Almost arrogant.
He held a folder in one hand.
"Chairman Dickerson."
His voice was clear, all business.
"President Henson asked me to deliver this year-end bonus list for your signature."
He walked to my desk and set the folder down.
No small talk. No move to leave. He just stood there, waiting.
Posture perfect. But his gaze drifted past my face to the bookshelf behind me, as if this were nothing more than a trivial errand.
I looked up at him.
He didn't flinch. He even smiled—a smile with something unreadable beneath it.
Normally, when Mary sent documents like this—or had her secretary bring them—I'd glance at the total and sign. She handled HR and Finance. I'd always given her free rein.
But today, I picked up the folder. Opened it.
Page by page, I went through the list. Bonuses ranged from tens of thousands to a few hundred thousand—consistent with this year's performance.
Then I reached the last page.
My hand stopped.
Next to Dean Gilbert's name was a long string of digits.
Year-end bonus: $1,000,000.
And in the remarks column, a single line: Plus one company BMW 730Li.
One million dollars. A BMW 7 Series.
For an executive assistant who'd been here less than six months.
My eyes lingered on that number for two seconds. Then I looked up.
Dean was watching me. That faint smile had deepened, and something flickered in his gaze—impatience.
"Chairman Dickerson, is there a problem?"
His tone stayed polite. But there was an edge now.
A push.
