Wayne hadn't folded under her gaze. Rooted in a deep, archaic sexism, he considered himself inherently superior to any woman, let alone a twenty-two-year-old socialite. Even as he felt the shift in Hannah’s aura—the cold, calculating edge she had brought back from her previous life—he dismissed it as a fluke. In his mind, Hannah would be nothing more than a punchline after she failed to meet her own impossible quotas.

"You're inviting your own death wish," Wayne spat, his face twisted in a sneer before he stormed away.

I don’t think so, Hannah thought, a thin, dangerous smile playing on her lips as she watched him retreat.

She retreated to the common room for a coffee. The board meeting had eaten into the afternoon, and she knew the price of her ambition would be paid in overtime tonight. Taking a moment to breathe, she finally returned to her new office.

A woman stood outside her door, waiting. She was the picture of corporate efficiency: a sharp formal suit, hair pulled into a severe ponytail, and thick black-framed glasses. When she saw Hannah, she bowed slightly. "Good evening, Ms. Hannah. My name is Rose. I am your special secretary."

"Nice to meet you," Hannah said, nodding as she pushed open the door. "Please, have a seat."

Rose sat opposite her. This appointment had been a direct request to her father. With the sales department in shambles after Jane’s sabotage, Hannah knew she couldn't trust anyone currently on the payroll. She needed an outsider—someone loyal to the Chairman.

"You’re thirty-one, correct?" Hannah asked, scanning Rose’s file.

"Yes."

"And you’ve spent six years in the Chairman’s executive office?"

"Yes."

"I am twenty-two with zero corporate experience," Hannah said, a playful but testing smile on her face. "Don’t you think you’re overqualified to work for me?"

"Yes," Rose replied with startling frankness. "But according to Mr. Miguel’s expectations, your tenure in this office will likely only last six months, after which I will return to the Chairman's side."

Hannah couldn't help but chuckle. Even her father, who had defended her so resolutely during the conference, didn't actually believe she would survive the shark tank of the sales department.

"I’ll be honest with you, Rose. I’ve set a mission impossible for myself. If I fail, I’ll be driven out of this building in disgrace," Hannah said, her eyes losing their warmth. "I need your absolute assistance."

"I will do my duty," Rose replied. She didn't offer praise—only professional commitment.

"Good. I’m planning an immediate overhaul of the sales staff. What are your thoughts?"

"I suggest you do not conduct staff changes on your very first day," Rose advised coolly. "It creates unnecessary friction."

"And if I insist?"

"Then I am at your service," Rose compromised.

"Good. Then stop suggesting and start executing."

Hannah handed over a pile of resumes and a draft of her proposed restructuring. She had spent hours analyzing the department’s dead weight, but she wanted a veteran’s eyes to double-check her work.

Rose went through the documents carefully. As she read, her expression shifted from professional indifference to genuine surprise. If she hadn't known Hannah was a newcomer, she would have assumed this was the work of a director who had spent a decade in the department. The plan was surgical, identifying every underperformer and every hidden asset with terrifying precision.

"No further suggestions," Rose said, looking up. "Did the Chairman draft this for you?"

"No," Hannah replied. "So, do you still think you're overqualified?"

Rose paused, her eyes searching Hannah’s. "I still have my doubts. Strategy is one thing; execution is another."

Hannah wasn't offended; she appreciated the honesty. "Fair enough. Make an appointment with the Director of Human Resources for tomorrow morning. We’re moving forward with the purge."

"Yes, Ms. Hannah."

Hannah glanced at the window. It was 8:00 PM. The city lights were flickering to life, mirroring the cold fire in her own heart. "Time to go home," she said to Rose.

"The duty of a secretary is to leave after her boss," Rose replied, her expression as serious as ever.

Hannah looked at her curiously. "Are you married, Rose?"

"No."

"Have you ever even been in a relationship?"

"Never."

Figures, Hannah thought. She stood up and gathered her things. "I'm going. You're dismissed."

The drive back to Oscar’s manor was quiet. Hannah felt the weight of the day settling into her bones. Oscar had mentioned he would be away for a few days, and she found herself wondering when the "jerk" would return—then immediately scolded herself for caring.

When she entered the lobby, Max was waiting. "Welcome back, Mrs. Wells."

"You're still up, Max?"

"I am waiting for you to finish dinner, Ma'am."

"I already ate at the office," Hannah said, feeling a pang of guilt.

Max didn't seem bothered. "In that case, Master Oscar requested that I prepare some supplements for you. He guessed you would be working late on your first day and would need the nourishment."

Hannah felt a strange, warm flutter in her chest. He thought of that? "Oscar really said that?"

"Yes, Ma'am. He was quite insistent."

Hannah sat at the dining table and, after a moment of hesitation, texted Oscar a simple 'Thanks.'

The reply came almost instantly. He must have been staring at his phone.

'Not a problem. I’m doing this for myself,' he messaged back.

Hannah frowned. She remembered her life with Charles. She would text him, and he would respond hours later with a perfunctory 'Ok'—or more often, he wouldn't respond at all, claiming he was "too busy with social obligations." Oscar was a playboy, yet he was more attentive than her "perfect" husband had ever been.

She tried to stay grounded. I am here for revenge, not for him, she reminded herself.

'What do you mean, for yourself?' she texted back.

The reply made her nearly drop the phone.

'Only when you learn to nourish your body can I taste something better from you.'

Hannah’s face went from pale to beet red in a second. Her touching feelings vanished, replaced by pure irritation.

"What a jerk!" she muttered, tossing the phone onto the table. "He sees me as a toy. A 'better taste'? Despicable!"

In a distant hotel suite, Oscar Wells stared at his phone and let out a loud, genuine laugh.

"Oscar, your laughter is disgusting," Theodore complained from across the room. "You sound like a different person. Seriously, what is it with that lady? She turned a man of ice into a giggling teenager."

Oscar just smiled, his eyes dark with a mixture of amusement and something far more possessive. "She’s not just a lady, Theodore. She's my wife."