I Won't Accept Your Remorse

I spend eight years being Ashton Clark's secret girlfriend, bending over backward for him like a maid. It takes the company's cleaning lady to finally make me see the truth. Late that night, while working overtime, I place some stomach medicine and a bowl of warmed seafood chowder on his desk. "Eat while it's warm, Mr. Clark. Don't let your stomach flare up again." His eyes stay glued to the financial reports on his screen. He doesn't even bother to grunt an acknowledgment. I reach out to push the bowl a little closer to his hand. Nearby, the cleaning lady emptying the trash suddenly stops. "Save it, sweetie. Mr. Clark already ate something someone else brought him. The fancy lunchbox is sitting right here in my bin." My hand freezes mid-air. Ashton's fingers pause over his keyboard, his brows knitting slightly. Even a woman in her 50s who just quietly cleans the office every day can tell that he doesn't love me. Looking down at that bowl of chowder, I suddenly feel like the last eight years of my life has been nothing but a joke. I pick up the bowl and dump it straight into the trash. "Right. Mr. Clark's tastes have changed." That's the last time I ever put him at the top of my list. Chapter 1 A flash of irritation crossed Ashton Clark's eyes. "Sylvia, enough already. Bringing this junk to the office only disrupts my work." In the past, those words would make me bow my head and apologize instantly. I would have carefully set the chowder down, then retreated to the corner to wait for him to finish it. But that day, I just stood there and stared at the elegant lunchbox sitting in the trash cart. It was pink, adorned with floral prints and a bow. It was clearly made with love. The cleaning lady sighed and pushed her cart away. Before she left, she shot me a look filled with pure pity. "Sylvia, what are you daydreaming about?" Ashton finally looked up at me. But it wasn't out of concern. It was out of sheer impatience. I twisted the cap tight on my thermos and turned toward the door. "Sylvia Duncan." His voice carried a sharp edge of warning. This trick used to work every single time. I would stop, turn around, smile, and say, "Alright, alright, get back to work." But that day, I didn't stop. Once I reached my desk, I unplugged my flash drive, shut down my computer, and clocked out before heading to the elevator. Just then, my phone buzzed. It was a text from Ashton. "Come back and clean up my desk. On your way out, print the materials for tomorrow's meeting." After reading it, I locked my screen. The night wind blew hard as I stepped out of the office building. As I waited at the crosswalk for the traffic light, I opened WhatsApp. Next to the name "Ashton" was a bracketed note—"Restock his stomach medicine on Wednesdays". I deleted the note and unpinned his chat. Once it was done, my phone felt lighter in my hand. When I got back to our shared apartment, the living room was pitch black. I walked straight to the guest bedroom and locked the door behind me. I used to sleep in the master bedroom, warming up the sheets before Ashton got home. When he ran late, I would fill a hot water bottle and place it on his side of the bed. When he was slow to text back, I checked my phone every ten minutes. That night, I closed my eyes within three minutes of lying down. I didn't wait for his messages or set alarms to remind myself to make him breakfast. I slept incredibly soundly that night. At 2:00 am, my phone lit up repeatedly. But I just rolled over and ignored it. The alarm went off at 6:15 am. In the past, I would have already been in the kitchen, making him sandwiches. Whole-wheat bread, lettuce, a fried egg, low-fat cheese, and ham, seared until the edges were just slightly crispy. Ashton had eaten them for eight years without offering a single compliment, but if they were ever a fraction too salty, he would be in a foul mood for the entire day. That day, I warmed up a glass of milk and sat at the dining table, sipping it slowly. Chapter 2 No one ironed Ashton's suit, picked out his ties, or shined his shoes. At 7:00 am, the master bedroom door swung open. Ashton stepped out in his pajamas, his hair a messy tangle. The moment he saw the empty dining table, his expression darkened. "Where's breakfast?" I finished the last sip of my milk and put the glass in the dishwasher. "I'm not hungry." "I asked about my breakfast." His tone was the exact one he used with his employees. Actually, no. He treated his employees with more courtesy than he ever showed me. I wiped the corner of my mouth and said nothing. Ashton stared at me for a few seconds, then slammed the bedroom door shut behind him. Ten minutes later, he came out fully dressed with a briefcase in hand. As he passed my way, he paused. He was probably waiting for me to rush over, straighten his tie, and slip a bottle of water into his bag just like I always did. Instead, I sat on the couch and scrolled through my phone without even glancing up. A quiet scoff sounded above me, laced with pure annoyance. A second later, the front door was slammed shut with a thunderous bang. I knew Ashton was furious. If things went the way they usually did, I'd be getting the silent treatment for a long while. But after chasing him for two years and catering to his every whim for eight, I decided that it was time to look out for myself. After all, I had spent years shortchanging myself for him. Back in college, Ashton was the golden boy of the finance department. With his rich family, good looks, and top grades, he drew eyes wherever he went—mine included. I still remembered him dominating the debate stage with effortless charisma. I remembered him walking under the sycamore trees in his crisp white shirts. I remembered the time he casually picked up a textbook I'd dropped, handing it back to me without a second glance before walking away. That single moment hooked me, marking the beginning of a two-year pursuit. I began waking up at 6:00 am every morning just to secure the seat right behind his usual spot in lecture halls. Ashton loved black coffee, so I would line up at the cafe in front of the school gates 20 minutes before it opened. I did it in the freezing winter, and I did it in the pouring rain. Once, during a heavy snowstorm, the cafe was closed. I ran three blocks just to find another place that was open. By the time I handed him the cup, the coffee was still hot, but my hands were completely numb. Ashton took it, sipped it, and murmured, "Not bad." Those two words kept me riding high for an entire week. Later, I started organizing his club paperwork, printing his theses, and standing in line to submit his assignments. He never said no, but he never reached out first either. When I told my roommate I was pursuing him, she asked, "Is he actually into you?" I thought about it for a long time before replying, "Well, he isn't rejecting me, so he must be." Looking back, I was incredibly naive. During graduation year, Ashton landed a management trainee spot at Holt Group, while three top-tier investment banks were fighting over my résumé. I was supposed to go to Apex Corp. I had passed the interviews and signed the offer. But then Ashton said just one thing to me. "Sylvia, come to Holt Group. I need someone I can actually trust by my side." That was all it took. And so, I turned down Apex Corp. My advisor slammed his hands on his desk in frustration, telling me that I was the biggest idiot he had ever taught. But I didn't think I was an idiot back then. At the time, hearing Ashton say he "needed me" felt like the ultimate romantic gesture. Once I joined Holt Group, I was placed in the investment analysis department. Three months later, I was reassigned as Ashton's personal assistant. He had signed the transfer order himself. I saw it as a sign of trust, closeness, and proof that my two years of pursuing him had finally paid off. In my first year as his assistant, I made his breakfast, managed his documents, and wrote his market analysis reports on the side. He put his name on those reports, which I thought was only natural. I was just his assistant, so of course they went out under his name. Chapter 3 During my second year as Ashton's assistant, I moved into his apartment. There was no proposal or any romantic gesture. He simply said, "You should move in. It'll be easier for you to cook and do my laundry." I convinced myself that moving in together was a sign of commitment. When Mom called to ask when Ashton was coming over to meet the family, I fabricated a dozen excuses for him—he was swamped, traveling, or his projects were under tight deadlines. Mom asked, "He can't even spare a single day to meet me?" "Mom, he's just really busy," I replied. After hanging up, I looked over and saw Ashton curled up on the couch, playing video games. Whenever these moments of unease crept up, I usually brushed them off quickly. I would tell myself that it wasn't that Ashton didn't love me. He just didn't know how to show it. In my third year, Ashton's mother, Aileen Barton, came by to inspect the apartment. She pointed at the curtains I'd bought and called them cheap and embarrassing. I replaced them with a set she approved of. They cost me 280 dollars, and I lived on instant noodles for 20 days that month. In my fourth year, during the company performance reviews, my metrics ranked first in the entire department. But the outstanding employee award went to Ashton instead. After all, I had achieved those results entirely under his name. During the fifth year, a headhunter approached me. A newly established investment bank wanted to bring me on as a partner. I hesitated the entire night before finally bringing it up to Ashton. He set his phone down, glanced at me, and asked, "If you leave, who's going to help me?" And so, I stayed. During the sixth year, Aileen forced me to sign an agreement. The first clause stipulated that I acknowledged I was not Ashton's wife and that our relationship was simply one of voluntary cohabitation, creating no legal obligations between us. The second clause stated that if our relationship ended, I would have no right to seek financial compensation, emotional distress damages, or a share of the Clark family's assets. Ashton stood right beside her, completely silent. After signing, I spent half an hour crying in the stairwell. Then I wiped my tears, went back to the kitchen in his apartment, and made his favorite honey-glazed ribs. By the seventh and eighth years, I had forgotten who I used to be. I would wake up at 6:00 am every day to cook, spend the day working as his assistant and writing his reports, then wait for him to come home at night and go through his schedule with him past midnight. I filled every waking moment with the name "Ashton Clark". By the end, I barely remembered who Sylvia Duncan was. … I stood, walked to the closet, and dug through the very back. A dusty black pantsuit lay there. It was the first professional outfit I'd bought when I started working eight years ago. Back then, I was the top student in the finance department, and my analysis reports were pinned to the office bulletin board as templates for everyone else to follow. I pulled the suit out and shook off the dust. It could still fit me. It just looked a little dated. … When I arrived at the office, a small crowd had gathered outside the CEO's office. Eve Grant was standing there in a white floral dress, holding a cup of coffee. Her eyes lit up when she saw me, and she flashed a sickeningly sweet smile. "Oh, hi, Sylvia." She deliberately swirled the cup right in front of my face. "I made this pour-over using Mr. Clark's private reserve beans. He told me he's gotten so used to my brewing that nothing else tastes right anymore." She paused and tilted her head at me. "Oh, by the way, Sylvia, Mr. Clark said he's done with instant coffee. You don't need to buy it anymore. He doesn't want to waste money." A few colleagues nearby quietly exchanged looks. Some felt sympathy for me, some watched like they were enjoying a show, and some took pleasure in my misfortune. I lowered my gaze to the lunchbox bag that was sticking halfway out of her dress pocket. It was pink, with floral prints and a bow—the same pattern as the lunchbox in the trash can. I slapped the clipboard with my daily to-do list pinned to it right against her chest. "Since you're so great at catering to Mr. Clark, you can handle all of his personal errands from now on." Eve froze. Her mouth opened to speak, but the office door swung open from the inside. Chapter 4 Ashton stood in the doorway. His shirt collar was unbuttoned, and his tie was crooked. After scanning the room, his gaze landed right on the clipboard I'd slapped against Eve's chest. "Sylvia, what are you doing? Eve is a new intern, while you're a senior employee. Act like one when you're training someone, and keep your personal feelings out of the workplace." His voice wasn't loud, but every single word was a defense of Eve. And he said it in front of everyone outside the CEO's office. The old me would have lowered my head with tear-filled eyes and mumbled, "I'm sorry. I'll be more careful next time." But that day, I just nodded. "You're absolutely right, Mr. Clark. I clearly lack the ability to train an intern." I pulled a document from my bag and smacked it onto the desk in front of him. "This is my transfer request. Please sign it. I'm moving back to the investment analysis department." Ashton's expression shifted. As he looked down at the paper, his mouth twitched. "This is nonsense." He pushed the document back toward me. "You've been with the CEO's Office for eight years. You know the operations better than anyone. Why would you transfer?" "Mr. Clark, in my eight years here, the only real work I've done is write your analysis reports." My voice wasn't loud, but it carried perfectly across the quiet office. "I built the core risk-control model for last year's Evermont merger. The year before that, I set up the entire financial analysis framework for the Sterling investment. "I even pulled an all-nighter to put together the final presentation slides you used on stage for the Axiom restructuring three years ago." I looked Ashton straight in the eye and said, "Yet, every single one of those reports went out under your name." Someone in the office gasped. Ashton's face flushed a deep crimson. Eve's hands were shaking so badly that she could barely hold the coffee cup. "You…" Gritting his teeth, Ashton forced the words out. "Sylvia, do you have any idea what you're saying?" "I have proof for everything I just said," I replied. My tone was so calm that it surprised even me. "I have the email logs, document edit histories, and IP login timestamps. Mr. Clark, if you don't want to sign my transfer, I don't mind sending those files to the board of directors." The office went dead silent. Ashton's hand trembled slightly around his pen, and he stared at me for a long time. It was as if he were looking at a total stranger. In the end, he signed it. I picked up the approved request and turned to walk out. Just as I reached the door, a voice called out behind me. "Sylvia." The three syllables carried a faint trace of panic Ashton probably didn't even realize was there. My pace faltered for a fraction of a second. It wasn't out of hesitation but surprise. This was the first time in eight years that this man had ever called after me when I turned to leave. I smiled to myself and kept walking out the door. … My transfer back to the investment analysis department went smoother than I expected. The director, Larry Wilder, personally introduced me to the team. By that afternoon, the multinational merger for Lansford Group was on my desk. It felt incredible to be busy again. With my brain packed with data and financial models, there was no room left for me to think about anything else. When I returned to the apartment that night, Ashton was sitting on the living room couch watching TV. He heard the door open, and his thumb paused on the remote. I changed into my slippers, walked straight into the guest bedroom, and shut the door. I didn't greet him, and he didn't call out to me either. Just like that, we became nothing more than roommates. Maybe I was just imagining things, but several times when I stepped out of the guest room to grab a glass of water, I caught a glimpse of Ashton quickly turning his head away out of the corner of my eye. It was the same story at the office. The investment analysis department was on the 12th floor, and the CEO's Office was on the 26th. Logically, we shouldn't have run into each other at all. Yet, I kept running into him—in the break room, the copy room, and even the elevator when I went down to the lobby to pick up a package. Chapter 5 Maybe it was just a coincidence. I didn't overthink it and continued to focus on my work. The Lansford Group merger moved along much faster than anticipated. We went through three drafts of the core report, and the client signed the letter of intent the same day the final version was submitted. The project was officially ours. Surprisingly, Ashton organized a celebratory party on the company's behalf. Over the past eight years, I had helped him secure over a dozen major deals, and he had never once thrown me a celebration. I sat near the middle of the long table, clinking glasses with my colleagues from the analysis department. Eve sat right next to Ashton, smiling brightly as she repeatedly placed food onto his plate. She was fluttering around him like a happy butterfly. "Mr. Clark, these garlic butter shrimp are incredible. You have to try one." My hand froze around my wine glass. Garlic. Ashton was severely allergic to garlic. Eating it would cause him to break out in hives all over his body. In severe cases, his throat would swell shut. I instinctively glanced up, but I immediately pulled my gaze back without saying a single word. I wasn't sure if I had imagined it, but the faint spark that had been in Ashton's eyes completely vanished. He set his cutlery down. His tone was sharp and laced with irritation as he said, "I'm allergic to garlic. Eat what you order yourself. Stop putting it on my plate." Eve's smile froze, and her entire face flushed a deep crimson out of pure embarrassment. Ashton drank heavily throughout the party. By the time the night wrapped up, he could barely stand upright. He tried calling for a designated driver twice with no luck. Eve stepped forward to support him, but he brushed her hand off. Ultimately, I was the one who got him back to the apartment. I hauled him through the door, dumped him onto the couch, and tossed a blanket over him. I didn't take off his shoes, wipe his face with a warm towel, or make him warm honey water to help him sober up. As I turned to leave, he clamped his hand around my wrist and said, "Sylvia." His eyes were half-open, but they were heavily bloodshot. "Are you still angry about Eve?" I looked down at his grip on my wrist. "You're overthinking it. Go to sleep. Stop making a fuss." The grip on my wrist suddenly went slack. He froze, utterly stunned. Because those exact words—"stop making a fuss"—were words he had said to me at least 100 times. Every time I felt wronged, every time I questioned him, every time I cried and told him that he didn't care about me, his response was always the same. "Can you stop making a fuss?" In the days that followed, I stayed late at work every day. It wasn't just because I was busy. It was because things were shifting back at the apartment. The trash cans were no longer overflowing. Someone was regularly taking them out. The sink was no longer piled high with mugs overnight, and the fridge was suddenly stocked with my favorite brand of milk, always with a fresh expiration date. One night, I came home past midnight and noticed a new pair of slippers sitting on the shoe rack, much thicker than my old ones. If this had happened in the past, I probably would have been too thrilled to sleep. But now, these subtle changes only left me feeling annoyed. Working late felt much easier. For the first time, I finally understood why Ashton used to love staying late at the office so much. Until one night, I fell asleep right at my desk. When I woke up, a jacket was draped over my shoulders. Ashton was standing right beside me, his face terrifyingly pale. I groggily sat up straight and met his eyes. He was staring at my computer screen, which was completely black. "You aren't actually working." His voice was barely above a whisper, yet every single word he spoke carried a tremor. "You've been lying to me this whole time." I glanced at the dark monitor and suddenly felt a profound wave of relief. It was better this way. I didn't have to keep up the act anymore. I pulled two items from my desk drawer and laid them flat on the table. The moment Ashton saw what they were, he froze completely.