Patrick stood up from his executive office chair, having wrapped up the day’s work. At precisely 8 p.m., his personal assistant, Jeff Hudson, knocked on the door and stepped into the ash-grey-painted office.
"Good evening, boss. Are you heading home now?" Jeff asked.
Patrick, dressed in a red pocket shirt and plain black trousers, stared at Jeff like he was nothing more than a nuisance. Without responding, Patrick stepped away from his desk, grabbed the black coat hanging on his chair, and put it on to shield himself from the cold night air. He adjusted his necktie, snatched his briefcase off the desk, and with one final glance around his office, strode toward the door, leaving Jeff standing there, speechless.
Patrick owned an impressive array of secret businesses across the state. His mind was a whirlwind of thoughts: his parents incessantly pressuring him to bring home a wife, the competitors constantly trying to dethrone him in the business world, and the multiple identities he had carefully constructed to protect his empire. No one truly knew who the real Patrick Anderson was, and he intended to keep it that way.
Patrick let out a cold breath as he stepped into the elevator on the 8th floor of his ten-story multimillion-dollar hotel. The elevator descended to the ground floor, where his bodyguards stood waiting. As Patrick exited the elevator, he walked toward the black Prado Jeep that was ready to take him home.
Jeff, hurrying after him, attempted to keep up as Patrick climbed into the back seat of the Jeep. Jeff slid into the driver’s seat without waiting for permission, knowing better than to anger his boss. The bodyguards shut the back door and took their positions as the Jeep pulled out of the hotel driveway, heading toward the Anderson residence.
Jeff drove in silence, not daring to speak. When they arrived at the mansion, he parked the car, and Patrick stepped out without a word. His black shoes clicked against the cemented driveway as he approached the grand, four-story building.
Patrick entered the living room, his mood foul, his blood simmering with irritation. The new maid, Loveth Logan, was mopping the tiled floor when she looked up and greeted him cheerfully.
"Good evening, sir. Welcome home."
Patrick paused, casting an irritated glance at her but offering no reply. He walked straight to the milk-colored couch, tossed his briefcase onto it, and removed his black coat, draping it over his shoulder. With his briefcase in hand, he headed for the elevator, intent on retreating to his private quarters.
Just then, his mother, Mrs. Eleanor Anderson, descended from her room on the ground floor. At seventy years old, she suffered from chronic knee pain and moved slowly. She frowned slightly as her gaze fell on Loveth, still mopping the floor. Then her eyes shifted to Patrick, who was about to step into the elevator.
"Son," she called softly.
Patrick froze, his jaw tightening as he turned to face her. He already knew what was coming. His parents had been relentless in their demands for him to marry and produce an heir for the Anderson family legacy.
Patrick's sisters—all four of them—were married. He was the youngest, born ten years after his closest sibling. His mother had given birth to him late in life, which only intensified her obsession with ensuring he continued the family line.
Clutching his briefcase tightly, Patrick frowned but walked back toward his mother. She smiled as he approached and wrapped him in a warm hug.
"Good evening, Mother," he murmured, his tone soft but restrained.
"Welcome home, son. How was your day at the office?" she asked, her voice kind.
"Fine, Mother," Patrick replied curtly, sitting beside her on the executive couch.
"Son," she began, her tone shifting to one of concern, "when will you finally settle down? Your father and I aren’t getting any younger. Don’t you want us to see the next heir of Anderson Corporation before we pass on?"
Patrick swallowed hard, feeling the sweat bead on his forehead. He avoided her gaze, his frustration bubbling beneath the surface.
"Son," she called again, drawing his attention back.
"Mom, don’t worry about your death just yet, okay? I’ll think about finding a bride soon—probably this week or next," he replied, his voice laced with forced calm.
"Good," Eleanor said, smiling. Patrick stood, ready to leave, but her next question stopped him in his tracks.
"Son, what about your girlfriend, Willow Albert? Why not arrange to marry her? What’s the matter?"
Patrick exhaled sharply, running a hand through his hair. His gaze shifted to Loveth, who had paused her mopping and was smiling shyly at him. Her black, shiny eyes sparkled, and a faint blush colored her cheeks as she continued her work.
Patrick’s piercing, dark-grey eyes assessed her unbidden. Her pink maid uniform hugged her waist, and her natural beauty struck him—her pointed nose, naturally pink lips, and flawless, honey-toned skin. Her long blonde hair, tied neatly into a ponytail, only added to her charm.
For a moment, Patrick wondered who had brought her into the house. Was this some kind of temptation or a setup by his mother?
Loosening his necktie, Patrick returned his focus to his mother.
"Mom, Willow traveled without informing me. That’s not all—she’s refused to give me any explanation for leaving me and our relationship," he lied, unwilling to share the truth about Willow’s infidelity.
"But, son, I spoke to Willow yesterday. She told me you two are fine and still together."
Patrick stiffened, disbelief evident in his expression. Forcing a fake smile and a hollow laugh, he replied, "I’m tired, Mom. I’ll get back to you. Maybe next week I’ll look for a bride, if that’s what you want."
"Okay, son," Eleanor said, nodding approvingly.
As Patrick turned to leave, Eleanor stopped him again.
"Son, have you met Loveth Logan? She’s the new maid from Westwood. Her mother is one of the charitable women supporting the local economy."
Patrick paused, glancing at Loveth, who had just finished mopping. She lowered her head respectfully, avoiding his gaze as she felt the weight of his cold, assessing stare.
"How do you find her, son? Your eldest sister, Isabel, recommended her. She’s like a daughter to me and has been a great help, especially since I can’t do much work anymore."
Eleanor gestured for Loveth to approach.
"Loveth, meet my son, Master Patrick Anderson, sole heir to Anderson Corporation," she said warmly.
Loveth stepped forward, bowing her head politely. "It’s an honor to meet you, sir," she said softly.
Patrick stood in silence, his thoughts racing.
*Is this some kind of trap?* he wondered, his eyes narrowing as he studied her. Her natural beauty was undeniable, and for a moment, her presence made him forget his irritation.
Eleanor’s voice snapped him out of his reverie.
"Son, I can see you like her. She’s also an excellent cook and has brought so much joy into this house."
Patrick responded with a curt, "Fine, Mother. Glad to see she’s taking good care of you. I have an important online meeting at 10 p.m., so I need to prepare."
Without waiting for a reply, Patrick turned and walked toward the elevator.
Back on the fourth floor, Patrick stormed into his private sitting room. Two maids greeted him nervously.
"Good evening, boss. Welcome home."
"Shut up and get out!" he barked, making them scatter at once.
Patrick threw his coat and necktie onto the nearest couch, dropped his briefcase, and strode to the bar. Grabbing a bottle of wine, he opened it and drank straight from the bottle, draining it in one go.
Slamming the empty bottle onto the counter, he grabbed another, his anger and frustration bubbling over.
"I hate you, Willow!" he muttered bitterly.
Just then, the sound of the sitting room door sliding open interrupted him.