The CEO's Discarded Lover

My name is Bruce Tillman. That day, the wind in the alley carried dust that stung my face painfully. The steel pipes in the thugs' hands glinted coldly as they slammed down on me, the last one striking my temple, warm blood instantly blurring my eyes. I thought I was done for, my consciousness slipping away, when suddenly a clear female voice cut through. "Stop." I struggled to raise my head, and through the blood haze, I saw a woman in a black trench coat standing at the alley's mouth, tall and upright, her eyes sharp as knives. The thugs clearly knew her; they cursed a few words, tossed out some harsh threats, then left. The woman approached, crouched down, her fingertips barely grazing me, just studying the bruises on my face and the brick clenched tightly in my hand. "What's your name?" She asked, her voice cold and without warmth. "Bruce Tillman." I gritted my teeth and answered, the metallic taste of blood spreading in my mouth. She nodded and stood up. "Come with me." I had no strength to argue, nor did I understand why she wanted to take me away. Leaning on the wall, I staggered unsteadily behind her. Her car was parked by the roadside, a black sedan with a simple yet luxurious interior. She didn't say a word while driving. I leaned back in the passenger seat, blood still trickling from my temple, dripping onto my pants and spreading into a small dark stain. She took me to a villa, had the servant bring a first aid kit, then sat on the sofa, watching me tend to my own wounds. "My name is Sarah Larsen." She suddenly spoke, breaking the silence. I looked up at her; she was fiddling with the lighter in her hand, her gaze fixed on my face. "You look decent enough, with a fierce streak in your eyes. Stick with me from now on." I was momentarily stunned, not quite grasping her meaning—was she asking me to be her subordinate? "Stick with me, and you'll have food, a place to stay, and you'll even learn something." She added, her voice laced with undeniable certainty. At that moment, I was desperate—no money, nowhere to go—and her offer felt like a lifeline. I nodded, effectively agreeing. From that day forward, I lived in Sarah Larsen's villa and became one of her people. The first thing Sarah taught me was how to read people. She spread out a stack of photos before me, all showing company bosses, executives, and a few figures from the underworld. "Remember their faces, their likes, and their weaknesses." Sarah Larsen sat across from me, her finger tracing the photo. "In business, you win by knowing yourself and knowing your enemy." I memorized these things every day, and Sarah Larsen would quiz me from time to time; if I got one wrong, she'd punish me by making me write their names and details a hundred times. Besides learning to recognize people, she also taught me how to do business. She took me to all sorts of cocktail parties and negotiations, letting me watch from the sidelines—showing me how she dealt with people, how she pinpointed their weak spots with just a few words, and how she flipped unfavorable situations on their head. Once, a partner deliberately tried to push the price down with a haughty attitude. Sarah Larsen didn't get angry; she just smiled, poured the other party a glass of wine, and casually brought up their company's recent financial troubles. The other party's expression changed instantly, and in the end, they not only backed off the price cut but even voluntarily improved the terms of the deal. Afterward, I asked her how she knew about their financial problems, and she told me, "If you want to close a deal, you have to dig deep into the other side's bottom line; everything is hidden in the details." Sarah Larsen also taught me tactics—those somewhat shady but effective methods. When a competitor stole her business, she didn't confront them head-on but instead gathered evidence of their tax evasion and reported them anonymously. Not long after, the rival company was shut down, and that opponent ended up in prison. "To show mercy to the enemy is to be cruel to yourself." When Sarah Larsen said this to me, her eyes were cold as ice: "If you're soft-hearted, next time the fall will be yours." I kept her words close to my heart, slowly learning to imitate her—growing colder, more ruthless.