My boyfriend passed away from illness. Before he died, he asked me to look after his only younger brother—Franklin Beard.
I put Franklin through college, and helped him build his company from the ground up.
Then one night, after a round of drinking at some work function, he ended up in bed with me.
While I wrestled with what we were to each other, I noticed something on his office desk: a photo of me, framed neatly beside an engagement ring.
My heart stirred.
I pushed open the lounge door, ready to finally talk about us.
But just as the door creaked open, a white camisole fell at my feet.
I froze.
Franklin pulled the covers tightly around a shocked female assistant.
"Jean Garcia, ever heard of knocking?" he snapped.
Face pale, limbs suddenly uncoordinated, I started backing out. But the assistant's timid voice stopped me. "Jean… could you hand me my clothes?"
I ignored the hostility behind her eyes, grabbed the garment, tossed it onto the bed, and left in a hurry.
Once I stepped outside the company building, Franklin called. "Jean, you should really stop barging into my room like that."
I laughed and agreed. From that moment on, I never stepped into his world again.
