His Contracted Wife

Chapter 2: Under the Weight of His Approval

Exactly ten o’clock in the evening when I finally finished everything I had been working on.

My eyes burned from staring at the screen for too long, and my shoulders ached as if someone had stacked the weight of the entire building on them.

I shut down my computer, gathered my things, and headed downstairs. The lobby was quiet, the once-busy hum of employees long gone.

The security guard was standing near the entrance, looking as though he had been waiting for me.

“Good evening, ma’am,” he greeted politely. “Looks like you had a lot to finish. You stayed pretty late.”

I nodded, forcing a tired smile onto my lips.

“That’s right. Sorry for the trouble,” I replied.

He simply nodded back, stepping aside to open the door for me. I thanked him softly and stepped out into the cool night air.

Finding a taxi didn’t take long. Thankfully, my apartment wasn’t too far from the company building.

The apartment complex was owned by the company itself—provided for employees who lived far away or needed a place close to work due to long hours and demanding schedules.

By the time I reached the fourth floor and unlocked my door, exhaustion had completely caught up with me.

The moment I stepped inside, I dropped my bag and let my body fall onto the sofa. The cushions sank beneath my weight as a deep sigh escaped my lips.

Only then did I truly feel how tired I was.

Every part of my body throbbed—my legs, my arms, my shoulders—but the worst was my head. It felt like it was splitting in half. I closed my eyes, pressing my fingers against my temples, hoping the pain would somehow fade.

I had finished the brochure.

But the problem was—I still didn’t know if Mr. Sinclair would like it.

I could only hope he would. Because if he didn’t… I honestly didn’t know if I could stop myself from losing control and shoving that brochure straight into his hands—forcefully.

I had poured everything into that design. My time, my energy, my sanity. If he asked me to redo it again, I might actually resign on the spot.

But then came the real question.

Could I really afford to?

The company paid well—too well. That was the reason many of us stayed, enduring the pressure and the stress. People didn’t leave unless they were fired.

Everything about the company was great.

Everything… except the CEO.

When I first started working there, everyone described Anthony Sinclair as if he were the devil himself.

They used to joke that he was the spawn of darkness. According to them, just seeing Mr. Sinclair was enough to make knees tremble and spines stiffen in fear.

At first, I thought they were exaggerating.

But after meeting him—after working under him—I realized they hadn’t exaggerated at all.

They had described him perfectly.

After sitting on the sofa for several minutes, my stomach growled loudly, reminding me that I hadn’t eaten dinner. I dragged myself into the kitchen, hoping to find something—anything—to eat.

Earlier, Anne had given me a small snack, but I had eaten it slowly while working on the brochure. It hadn’t been enough.

I opened the refrigerator only to be greeted by emptiness.

With a sigh, I grabbed a cup of noodles from the cabinet and poured hot water over it. Half a minute later, I began eating, hunger overpowering my exhaustion.

I had just taken a few bites when my phone suddenly buzzed.

Mr. Sinclair.

My eyes narrowed as I opened the message—and the moment I read it, I felt the heat rush straight to my face.

“Make sure the brochures are properly done. If not, start packing your things and prepare to leave the company.”

I read the message out loud, my voice shaking with anger.

My appetite vanished instantly.

I slammed the cup noodles into the trash bin.

“F*ck him,” I muttered angrily.

“If he fires me, then so be it! Does he think he’s the only one who owns a company in the Philippines?” I continued bitterly.

Grabbing my phone, I marched toward my bedroom, pulled out a change of clothes, and headed straight for the bathroom.

A cold shower was the only thing that could calm my rising blood pressure—caused entirely by Anthony Sinclair.

***

The next morning, my knees wouldn’t stop shaking.

Even the sweat on my palms refused to dry as I stood in front of Mr. Sinclair’s desk.

He was carefully examining the brochures I had worked on all night. Every second that passed felt like a countdown to my execution.

I was convinced that at any moment, my vision would blur and I’d collapse from sheer nervousness.

One thing I noticed—he was studying the brochure longer than he had the day before.

When he finally placed it down on the table, I unknowingly held my breath.

He looked up at me.

His eyes were emotionless—dark and unreadable. Staring into them felt like staring into a pitch-black room with no windows, no light, and no way out.

I couldn’t tell if he was angry… or satisfied.

Then he spoke. “Not bad.”

Just two words.

But my heart leaped as if it had won a battle.

However, that relief didn’t last long.

“But not enough to satisfy me,” he added coldly.

The brief happiness I felt was immediately replaced by anxiety.

“W-What do you mean, sir?” I asked nervously. “Do I need to revise it again?”

He clasped his hands together and leaned forward, resting his elbows on the desk while staring at me seriously.

“We don’t have enough time for revisions,” he said. “So even if the brochure still isn’t good enough, I have no choice but to accept it. We need it within fifteen minutes.”

My hands curled into fists at my sides.

His words weren’t as harsh as yesterday’s, but they were still enough to make an irritation crawl beneath my skin.

“Thank you, sir,” I replied, forcing a polite smile as I picked up the brochures.

I turned to leave his office when his voice stopped me. “Next time, do better, Ms. Castillo. People like you don’t last long in my company.”

“I will do my best in the future, Mr. Sinclair,” I answered calmly before walking out.

The moment the door closed behind me, I cursed him repeatedly in my head.

I shut my eyes and took several deep breaths, forcing myself to calm down. I needed a clear mind—the meetings later would require my full attention.

“Gianna! How did it go?” Anne asked as she approached me. “Did Sir accept it?”

I nodded, and a wide smile immediately spread across her face.

“But it’s still not enough to satisfy that man,” I added. “Though he said he has no choice but to accept it since the brochures are needed today.”

Anne grimaced. “Well… at least you won’t have to redo it again,” she said.

I nodded and walked toward my desk.

“By the way, where did you go earlier?” I asked as I sat down and gently placed the brochures on my table.

“I went to the Project Development Department,” Anne replied. “I asked if they were ready for the meeting later. The architect and interior designer are there too—they’ll help present the project to the board members and investors.”

I nodded in understanding.

As I waited for the meeting to begin, I focused my attention on organizing Mr. Sin

clair’s schedule after the presentation—because in this company, everything revolved around time, perfection… and surviving under the weight of his approval.